by Adele Abbott
“An illusion is pretence,” I said. “It’s what magicians in the human world do. It looks like magic but it isn’t really. Whereas magic, well magic is—err—magic.”
“Correct, if not too eloquent.”
Coming from Grandma, that was high praise.
“In today’s lesson we are going to combine the two in a spell appropriately called ‘illusion’. If you have studied your spell books—” She hesitated, and glanced between the three of us. As usual, the twins suddenly found their feet fascinating. I met Grandma’s gaze. I’d studied this particular spell, but had yet to put it into practice.
“For the benefit of the twins then,” Grandma continued. “The ‘illusion’ spell does exactly what its name suggests; it allows you to create an illusion. For example, if you want someone to think that the bike they are riding is actually a horse, you could use the ‘illusion’ spell. The bike doesn’t actually turn into a horse, but to the subject of the spell, it will appear as if it has. To all other humans, the bike will still appear to be a bike. Understand?”
The three of us nodded.
“Good. One important aspect of this spell is that it will only work on humans—not on sups. You’ll see why shortly. Which brings me nicely to my special treat. In order to practise the spell, we’ll need some guinea pigs.”
“I love guinea pigs,” Amber said.
“Not real ones.” Pearl laughed.
“Care to share the joke with me?” Grandma fixed the twins with her gaze.
“Nothing, Grandma. Sorry.”
“As I was saying, we need humans to practise on, so we’re going to take a short trip to Washbridge.”
“Can we visit your shop while we’re there?” Pearl asked.
“There’ll be no time to visit anywhere. You’re going to the human world for one reason, and one reason only. Understood?”
“Yes, Grandma.”
I was about to cast a spell to transport myself to Washbridge when Grandma grabbed my arm. “We’ll travel together. Take my hand.”
Those horrible bony fingers?
“What are you waiting for?”
I did as I was told. Amber took my other hand; Pearl took Amber’s. Once the four of us were linked together, Grandma cast her spell.
***
We were in a park. It took me a few moments to get my bearings, but then I recognised it as one on the outskirts of Washbridge.
“Here.” Grandma handed us each a sheet of paper which had details of the ‘illusion’ spell.
“Who wants to go first? Amber? Well volunteered.”
Amber looked horrified. Pearl could barely hide her smirk.
Grandma took us along a path which led to a children’s play area. Surely she wasn’t going to have us cast the spell on children? I wouldn’t have put anything past her.
She walked by the play area and stopped in front of a row of benches which looked out over a sunken garden.
“See the man over there, reading the newspaper?” Grandma said.
Amber nodded.
“Make him see a bat instead of his newspaper.”
“A bat?”
Grandma nodded. Amber looked to us for reassurance, and we smiled encouragingly.
She cast the spell, and now I could see why it wouldn’t work on sups. Because I was a witch, I could actually see both images—flicking back and forth. One second it looked like a newspaper, the next it looked like a bat.
“Not that kind of bat!” Grandma yelled.
I wasn’t sure who looked more confused: the man who thought his newspaper had turned into a cricket bat, or Amber.
Grandma reversed the spell. The man looked a little shaken. Amber looked more than a little embarrassed.
“Your turn, Pearl. You can’t possibly do any worse.”
Pearl stepped forward.
“Do you see the woman lying on the grass, with the Chihuahua next to her?”
Pearl nodded.
“I want you to make her think the Chihuahua has turned into a St Bernard.”
Pearl was about to cast the spell when Grandma grabbed her arm. “You do know what a St Bernard is, don’t you?”
“It’s a big dog.”
“Very good. I just wanted to avoid an ecclesiastical faux pas.”
Pearl cast the spell. The woman jumped to her feet, and ran down the path, screaming.
Little wonder. The St Bernard looked an awful lot like a wolf from where I was standing.
“Sorry,” Pearl said. “I lost focus.”
Once again Grandma reversed the spell.
“So far, so bad.” Grandma stared at the twins who shrank under her gaze. Then she turned to me. “Let’s see what you can do.”
At least I had nothing to beat.
“Do you see the young man with the Frisbee?”
I could hardly miss him in his pink tee-shirt and orange shorts.
“Make him think the Frisbee is a pizza.”
“Any particular flavour or toppings?” Why did I have to be such a smart ass?
“Just do it!”
I cast the spell, and voila: one pizza.
Although I say it myself, it looked good enough to eat. Wait! Oh, no! The young man thought so too. Before I had the chance to reverse the spell, he’d bitten down hard on the Frisbee. That had to hurt.
The twins laughed. I reversed the spell as quickly as I could. The young man checked he still had all of his teeth.
Grandma turned on the twins. “Once again, Jill shows you two how it’s done. You can both write me a thousand word essay entitled ‘Why focus is important to a witch’.”
“Grandma. That’s not fair.”
“Make that two thousand words.”
***
I’d have preferred to boycott the Bugle in protest at the article they’d published in which I’d supposedly criticised the Washbridge police. Problem was, even in the internet age, it was still the best source of news for the Washbridge area. One thing the Bugle didn’t lack was sensational or ‘clever’ front page headlines. No matter how slow the news or how humdrum the story, the Bugle could always come up with an eye-catching headline. And today’s was no exception: ‘Lift of Death’.
