The Infiniti Investigates: Hattie Jenkins & the Infiniti Chronicles Books 1 to 5

by Pearl Goodfellow

  A dog; a mangy gray cur with wiry fur singed black at the tail from one too many maladapted spells, sneezed then whined with concern.

  I looked down at my sole companion and clucked. "What's the matter, Remulus? Are you worried?"

  Remulus cocked one ear and whimpered. I’m more of a cat person personally, but this canine did look worried. He'd been keeping an alert sentry near the door all night as if he was expecting someone, or something, to come through.

  I eased down and patted the animal on the head with a liver-spotted hand. "No one comes to The Humps, Remy. You can rest easy."

  I crossed under the clerestory, a narrow, raised spine of small windows that ran the length of the caravan. Had I bothered to employ them for their intended use, the biting vinegar odor may have ventilated to the open air. But, I got the feeling nothing about me was remotely open at this moment.

  I rummaged through several drawers and fished out a folded scrap of cheesecloth. I puttered back to the stove and strained the berry mixture into a waiting well. When the last drop of purple liquid dribbled into the well, I carried my prize back to my desk.

  I ran a gnarled finger down a page of yellowed parchment, my thick, cracked nail following along the doddering purple scrawl. I scratched the surface of my tongue with the tip of my long-wing quill; a predictable habit of mine if the ink stains marring the rough, pink surface were any indication.

  The dog nudged his dirty, rough head under my hand. He wagged his charred tail hesitantly.

  "Don't you worry, Remulus. Mother's going to do this right."

  I rested the nib over blackened, crooked teeth - the ones that were left, anyway - thinking. My flinty gray eyes widened with inspiration. I hurriedly dipped the quill into the well, allowing the ink to soak into the hollow shaft of the feather, then put the tip to paper, drafting my fleeting thoughts into a concrete document that would fulfill my desire.

  I paused, and once again brought the point of the quill to my wizened mouth.

  "Yes," I cracked in a dry voice. "Yes, that will teach them. That will show them just fine."

  I dipped the nib, touched my tongue once more, and continued to scratch out the words. The dog just whined and padded quietly to resume his watchful post at the threshold.

  A Reluctant Witch

  "I look like a banana!"

  The celestial bell on the gilt-lettered door of The Angel Apothecary tinkled wildly, sounding nearly as upset as Millie Midge as she burst over the threshold. I yawned mightily, arms stretching above my head. Last night’s lucid dream had left me craving another four or five hours of shut-eye.

  Millie threw herself onto the cash wrap, right in front of me, burying her tear-streaked face into her arms and causing an alarming sway in the vast array of herb and liquid-filled canning jars and vials that lined the counter display. I was suddenly very awake.

  A chocolate glass vial of essential peppermint oil nosed over the lip of the display. I made a wild grab as it threatened to plunge to the oaken floor.

  Ha! Nicked it just in time.

  Don't get me wrong. The customers who frequented my apothecary liked peppermint oil. It had broad applications in spells for prosperity and good fortune, but it really wouldn't do to have the whole shop smelling like Santa Claus' pockets.

  Oh. Did I say spells? Well, I guess that cat's out of the bag. Let me introduce myself. The name's Hattie. Hattie Jenkins. And I'm a witch. Mostly a non practicing one, I’m happy to add.

  If you're like most folks, you hear the word 'witch,' and it conjures up images of frightful old crones with warty noses who fly on brooms and who live in creepy, dilapidated houses with arachnid infestations.

  While we do have a few characters in Gless Inlet that fit that bill, I'm just your average everyday gal who has an unruly mop of long, auburn curls, likes long walks in the park, and has a penchant for peanut butter, pickle and mayonnaise sandwiches.

  Gimme a break. I said I was a witch, not a gourmand. But, seriously, don't knock it till you've tried it. Then again, maybe there's a reason I'm still single. And maybe my choice of diet is what had prompted that bizarre dream. Note to self. Switch to kosher dills.

  I live in the apartment above the shop. I have eight roommates whose singular purpose is seemingly just to drive me to distraction. They sort of came with the place when I inherited it, and the apothecary, from my great-great-grandma.

