Witch Is When Things Fell Apart (A Witch P.I. Mystery Book 4)

by Adele Abbott

  “So, you like bells?”

  He gave me a look.

  “Ringing them, I mean.”

  “I’m in a choir.”

  “You sing too?”

  “A handbell choir.”

  “Right.” Having exhausted my extensive knowledge of handbells, I tried to steer the conversation, such as it was, onto the subject of cake deliveries.

  “Do you load all of the vans?”

  He sighed, and put down the magazine. “Since they got rid of Eddie, yeah.”

  “Eddie?”

  “Eddie Lingard. He and I worked together for six years. Good lad, Eddie was.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “You’d have to ask the boss.”

  “Aren’t they going to replace him?”

  “Doesn’t look like it. Why would they, when muggins here can do all the work? They still expect me to have all the vans loaded by four am.”

  Before I could ask another question, Gary had picked up his magazine and buried his head in it.

  I could take a hint.

  The shift ended, and Gary was out of the door on the stroke of four. I hung back a while because I wanted to speak to the drivers who I knew started at four thirty.

  The first one to arrive, just after four fifteen, was Pauline, a witch with green and grey streaked hair. The grey was natural; the green, probably not. I remembered that Amber had mentioned that Pauline was the regular driver for the Cuppy C deliveries.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “You made me jump. I didn’t see you there.”

  “Sorry. I’m temping on the cleaning crew.”

  “Poor you. That job can be hard on the back.”

  “You’ve done it?”

  “Yeah. Some years ago, mind. It was my first job. I was a temp too, but they kept me on. I drive the vans now.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “I love it. Best job I’ve ever had.”

  “Isn’t it hard work having to carry the deliveries from the van to the shop?”

  “Not as hard as being on the cleaning crew.” She laughed.

  “I’m hoping to get something permanent,” I said. “But I guess you won’t be giving up your job any time soon?”

  “No chance—unless they finish me.” She was suddenly more serious.

  “Why would they do that?”

  “There have been problems with the deliveries. Cakes getting squashed.”

  “And they think it’s your fault?”

  “No one has come right out and said as much, but there have been a lot of questions. It’s not fair. I take care with every delivery I make.”

  “How do you think it’s happened then?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not even sure it has happened.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I shouldn’t say.”

  “Go on. I’m not going to tell anyone, am I?”

  “It could be the people at the other end—in the shops—that are doing it.”

  “Why would they?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe to get a refund or to get better prices. The only thing I do know is that it isn’t me who’s doing it.”

  The cakes were packed into boxes by a team of four women. There was no way the damage could have been done at that stage because the four worked in such close proximity to one another. Once the cakes were in the boxes, they were passed to Gary who loaded them into the van. Then Pauline took over. That made Gary and Pauline the prime suspects, although having spoken to them, neither seemed to fit the bill. I had picked up one piece of potentially useful information though. Eddie Lingard, who used to work in dispatch, had been dismissed recently. A disgruntled ex-employee might want to get ‘payback’. I’d have to find out from Beryl Christy why she’d got rid of him.

  It was time to clock off. I headed back to my room at Cuppy C for a long warm bath, and some much needed sleep.

  Aunt Lucy had invited me to her house for dinner—I’d assumed the twins would be there too, but I was wrong.

  “How was your day at Christy’s?” She scooped another spoonful of mashed potatoes onto my plate. Aunt Lucy’s mash was to die for.

  “Very tiring. I didn’t wake up until mid afternoon.” I yawned. “Where are the twins?”

  “Working late. They’re stocktaking.” She laughed. “They’ll probably be at it until midnight. They never were very good at maths.”

  “What about Lester? I haven’t seen him for a while.”

  “He’s been busy. Did you find anything out at Christy’s?”

  ‘He's been busy’? What did that mean? It was obvious that Aunt Lucy didn’t want to talk about Lester, so I let it go.

  “I spoke to the dispatcher and the driver—neither of them seem likely candidates. Pauline, the driver, said she thought the damage might be being done at the shops.”

  “Why would the shop owners do that? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I know. I think she was clutching at straws because she feels like everyone is blaming her.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I only had a chance to speak to her for a short while, but she didn’t strike me as the kind of person to do anything like that. There is an ex-employee who I’m going to try to speak to.”

  I ignored Aunt Lucy’s protests, and insisted on helping with the washing up. It was the least I could do after she’d made dinner for the two of us. Afterwards, we talked for over an hour while she showed me lots of photos of her and my mother as children.

  “You look as though you got on well together,” I said.

  “Don’t let these photos fool you. We used to argue more than the twins do.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “Trust me on that one.”

  “Kathy and me are pretty much the same, but we still love one another to bits. Speaking of the twins, I think I’ll go over there and see how they’re doing.”

  “Don’t let them drag you into the stocktaking. You know what they’re like.”

  ***

  The lights were still blazing at Cuppy C. I let myself in the back way, and popped my head into the shop. As usual, the twins were squabbling.

