Witchy Trouble (Witchy Fingers Book 1)

by Nic Saint

  The man gave her an unexpected grin, displaying two gold teeth. It was something you didn’t see that often these days, and she found herself staring at the shiny snappers before she could stop herself. Along with his bald dome, it gave him the aspect of an old-fashioned James Bond bad guy. But then his smile suddenly disappeared, and he gave her a curt nod. “I guess that concludes our business,” he grunted.

  “Yeah, I guess it does,” she returned.

  He abruptly flipped his hoodie over his head, then turned and walked away. Soon he was swallowed up by the shadows stretching long tendrils of darkness beneath the overpass. Moments later she heard a motorcycle kicking into gear, and then its roar as it raced away into the falling dusk.

  She heaved a sigh of relief. These exchanges were going to be the death of her one day, she thought as she hurried out of the underpass, to where she’d fastened her bicycle to a streetlight. Fortunately, it was still where she’d left it. She tried to fit the entire suitcase into her backpack but failed, so she tipped its precious contents into her trusty Jack Wolfskin rucksack and dumped the suitcase in a nearby trashcan. And as she adjusted the straps, she noted a little giddily she’d never worn a million pounds on her back before. Then she pressed her pink knitted cap to her head, used her gloves to wipe that fabled London precipitation from her saddle, mounted the bike and was off.

  Five minutes later she was pedaling down Newport Street, anxious to get back to the store. She’d only feel at ease once the money was safely transferred to Sir Geoffrey Buckley’s cash register. And as she waited for the traffic light to turn green, she idly wondered what she would do with so much money. She could quit her job, buy herself a great house and take that trip around the world she’d been dreaming of for ages. The lights changed, and traffic was off and so was she, stomping down on her silly daydreams. The money wasn’t hers and never would be. She was, after all, only a lowly wage slave in Sir Buckley’s employ. Why there was a Sir in front of his name, she didn’t know, even after working for the man for close to a year now.

  Buckley Antiques, the store where she spent her days when her employer wasn’t sending her to dark and creepy places to exchange packages with obscure and dangerous-looking clients, was a smallish shop tucked away in the more dingy part of Notting Hill. It carried rare antiques and other items for the connoisseur, its owner and proprietor, the eponymous Sir Geoffrey, priding himself in his capacity to obtain items for his clients that no other antiquarian could find. There was a whiff of the illegal and the criminal attached to both the man and the shop, and oftentimes Harry wondered where he obtained these rare and exclusive items if not by illicit means.

  She’d never asked, and Buckley had never told her, of course. She merely did as she was told, and delivered million pound books to men with no necks without asking pesky questions. Such as: why would anyone buy a book for such an incredible price? And why not transfer the items at the store? She didn’t ask because she was afraid she wouldn’t particularly like the answer.

  She couldn’t help wonder, though, where the priceless tome would end up, for No-Neck, like Harry herself, was probably only the messenger.

  But even though Harry knew that her employer was something of a high-end fence, her conscience was no match for her need of a regular paycheck.

  With her history degree she didn’t stand much of a chance to find a decent-paying job in London, or anywhere else in the United Kingdom for that matter, and she knew she should be grateful to have found a job at all that was a cut above being a waitress, cleaning lady or nanny. The job might not be completely on the up and up, but it was better than being on welfare.

  Besides, for her discretion Buckley paid her a nice little stipend around the holidays, so there was that as well.

  She attached her bike to the lantern in front of the store, and entered the shop, her trusty backpack burning with the money. As she stepped inside, the doorbell jangled merrily. As usual, the store was dimly lit, Buckley’s way of adding atmosphere. She picked her way past the antique cupboards and Louis XIV armoires and tried to ignore the quite horrendous oil paintings adorning the walls. When she reached the counter, fully expecting to find Buckley pottering about, she was surprised to see him absent from the scene.