  The Angel Apothecary had been in the Opal family for generations. My matriarchal ancestor, Glendonite Opal, had hopped the pond from Mother England around the turn of the twentieth century and started her little fledgling business with a pocketful of healing herbs, three glass jars, and a burning desire to help her neighbors. She was a noble woman, Glendonite, but as crafty as she was with healing salves and assigning the proper herb to break a fever, she wasn’t big on marketing or public relations. Consequently, the little shop struggled to make ends meet. Fortunately, the sixties brought with it a surge of interest in all things herbal and the floundering business enjoyed an economic boost. That was about the time Granny Chimera; Glendonite’s daughter, and also my dear Grandmother took over the family business. The shop did fairly well through the eighties and Reaganomics, though some argued that the former movie-star president’s policies were mere “voodoo economics.” I grinned. Not every witch wore a pointy black hat.

  Regardless of who was in the White House, what the average Dow was, or who was running our little family business over the years, one thing had stayed the same.

  The eight immortal felines, collectively known as the Infiniti, who kept a familiar post at the side of the current Opal witch. And now, that witch was me. Even if I proved a little reluctant at times.

  The self-proclaimed leader of our modest litter is Onyx. Onyx is a vast cornucopia of sage advice - whether or not you ask for it. He is predisposed to anticipating whatever might be on your mind and labors under the delusion he's a therapist.

  Yeah, right. Although come to think of it, most people do seem to spill all their deep, dark secrets whenever he's around.

  And what can I say about Eclipse? No. Really. What can I say? I can't ever seem to remember anything around my second roomie. Like where I left the batch of brownies I made last week. Eclipse had an aptitude for affecting amnesia in whomever he was targeting with his Obliviscatur charm. He was a complicated chap. You’d think after all these years I’d have a handle on him, but the truth was, you could never really get to the bottom of Eclipse. And, if you did, well, you’d likely forget what you’d learned in the blink of an eye.

  Shade doesn't really bother me much. Most of the time, it's as if he's invisible - like he's not even there. He's a player, though, so I guess it's pretty safe to assume that most of the time he's ratting the streets with the latest lady friend. This guy will just not be “out-cooled.” His self-confidence is so off the charts it borders delusion. But, hey, he’s pretty damned loveable.

  Carbon's usually curled up, as he was now, near the fire in the shop’s hearth. Clothes come off when my little fire-starter’s around. Lest you melt into a puddle and die of overheating. When challenged on his ambient room temperature choices, he often just turns to smoke and sneaks out of the room.

  Fraidy's the scaredy cat of our little suburban commune. Everything frightens the poor guy. Ghoulies, ghosties, long-legged beasties…opening a cola can. He’s never far from my side, except on the days I drag out the vacuum. Fortunately for him, the dust bunnies currently burrowing in our apartment only seemed to be multiplying.

  Midnight’s our resident gossip. Aptly named, he’s rarely awake before the witching hour. When his eyes are open, he’s out and about with an eclectic assortment of cronies, and he always seems to know more about the odd goings-on in our tiny burg than anyone. Midnight is friends with every unknown beastie on the isle. He’s known amongst pognips, the Fae, the rock grumlins on Cathedral Isle, (don’t ask, because I have NO idea how he gets there,) and the swampvorg’s up in the Gorthlands.

 
If Midnight’s the social butterfly, Gloom is his polar opposite. Moody, sullen, and given to predictions of doom, the glaring queen shies away from pleasant company, which is fine, because she usually isn’t very polite. Gloom barely tolerates living beings; cats, humans or otherwise. But, she’s happy to spread bad news at every opportunity.

  Rounding out our motley bunch is Jet. An affable fellow, he is prone to take a nip or two from time to time. Quick with a joke and equally as quick to find trouble, I often find myself rescuing my inventory from him, in one way or another. Jet’s the most destructive, but I have to admit, the guy has a good sense humor. Jet’s a homebody mostly, because he’s an agoraphobic. He’s never really been interested in adventures of the out-of-doors variety. Just lately, however, he’s been way more adventurous. I can’t help but feel that Jet’s as interested in sleuthing as I secretly am. He might cause me the most stress in breakages, but I can never be angry at him for long. He’s just too loveable.