As expected, the story was low on facts, but high on sensationalism. A man had been murdered while in a lift with several other people. According to the Bugle, no one in the lift had seen the murder take place, nor had it been captured on the lift’s CCTV. According to the Bugle, the police were completely ‘stumped’.
No doubt a quote from an official source. The Bugle was not a big fan of the Washbridge police.
Mrs V was hard at work on a bright red sock.
“Morning, Mrs V.”
She looked up from her knitting, and I could see something was amiss. “Are you okay?”
“I’ve had some terrible news. My sister—”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Had she been ill long?”
“She’s not dead.” Mrs V put her knitting down on the desk. “She’s coming to visit me.”
“Don’t you two get along?”
“We never have. I wish we could be more like you and Kathy.”
Was she kidding? Me and Kathy get along? That would be news to both of us.
“Ever since we were kids, she’s always had to get one up on me,” Mrs V said. “She got better marks at school, and she was better at sports. She even got all the best boyfriends.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
“It is, but I don’t mind any of that. I’m used to it.” She thumped the table. The last time I’d seen Mrs V so annoyed was when Winky had emptied her yarn all over the office floor. “The thing that really annoys me is that she chose to take up knitting. She only did it to spite me. It was the one thing that I was good at. She just couldn’t bear it.”
“I’m sure she isn’t as good as you.” I couldn’t imagine anyone could out-knit Mrs V.
“Don’t you believe it. Whatever ‘G’ touches turns to gold.”
“G?”<
br />
“That’s what I call her.”
“And she calls you ‘V’?”
“No, she calls me Annabel.”
Obviously.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Mrs V said as I started towards my office. “I’ve arranged an appointment for you at ten. A Mrs Jackie Langford. She’s a friend of the man who was murdered in the lift.”
“I’ve just been reading about that in the Bugle.”
“She sounded rather upset.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Oh, and one more thing, Jill,” Mrs V called after me. “I’ve found you a new accountant. He’s going to pop in to see you as soon as he can.”
“I can hardly wait.” Accountants are always so much fun.
Winky, my one-eyed cat was stretched out on the leather sofa.
“Morning, Winky.”
He shook his head.
“Cat got your tongue?” What? Come on, that was funny.
Winky sat up. He had a small notepad in his paws. He scribbled something. It read: ‘I’ve taken a vow of silence’.
How I resisted fist pumping the air, I don’t know. But after a few minutes, curiosity got the better of me. “Why the vow of silence?”
More scribbling. ‘It’s a spiritual thing’.
“Right. How long will this vow of silence last?” A week, a month. I could dream.
Winky sighed. All the scribbling was obviously wearing him out: ‘24 hours’.
Oh well. I should be grateful for small mercies.
***
Mrs V must have really been depressed because she didn’t even offer my ten o’clock appointment a scarf or socks. Jackie Langford was middle-aged, tall and wore expensive shoes.
“Thank you for seeing me at such short notice.” There was sadness in her voice.
“No problem. How can I help?”
“Are you familiar with the recent murder at Tregar Court?”
“The murder in the lift?”
She nodded. “The victim, Alan Dennis, was a close friend of mine.”
‘Close friend’ could mean anything—I waited for her to elaborate.
“We’d known one another for years.”
Maybe she needed a prompt. “You say he was a ‘close friend’?”
“Yes, precisely that. I know there are those who believe a man and woman can never be simply friends, but that’s exactly what we were to one another. He was my closest and dearest friend. We confided in one another. We helped one another.”
“Never more than that?”
“No. That’s why I came to see you. A ‘friend’ has no standing as far as the police are concerned. If I was a relative or if we’d lived together, then maybe they’d talk to me. As it is, they won’t give me the time of day. All I know is what’s been reported on the TV, and in that awful local rag—whatever it’s called.”
“The Bugle?”
“That’s the one. Insensitive reporting at its best.”
No arguments from me there. “I need you to tell me everything you know. Let’s start with Alan. How long had you and he been friends?”
Before she could answer, I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. Winky had scribbled another note and was holding it aloft. Thankfully, Jackie Langford hadn’t noticed. The note read: ‘Need food and milk - NOW!’
“Sorry.” I stood up. “Before we get started, would you mind if I fed the cat?”
I know what you’re thinking—not very professional, but if I’d ignored him, he would have kept at it, and I’d never have been able to concentrate.
“Cat?” She’d been so focussed on her own grief that she hadn’t noticed Winky. “Oh, yes, I didn’t see him there. He’s a handsome little guy, isn’t he?”
“In his own way, I guess.”
Winky scribbled a note, and passed it surreptitiously to me. It read: ‘I like her.’
Once the cat was settled with his food and a saucer of milk, I got back to the case in hand. “Sorry about that. Where were we?”
“Alan was such a kind man. Such an honest man. I know people throw those terms around willy nilly, but in his case it was true. He was truly a good man and a dear friend.” She wiped away a tear.