  “It’s thirty seven,” Amber said.

  “Thirty eight. Are you blind?” Pearl sighed.

  “There’s three rows of ten and then another—oh yeah, thirty eight.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I can’t help it. I’m too tired. I can’t see straight any more.”

  “Hi!” I walked towards the counter. “How’s it going?”

  “It would be going a lot better if Amber could count.”

  “You can’t talk,” Amber growled. “At least I know there are twelve in a dozen.”

  “I was referring to a baker’s dozen.”

  “Liar. You—”

  “Is there anything I can do?” I said.

  “Thanks, but we’re done now. How did it go at Christy’s?”

  I ran through the details again with the twins.

  “It must be the ex-employee,” Pearl said.

  “It definitely isn’t us.”

  “Are you sure?” I said.

  They both glared at me.

  “Joking. I’m only joking. I’ll talk to Beryl Christy and her ex-employee, and let you know what I find out.”

  The twins decided to call it a day.

  “We’d better sit at the back of the shop,” Pearl said. “If anyone sees us drinking coffee and eating cakes, they will assume that we’re still open.”

  Amber made the coffee—she’d lost the coin toss—and then the three of us helped ourselves to cakes.

  “There goes the stocktaking figures,” Pearl laughed.

  “You really should start to sell blueberry muffins.” I’d had to settle for a chocolate one—such were the hardships I had to endure.

  “There’s a very good reason we don’t,” Amber said, handing out the coffees.

  “What’s that?”

  “Because we know you’d eat th
em all.”

  That was so true.

  “Not long until the reunion now,” I said, through a mouthful of muffin.

  “I can’t wait.” Amber gave me a wink.

  “Me neither.” Pearl also gave me a wink.

  Neither could I. It was going to be so funny when they discovered they’d both had a crush on the same guy. I was seriously considering sneaking into the reunion—I wanted to be there to see their faces when it all came out.

  “What’s that?” I’d only just spotted that there was a new poster on the notice board where the school reunion flyer had been.

  “It’s the ‘Levels Competition’.”

  I walked across to get a closer look. The poster was short on detail. Apparently the annual ‘Levels Competition’ was to be held in one week’s time in the Spell-Range.

  “What is it exactly?” I asked.

  “Grandma hasn’t told you?” Amber grinned.

  “No, she hasn’t mentioned it.”

  “Oh dear.” Pearl’s grin matched her sister’s.

  I was getting bad vibes again.

  “Grandma has entered you for it.”

  “She’s done what? What is it anyway?”

  “It’s a competition for witches on levels one to five. Witches on the same level compete against one another, and the winner from each level competes in the grand final. The winner of the grand final is fast-tracked to become a level six witch.”

  “So in theory, a level one witch could end up as a level six witch?”

  “In theory, but it’s never happened. The lowest level witch who has ever won the final was on level four. Usually it’s a level five witch who wins.”

  “Oh well, it would have been nice if she’d bothered to tell me, but I guess we’ll have a few laughs.”

  “We?” Amber said.

  “There’s no ‘we’,” Pearl said. “You’re on your own.”

  “I’m not doing it by myself. You two have to enter as well.”

  “We can’t. To enter, your name has to be put forward by a level six witch.”

  “Why didn’t Grandma put all of our names forward?”

  “She has never put our names forward. She says we’d show her up,” Amber said.

  “If you’re not doing it, then I’m not.”

  “You have to. We want you to. Don’t we, Pearl?”

  “Yeah, you have to. You can totally win level two.”

  “How? I’ve only just moved up from level one.”

  “You’re a natural. And besides, there’s another reason you have to take part.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Grandma will totally kill you if you don’t.”

  Compelling reason.

  “I don’t suppose it’ll hurt. It might be a laugh.”

  “I wouldn’t let Grandma hear you say that. She’s taking it super serious.”

  “No pressure then?”

  Chapter 8

  Mrs V was not happy—again. I could tell by the way she was taking her frustration out on her knitting. The needles were moving so quickly it was a wonder there weren’t sparks.

  “Is your sister still giving you a hard time?” I said.

  “G always gives me a hard time, I’m used to her.”

  “What’s wrong then?”

  “It’s your grandmother.”

  “You haven’t fallen out again, have you?” Mrs V and Grandma had had a love/hate relationship ever since Ever A Wool Moment opened.

  “Not yet, but we’re probably going to.”

  “What has she done now?”

  “You know what she’s like with her promotional ideas.”

  I nodded. Grandma might not be my favourite person in the world, but the woman knew marketing.

  “G was bragging about her national wins—as per usual, and your Grandma suggested we go head-to-head. Clash of the Titans, she called it.”

  “How?”

  “Speed knitting. Your grandmother wants us to sit in the window of her shop and knit for four hours solid. The one who produces the longest scarf in that time will be crowned ‘Ever A Wool Moment Speed Knitting Champion’.”