  Currently, however, Millie seemed to be the one in the most trouble. My assistant herbalist was sporting a halo of bright, yellow curls. And, she was right. She looked like a banana. An entire bunch.

  “It’s not as bad as all that. Yellow’s a good color for you.” I tried to sound supportive.

  She flopped to her back like a big banana-topped pancake. I steadied the potted tarragon from yet another seismic shift. My brain wandered back to the recent case I worked with the Glessie Isle chief of police, David Trew. Lavender played a significant role in ferreting out the murderer of local actress, Nebula Dreddock. But, that’s another story.

  “Ohhhhhhhh!!!” Millie moaned. She stared at the deep blue of the Borealis inlay on the ceiling above. Even the beauty of its delicate mosaic tile work couldn’t shake her malaise. “What am I going to do? The Mutley Crew Charity Gala is tonight, and Radolf Silverback is going to be there - oh, he’s such a dream - and I look like Big Bird is roosting on my head!”

  “What exactly happened, Millie?” I asked.

  “I just wanted a touch-up on my color. You know, to look my best. So, I went to see Violet Mulberry over at the salon. Ooh!” Millie stamped an indignant foot. “Ooh, that awful Violet! She did this on purpose! You know she likes Rad too? She just wanted to be sure I didn’t stand a chance! She hexed me. That’s what she did! Come on, Hattie! Gimme a spell that’ll show her what for!”

  I suppressed a chuckle. “Millie, Violet isn’t a witch. You know we have plenty Unawakened living here on Glessie Isle, too. And you can’t blame Gloomy magic for everything that goes wrong in your life.”

  Just some of it.

  I push the negative memory from my head. This wasn’t about me. Millie needed moral support…and a paper bag big enough to go over her head.

  “I’m sure Violet…” I began, but the thought veered left in an instant.

  Violet!

  Just as it looked as if Millie was about to erupt into a fresh onslaught of tears, I dervished into an whirlwind of action. I whipped around and pulled down a bright yellow ceramic bowl and set it on the counter with a resounding clunk. Millie stopped her blubbering long enough to roll her eyes at me.

  Okay. Maybe the yellow bowl wasn’t the best choice. I didn’t stop to rue the decision indefinitely. I started toward the maple shelves on the far side of the store, but not before knocking a jar of freshly grated turmeric onto the floor. Darn it, I’ll get to that later. I reached up to the top shelf to grab a bottle of liquid castille soap. Luckily Grandma always kept some on hand, and I hadn’t deviated from her regular inventory list. The Angel Apothecary always carried a cornucopia of teas, tinctures, salves, incenses, inks and indeed the oils, spices and herbs that went into their creation. Cankerwort, Fuga Daemonum, Grains of Paradise.

  They all sounded magical enough, but when all was said and done, you could take a handful of those items and brew yourself a soothing cup of chamomile tea, settle your frazzled nerves with a little St. John’s Wort, or spice up your sirloin with some aromatic black pepper.

  “There’s a little magic in everything if you’ve half a mind to look.” My grandmother’s voice whispered in my ear.

  I whirled, half-expecting to see my deceased Grammy Chimera standing there, but only Millie stood in the shop. Still blubbering.

  I shook my head and rushed back to the big yellow bowl. I poured a generous portion of the soap into the mouth of the bowl. I squeezed a few drops of lavender essential oil into the marbly liquid.

  “Dang it!” I blurted. “Wait here. I’ll be right back!”

  Millie stared blankly as I ran to the kitchen out back for some ingredients I’d need. I grabbled those things and rushed back into the shop. Armed with a quart of coconut milk and a bottle of olive oil, I opened the spout on the milk and poured a quarter-cup into the soap and lavender mixture. I measured a teaspoon of olive oil and added it as well.

  I stirred the mixture well. Millie looked on with eager eyes.

  “I don’t recognize this spell.” Her brows knit together in a puzzled twist.

  “Oh!” I exclaimed. “I nearly forgot the secret ingredient!”

  I fished around in the pocket of my cardigan for the third item I had retrieved, and drew out a small bottle filled with a purple liquid.

  “Squee!” Millie clapped her hands together and squealed like a schoolgirl.