  No sound could be heard, either, except for the ticking of a dozen antique Swiss cuckoo clocks Buckley had obtained from a Swiss traveling cuckoo clock salesman. A real bargain, he’d called them, though Harry failed to understand who’d ever want to pay good money for such monstrosities.

  “Buckley?” she called out. “Buckley, I’m back!”

  Usually the prospect of money brought out her employer like the genie from the bottle, but no frizzy-haired elderly gentleman popped up now.

  Harry shrugged, and started transferring the money from her backpack to the cash register, which had a deep and convenient space beneath the money drawer. Here it would be quite safe until Buckley put it in the ancient but very sturdy vault he kept in his office.

  She wondered briefly if she shouldn’t close up the shop, as she wasn’t even supposed to be working today. Buckley had called her in to deal with this urgent delivery, and she’d grudgingly complied. He didn’t like to deal with his ‘special clients’ himself, reserving that particular privilege for her.

  And it was as she stood wondering what to do when she became aware of a soft groaning sound coming from deeper into the shop. It seemed to come from the back. With a slight swing in her step, relieved to be rid of the huge pile of money, she decided to take a look. She didn’t like to lock the door without Buckley’s say-so. He had this thing about wanting the store to be open at all hours, even if that meant she had to take her lunch break in between serving customers. But she didn’t like to leave it unattended either.

  She would just have a look around and as soon as she’d found her employer—probably messing about somewhere in his office—she’d go home. After riding around in the rain for the past half hour she was wet, tired and numb, and a hot shower and some dry clothes looked pretty good right now.

  Besides, she needed to put in some shopping and wanted to get it done before rush hour, hoping to salvage what little she could from her day off.

  “Buckley?” she called out as she moved deeper into the store. Behind the showroom were two smaller rooms. One was Buckley’s office, where he liked to meet with clients and suppliers, and the other was the small kitchen reserved for personnel—which meant her. It wasn’t much. Just a table, some chairs, a sink, gas stove and fridge. Next to the kitchen a staircase led upstairs, to the apartment Buckley rented out for a stipend. In exchange, the man, who was rarely in during the day, kept an eye on the store after six.

  “Buckley?” she tried again. She noticed that the door to his office was ajar, so she pushed it open. And that’s when she saw her employer. He was stretched out on the floor, his limbs arranged in an awkward pose, blood pooling around his head. She clasped a hand to her face, her throat closed on a silent scream, and looked down at the lifeless body. It was obvious she was too late. His eyes were open and staring into space, his face pale as a sheet.

  “Oh, Buckley, Buckley,” she finally whispered hoarsely, automatically taking her phone from her pocket with quaking hand and dialing 999.

  Minutes later, the store was abuzz with police and medics, as she sat nursing a cup of tea in the kitchen, stunned and fighting waves of nausea.

  She looked up when she became aware of being watched, and she saw a man looking down at her from the entrance to the kitchen. He was tall and broad and easily filled the doorframe, both in width and height. She noted to her surprise that he was gazing at her with a scowl on his handsome face. Perfectly coiffed dark hair, steely gray eyes, chiseled features and an anvil jaw lent him classic good looks, and for a moment she thought none other than David Gandy himself had wandered into the store, mistaking it for the scene of his latest swimwear shoot. But then the man cleared his throat.

  “Inspector Watley. Can I ask you a few que
stions, Miss McCabre?”

  She nodded, wiping a tear from her eye. “Yes, of course, Inspector.”

  The inspector took a seat at the table and placed a small notebook in front of him, checking it briefly. “Your name is Henrietta McCabre?”

  “Yes, but most people just call me Harry,” she said softly.

  “You were the one who found the body, Miss McCabre?”

  “Yes, I did,” she said, tears once again brimming in her eyes.

  “And what time was this?”

  “Must have been… around four. I’d just come back from an errand.”

  He gave her a dark look. “An errand connected to the store?”

  She nodded again. She was loathe to reveal the nature of her errand. Even dead, she didn’t want to betray Buckley’s confidence.

  “Tell me exactly what you saw,” Inspector Watley said gruffly.