“Can you think of anyone who would want to kill him?”
She shook her head. “No one. I can’t believe it could have been someone who knew him. Do you think it could have been a stranger?”
“It’s always possible, but the vast majority of murders are committed by someone known to the victim. Have you been to his apartment?”
“Only on a couple of occasions. We met originally through work; we were in the same office. Then, after I changed jobs, we stayed in touch. We usually met for coffee or lunch. He’d never actually been to my house.”
“Had he lived at Tregar Court long?”
“Five years, perhaps a little longer. It must be incredibly expensive to live there. Have you seen the development?”
I shook my head. Although I’d never visited Tregar, I was well aware that properties in that post code were way above my pay grade.
“They’re very exclusive,” she said.
“When was the last time you saw Alan?”
“Three weeks ago. We met every two or three weeks on average. We’d arranged to meet for coffee that day—”
Her tears began to flow—I really should have invested in a box of tissues.
“Would you like a drink? Tea? Coffee?”
“No, thanks.” Luckily she’d had the foresight to bring her own tissues. “I’m okay.”
“You said you used to work with Alan. What did he do for a living?”
“He was an accountant.”
Perhaps my ex accountant, Mr Robert Roberts, had been right to quit the profession. It was obviously more dangerous than I’d realised.
“Not any old accountant,” she said. “He worked exclusively for wealthy, private clients.”
“A few disreputable types among them?”
“Oh no!” She sprang to his defence. “Like I said, Alan was a thoroughly honest man. He would never have taken on a client who he knew was breaking the law. It simply wasn’t in his nature.”
We talked for another thirty minutes. Or at least, Jackie talked—I mostly listened. It was impossible not to draw the conclusion that she’d been in love with Alan Dennis.
“Anything else you can tell me about him? Anything at all?”
“I don’t think so. Only that he was very much a creature of habit. He always went to the same restaurants, and ordered the same food. He even wore the same suit to work every day.”
She must have seen the horrified look on my face because she continued, “I don’t mean the exact same suit. He must have owned half a dozen—all identical. He did the same with ties and shoes. I used to tease him about it, but he couldn’t see the problem. He insisted it made perfect sense to stick with something he liked.” She managed a weak smile. “Men, eh?”
‘She was nice.’ Winky scribbled after she had left.
“Let’s hope I can help her.” I walked through to Mrs V who still looked glum. “Can you try to make me an appointment to see Detective Maxwell?”
For some reason, that seemed to put a smile on her face. What was it with her and Kathy? They seemed determined to pair me up with Detective Jack Maxwell. He’d only recently transferred to Washbridge, and to say we hadn’t immediately hit it off would have been something of an understatement. In his first few weeks in the job, we’d been constantly at each other’s throat. It was only after our so-called ‘date’, the result of a raffle which Kathy had rigged, that we’d buried the hatchet. It was during that ‘date’, that I’d discovered the reason for his mistrust of P.I.s. He’d been the lead detective on a kidnap case where the hostage had been killed, due in part at least to the negligence of the family’s P.I.
Since our ‘date’, our working relationship had improved dramatically. How long that would last was anyone’s guess.
Chapter 3
On
my way to meet Maxwell, I passed Grandma’s yarn shop—Ever A Wool Moment. As well as being a level six witch—the highest skill level—she’d also proven herself to be an expert marketeer. Not a week went by that she didn’t come up with a new promotion.
This week’s was front and centre in the window. A giant jam jar, almost as tall as the window, was crammed full of balls of wool. The poster in the window read, ‘Win a year’s subscription to Everlasting Wool’.
Everlasting Wool was another of Grandma’s innovations. Think Spotify or Netflix, and apply it to wool. How did it work? I had no idea. I suspected magic was involved, but she denied it. The person who guessed closest to the actual number of balls of wool in the giant jam jar would win the subscription. To make the window display more interesting, Grandma had persuaded (threatened?) one of her shop assistants to get into the jar with the wool. The poor woman was shoulder deep in yarn with only her head protruding. According to the poster, the competition would run until closing time. Hopefully, the young woman wouldn’t need the loo before then.
“Care to have a guess?” Grandma appeared in the doorway.
“I think I’ll pass. I don’t really have much need for the subscription.”
“You could give it to Annabel.”
That was a thought—Mrs V could certainly make the most of an Everlasting Wool subscription. “Okay, then. What do I do?”
“Come inside.”
Like a fly into a spider’s web.
Grandma gave me a pen and an entry form which I quickly completed. I had absolutely no idea how many balls of wool were in the jar, so I put down the first number that came into my head.
“That will be ten pounds.” Grandma held out her hand.
“What? I thought it was free to enter.”
“Didn’t you read the small print?”
“I didn’t see any.”
“Here.” She handed me a magnifying glass, and now I could see that what had looked like a few random dots on the bottom of the poster, actually read: ‘Entry fee = £10 - no refunds’.
***
Jack Maxwell was waiting for me outside the coffee shop. Since our ‘date’, we’d taken to meeting on neutral ground.