  “Catchy title. Are you up for it?”

  “It doesn’t look like I have a choice. Your grandmother has already told a local charity they can hold a collection in front of the shop. If I back out now, it’ll look mean spirited.”

  “Can you win?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never entered a speed knitting competition before, but I expect G will win. She wins everything.”

  ***

  As promised, the friendly concierge had called to let me know the young man and woman from floors one and two were back in residence. I was just about to go over there to see them when I heard someone come into the outer office. I didn’t have any appointments—maybe Luther had more questions? I lived in hope.

  “There’s a Detective Shay to see you,” Mrs V said.

  “Who’s he?”

  “She works with Detective Maxwell apparently.”

  The floozy. “Send her in.”

  Detective Shay looked as though she’d just done sucking on a lemon.

  “Jill Gooder.” I forced a smile.

  “Detective Susan Shay.”

  I began to laugh, but then caught myself.

  “Something funny?” Detective Shay didn’t wait to be invited to take a seat.

  “Sorry, no nothing. Susan, did you say?”

  She nodded.

  “Sue Shay, Sushi?” I grinned. “Sorry, I imagine you get that a lot.”

  “What?” She looked puzzled.

  “Nothing. Sorry. What can I do for you today, Susan?”

  “Detective Shay.”

  So, that’s how you want to play it, eh? “How can I help, Detective Shay?”

  “I’m working with Detective Maxwell.”

  “Yes, I noticed that you seemed to be hard at it the other day in the coffee shop.”

  “When you were hiding in the next booth?”

  Touché. “I wasn’t hiding, like I said to Jack—”

  “It doesn’t matter. I just want to get a few things straight.”

  She should have started with her hair. No one was going to take her seriously with those curls.

  “I worked with Detective Maxwell for six years in Camberley.”

  Worked? Just worked?

  “We made a great team until he requested a transfer.”

  “After the Camberley kidnap?”

  “You know about that?”

  I nodded.

  “Then you’ll understand why we don’t need an amateur P.I. interfering in our work. Stick to the things you’re good at: unfaithful partners, missing dogs.”

  Turning you into a toad? My natural instinct was to tell her where she could shove her blonde curls, but I didn’t want to give her ammunition to use against me with Maxwell.

  “I know what happened in Camberley,” I said. “Jack and I have discussed it. I would never do anything which would endanger someone’s life. Wherever possible, I’ll keep him posted of—”

  “From now on, you deal with me.”

  “Does that come from Jack?”

  “No, it comes from me.”

  I’d had quite enough of Sushi. “If that’s everything, I have an appointment.”

  She stood up. “What’s that ugly thing?”

  Winky had been fast asleep under my desk, and had only now decided to see what all the noise was about.

  “Winky isn’t ugly. He just has eye issues.”

  “You should put some kind of warning on the door. If someone had a dicky heart—”

  “Thank you for coming to see me today, Detective.”

  “Just remember what I said.”

  “Who does she think she’s calling ugly?” Winky said, after she’d left. “Did you see her hair?”

  ***

  I took the lift to the first floor. The papers had mentioned that Darcy James was a part time model. She didn’t look much like one toda
y, with her oversize curlers, jogging bottoms and green face pack.

  “Who are you?” she said.

  “My name is Jill Gooder.” I flashed my card quickly in front of her face. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about the murder.”

  “I’ve already told your people everything I know.”

  Hey, if she thought I was the police, who was I to correct her?

  “I just have a couple of questions. It won’t take long.”

  “I suppose you’d better come in.” She sighed, and took a seat on the sofa.

  It’s okay, I’ll stand.

  “You were in the lift when the murder took place?”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t see anything. Not until he dropped down dead.”

  “Did you know the victim?”

  “I’d seen him around, but we’d never spoken.”

  “Not even a ‘good morning’?”

  “No.”

  Probably too busy checking her Facebook messages or tweeting. She looked the sort—not that I was judging.

  “What about the other residents? How well do you know them?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t speak to any of them.”

  “No one?”

  “I just said, didn’t I?”

  Beauty, charm and a liar.

  “I understand you’re a model, Ms James?”

  “Miss. I don’t go in for all that ‘Ms’ rubbish. Only part time.”

  “What do you do the rest of the time?”

  “I’m studying for a degree in psychology.”

  After I’d knocked for the third time, I was beginning to think the man on the second floor must have slipped out. Then the door opened.

  “Hello?” He peered around the door which was on a chain.

  “Morning. Jason Allan?”

  He nodded but made no eye contact.

  “I’m Jill Gooder. I’m investigating the murder in the lift, and I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “Just routine. It should only take a few minutes.”

  “I have to go out shortly.”

  “Like I said, it won’t take long.”

  He slid off the chain, and opened the door. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

  “Sorry about the mess.” He led the way inside. “I need to tidy.”

  He’d got that much right. The apartment looked like an explosion in a launderette. There were clothes, most of them dirty, all over the floor, and on every surface.