  “What’s that? Extract of Deadman’s Bells? Deadly Nightshade? Twister root?” Her blue eyes twinkled with animated vengeance.

  My assistant’s readiness to employ some of the baneful herbs we kept under restrictive lock and key gave me some cause for alarm. I chalked it up to the raw emotion of a bad hair day and held the bottle right in front of her nose.

  “The secret…”

  “Yes?” She whispered, her eyes as wide as saucers.

  “…ingredient…”

  “Yes?” She bounced on her toes.

  “…is…”

  “OH, COME ON, ALREADY!”

  “Food coloring.”

  I dropped four drops of the colored liquid into the soap mixture and stirred.

  “Food coloring?” Millie mumbled. “That’s it?”

  “Yup! That’s it.” I replied, swirling the mix into a vibrant purple hue. “Food coloring. And, look at this. Voilà! I give you The Violet Countercharm!”

  Millie blinked. “Are you serious?”

  “Too much?” I cocked my head. I thought it was kind of an apt name. It’s really just a homemade toner that will knock some of the yellow down in your do. I decanted the formula into a cobalt glass bottle, and stoppered it with a real cork bung.

  “Go ahead. Take it home and try it. You’ll be right as rain for tonight. Rad won’t know what hit him.”

  I handed her the glass bottle of purple goo. She looked more than a little dubious.

  “Really?”

  “Really. Now get going, or you’ll run out of time! And I need to close up!” I shooed her out the front door. The bell jingled.

  “Thanks, loads, Hattie! Oh my goodness! I almost forgot to tell you! I ordered a new batch of pokeberries. We must have sold out.”

  Pokeberries? Someone must be writing some new spells.

  For a fleeting moment, my thoughts wandered back to last night’s dream, but I dismissed it just as readily. “Thank you, Millie. That’s perfect.”

  Millie waved cheerily. I watched her bounce down the sidewalk. She obviously forgot what she looked like. Bless her.

  I smiled, glad to see my assistant with a pep back in her step.

  Hm. The Violet Countercharm. Maybe I should start my own beauty line. I have to admit I was pretty pleased with myself. I solved a friend’s problem, and I didn’t have to use a lick of magic. Just some color theory leftover from college art classes and a little ingenuity.

  “There’s a little magic in everything if you’ve half a mind to look.” Grammy’s voice drifted on the wind again.

  No. I wanted nothing to do with magic. The true variety, anyway. I was perfectly happy employin
g herbs and other natural remedies to solve life’s little challenges, like the ingredients I’d used in The Violet Countercharm.

  But, Grammy’s always been a wise old witch. Magic was going to get Violet Mulberry in a whole host of trouble that night. And, it was going to take more than a food color based countercharm to get her out of it.

  Double Bubble

  He’s a killer.

  It’s the first thought that fluttered through my mind as I opened the door and saw him standing there.

  It wasn’t that I actually suspected David Trew of being a psychopathic murderer, but it certainly shot an arrow through my heart whenever I saw the devilishly handsome Chief Para Inspector of the Glessie Isle police. Though encroaching upon thirty-five, the good inspector easily shaved a decade or more off his years by maintaining a lean, muscled physique, and his clipped ebony locks betrayed nary a hint of gray. My long-time friend underplayed his appeal, though, hiding behind studious, round-framed glasses. And, a personality so humble, he wouldn’t know a compliment if it hit him in the face.

  I yawned quite unexpectedly, exposing my uvula in a most unladylike fashion. David’s cobalt eyes widened.

  “Glad to see you, too, Hattie,” he commented, with maybe just a pinch of sarcasm.

  I snapped my mouth shut and, sheepishly, I invited him in. “Sorry about that, David. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “Well, don’t get too comfy in your favorite P.J.s tonight just yet, either,” he predicted ominously.

  “That doesn’t sound promising,” Fraidy meowed tremulously. A murky fog had rolled in over Gless Inlet, and Fraidy was a little edgier than usual.

  David let out a moderate yelp as one of my eight feline roommates suddenly materialized between my ankles. “Where did you come from?”

  I tried to suppress a giggle. My timorous feline had turned the tables and surprised someone else for a change. “I think he’s been taking lessons from Shade.” I bent down and gave Fraidy a nuzzling kiss to his head.