  She quickly told him what had happened, and didn’t forget to mention the groan she’d heard—the sound which had alerted her of Buckley’s presence.

  Watley’s frown deepened. “You heard a groan, you say?”

  “Yes, I did. It’s the reason I came back here. I thought Mr. Buckley had stepped out of the store, as he didn’t respond when I called out. So when I heard the groan, I went looking for him… And that’s when I found him.”

  “That’s odd,” the inspector said, fixing her with an intent stare.

  “What is?”

  “The groan.”

  “Why odd? It is perfectly natural for someone who’s just tumbled and knocked his head to groan. I’m just surprised I didn’t hear it sooner.”

  “According to the preliminary findings of our coroner, Mr. Buckley must have been dead for at least half an hour before you arrived, Miss McCabre.”

  This news startled her. “He was dead… before I arrived?”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “Oh, poor Mr. Buckley,” she said. “To think he’d been lying there all this time before I found him! If only I’d arrived sooner, he could’ve been saved.” She looked at the policeman. “I knew this would happen. I just knew it.”

  He stared at her blankly. “You knew he was going to die?”

  She nodded. “He was very unsteady on his feet lately. Only last month he took quite a tumble when he stepped from the store. I told him he should get a cane, but he was far too proud.” She shook her head, extremely distraught. “It was only a matter of time before he took a bad fall and hit his head.”

  The policeman eyed her curiously for a moment, then lowered his head and said slowly, “Your employer didn’t hit his head, Miss McCabre.”

  “What do you mean? If he didn’t hit his head, then how did he die?”

  “Mr. Buckley was murdered, Miss McCabre. Murdered in cold blood with a blunt object by the looks of things.” Then, without waiting a beat, he went on, “Can you account for your whereabouts between the hours of three and four, Miss McCabre?”

  Her jaw dropped. Was he accusing her of murdering her own boss? “Well, I wasn’t here if that’s what you mean,” she was quick to point out.

  “Where were you then?”

  And she was about to respond when she remembered she couldn’t. Even though providing herself with an alibi was more important than respecting Mr. Buckley’s wishes, she still couldn’t tell the inspector where she’d been. Not if she didn’t want to get in big trouble with No-Neck and his employer.

  Chapter Two

  It didn’t take a genius to figure out she was in a pickle. Not only didn’t she have an alibi, but apparently the safe was empty, all of Mr. Buckley’s possessions stolen. It was obvious how things looked from Scotland Yard’s point of view. They probably figured she’d burgled the safe, seeing as she knew the combination, was caught in the act by her employer, at which point a violent struggle had ensued and she’d violently slain the older man. The only reason she wasn’t being placed under arrest was that she’d be an idiot to stick around after the murder, or to call the police herself.

  These and other thoughts were now swirling in Harry’s head as Inspector Watley told her tersely to please remain available for questioning—probably the Scotland Yard equivalent for ‘Don’t leave town!’

  She nodded quickly, her face now completely devoid of color and her extremities of blood, and wobbly got to her feet the minute Watley left.

  And as she made her way out of the store, which was still swarming with police, she feebly wondered what she was going to do now. For one thing, she was most definitely out of a job. Which was something she should have told Watley, she now saw. Clearly she had no motive for murder; it simply meant unemployment. Then again, she’d just tucked a million pounds of motive into the shop till, and who knew how much more money Buckley kept in his safe, along with countless other valuables? Plenty of motive there.

  As she rode her bicycle home, the rain was coming down again in sheets, and even before she’d reached the street where she lived, she was soaked to the skin. A fitting ending to a lousy day, she thought miserably.

  Arriving home at Valentine Street No. 9, she quickly fastened her bike to the cellar window grille, wiped the rain from her eyes, and jogged up the steps to the front door. Letting herself in, she stood leaking rainwater on the black and white checkered floor for a moment, then slammed the heavy door shut, and quickly checked the mailbox. A magazine had arrived—the historical magazine she subscribed to—and a bill from the electric company, probably announcing another rate hike.

  She hurried up the stairs, already shucking off her jacket, and when she arrived on the landing wasn’t surprised to find her neighbor patiently awaiting her arrival, Harry’s snowy white Persian in her arms.

  “Oh, shoot,” she said, taking the cat from the elderly lady. “Did Snuggles sneak into your flat again, Mrs. Peak? I thought I locked her up this time.”

  Mrs. Peak, the wizened old prune-faced lady who lived next door, gave her a wistful smile. “I don’t mind, Harry. I only wish she visited me more often. I wouldn’t mind having a darling like Snuggles myself, you know.”

  “Perhaps one day you will,” said Harry as she pulled Snuggles’s ear. “If she keeps this up, I just might have to give her away.”

  Mrs. Peak didn’t seem to mind one bit. “Snuggles can drop by any time,” she assured her.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Peak,” she said, letting herself into her flat. And as she closed the door, she whispered, “What’s the matter with you, little one? Why do you keep sneaking off to the neighbors, huh? Don’t you like it here?”

  She put the cat down on the floor and looked around her modest flat. It wasn’t even a flat, really, more of a studio apartment. One living room with kitchenette, a small bedroom, and an even smaller bathroom. Just enough for the student she’d been when she took it, and currently all she could afford on her meager earnings. She’d told herself back then that once she got her first paycheck she was going to find something bigger. But then she’d seen the paltry sum on her paycheck and had realized that it would be a long time before she’d be able to afford anything more than what she had. In fact she was lucky to have a place as nice as this one, London quickly becoming too costly for anyone without a millionaire mum or dad to foot the bill.

  She watched as Snuggles haughtily stalked to the window, which was open to a crack, hopped out onto the small balcony, and started to make her way over to Mrs. Peak again. Harry quickly hurried after her and managed to snatch her just before she hopped from her balcony to the next.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she asked as she took the cat indoors again and closed the window. “Do you get special treats next door? Is that it?”

  She checked Snuggles’s bowl, but it was still filled to capacity. Possibly she was simply bored with the same dry food and needed something fresh?

  And she was just scooping some canned food into a second bowl, much to Snuggles’s delight, when she remembered she’d scheduled a call with her cousin.

  She hurried over to her laptop, flippe
d it open and switched it on. And as she made herself a jam sandwich and carried it on a plate to the laptop, she kicked off her soggy sneakers, then hopped into the bedroom to change into something dry. She was just wrapping a towel around her head when the telltale sound of Skype warned her that Alice was online and calling her.

  Video image of her cousin flickered to life, and she gave her a jolly wave.

  “Hey, honey,” Alice said. “Did you just step out of the shower?”

  “No, I just stepped out of London, which is basically the same thing.”

  Alice laughed. She was a perky blonde with remarkable green eyes, and perennially in a good mood. “You should come and visit, Harry. It’s about eighty degrees out here and not a single cloud in sight.”

  Harry sighed. “That sounds like heaven. I wish I could, but…”

  “The antique shop, huh? Too much work? I can relate, honey. I’m actually holding down three jobs right now if you can believe it. The mortuary, the gun store, and the bakery. Never worked so hard in my life!” Harry nodded absently, and Alice’s face fell. “Are you all right? You look very pale.”

  She shook her head. “Something horrible happened to me today, Alice.”

  She proceeded to tell her cousin about the murder of her boss, and Alice cried, “Oh, no! You must have been terrified! How are you holding up?”

  “I’m… fine, actually. Though at the moment I seem to be the only suspect the police have.” She tucked a leg beneath her and told Alice the whole story.

  She and her cousin had no secrets from each other. They’d always been close, ever since Alice’s father, Curtis Whitehouse, had been stationed in London, working at Scotland Yard in an advisory capacity for five years. Since Uncle Curtis and Aunt Demitria had lived right next door to Harry’s parents, she and Alice had been like sisters. The bond had never been broken, even now, when they were thousands of miles apart.