Murder & Spice (Nether Edge Witch Cozy Mystery Book 1)

by Wendy Meadows

  “Dr. Bloom,” she said, casting a look to Jones, who seemed a lot more amused by the situation than she was. “I hope you don’t mind me tagging along. Deputy Jones said it would be all right if I—”

  “The more the merrier, the more the merrier,” the doctor smiled, his voice lilting. “That’s what they say, isn’t it?” Bloom took a bite from the sandwich that hung precariously from his hand, the contents threatening to spill out on the floor but miraculously holding on tight. It reminded Cassy she was desperately hungry while simultaneously putting her off food. The doctor beckoned them both to follow him. Far from being a sterile place, the morgue was a lot more welcoming, with varnished wood along the walls, making it seem almost homey. It didn’t do enough for Cassy to shake the sense of loneliness, but it was making up for it.

  The main room where they kept the bodies was smaller than she’d expected and with three bodies, it almost felt cramped. Except there weren’t three, Cassy had to remind herself, but at least six or seven. In addition to the table in the center of the room (where Jane Fontaine presumably lay, thankfully covered with a green sheet for now), there were four other gurneys, all occupied, and two cold chambers embedded in the walls.

  Bloom unceremoniously pulled back the sheet to uncover Ms. Fontaine’s pale face. Cassy was no stranger to death, and it took more than the regular dose to shock her, but on seeing the woman and her oddly peaceful face, she let out a gasp. She was comforted by Jones’ hand, which slipped into hers.

  “There’s nothing to be alarmed about, Miss Dean,” Dr. Bloom said as he fussed around the body. “It’s all quite natural.”

  “Natural causes?” the Deputy inquired. He let go of Cassy and approached the table, notebook in hand.

  “Ah, I meant nothing more than the state of death is a natural thing. The means by which it occurs can be anything but.”

  “So, what about Ms. Fontaine?” Cassy pressed, as keen as Jones to know the results of the autopsy. Bloom rocked back on his heels and considered his response.

  “I must admit that I’m ashamed to say that I’m stumped.”

  Jones let his notepad fall to his side. “How so?”

  “She was a healthy woman with no prior ailments. For a woman of—” Bloom checked his notes—“for a woman of fifty-five she was in very good shape. No external trauma. Internally there are signs of inflammation, but nothing I’m not suffering from right now.” He took a bite of his sandwich. “I’ve tested for foreign substances, the usual poisons, drugs and the like, but nothing’s shown up on the toxicology report.”

  Jones looked concerned. This was not what he’d wanted to hear. Cassy could tell that as the new kid on the block, he’d wanted to prove himself, and this had seemed like the perfect opportunity.

  “But people can’t spontaneously just stop living,” he said. “Can they?”

  “Not entirely true. It can happen—rarely—but it does. In this case, however, I doubt it.”

  “What do you mean, Dr. Bloom?” Cassy asked.

  “When I said the toxicology showed nothing, that was true, but her body shows signs of a reaction to something. Look here.” Bloom pulled the cover further back to reveal the stitches that kept the body together. Cassy felt a little woozy and blamed her skipped breakfast. “Her skin is dry around the neck, uncommonly so. Her pupils are pinpoints—”

  Cassy leaned in. The woman was beautiful, hard-faced, stern-looking. Death hadn’t changed her much.

  “…which is odd, because it was night when she died. They should have been fully dilated,” Cassy said. She looked to Jones, who was suitably impressed. But she wasn’t seeking his approval; her natural instincts were kicking in. “It is possible that the toxicology report could have missed something?”

  With a long sigh, Bloom folded his arms and looked over the body. “It’s possible, certainly. But it would have to be a very exotic compound for it to not show up.”

  Jones grumbled distractedly. “You suspect something, though?”

  “Suspect? Yes. Am I certain, though?” Bloom shook his head.

  While Jones talked to the doctor and got him to fill in the appropriate forms to release the body, Cassy took the opportunity to check the small metallic bowl next to Jane Fontaine. It had been the first thing she’d spotted when she’d entered the room. She’d been waiting for a moment to inspect it. It contained the effects of the deceased—a single ring. A wedding band.

  Chapter Eight

  When Deputy Jones was finished, they bid the peculiar Dr. Bloom good day and made their way back to the cruiser. The farther they got from the morgue the more relaxed Cassy became. The feelings she’d been picking up inside the morgue dissipated. Soon she was feeling like herself again, and by the time the car was halfway to the station Cassy felt like talking once more.

  “It’s murder, right? It has to be.” The silence that greeted her told her everything she needed to know. Jones suspected foul play. “Circumstances alone have to raise a few flags, toxicology report be damned.”

  “It takes more than circumstance.”

  “You’re not saying there’s no motive, though. I think we both know there’s a lot of negative sentiment towards her and who she represents.”

  “Which leaves us with a town full of suspects,” Jones sighed. He turned off Main Street and continued the short, winding drive to the station. “When anyone might have a motive, and there’s no murder weapon—hell, there’s not even a definitive sign of injury—then there’s very little to go on.”

  “But—”

  Jones downshifted as he neared a residential area. Green lawns and picket fences. On all but two lawns Mrs. Hamswell’s crudely printed posters were on proud display. Some even had two or three. When the people of Havenholm got behind something, they really got behind it.

  “But nothing. My personal ‘hunches’ don’t come into this. And neither do yours. As a representative of the law, I must have something more substantive. Starting with you.”

  “Me?”

  “You were the first to find the body, weren’t you? What compelled you to go out of your way to check her car? You don’t drive, do you, so what were you doing in the parking lot?”

  This was the first time Cassy had seen this side of the deputy, his official and very forceful side. She liked it.

  “I wasn’t the first person to find her, though.” Cassy thought back to the night of the death. It had been Ms. Fontaine’s associate, Willows, who had first spotted her. He’d seen the body from afar, even though Cassy had been closer. Until then, Cassy hadn’t thought this strange, but on reflection it seemed convenient. Nobody suspects the person who finds the body, do they?

  “Who found the body then, if not you?”

  Cassy looked out at the passing colonial houses which made up the more affluent area of Havenholm. Town meeting tonight! More than ever she was convinced there was something going on.

  “I mean, there were a lot of people there that night. The car was stopped, and any number of people walked past. Someone must have seen something.” Cassie pointed out.

  He must have bought her misdirection, as he didn’t bring it up again.

  After a disappointing follow-up interview at the station (disappointing because even though the police got what they wanted, Cassy hadn’t been able to glean any new information) she returned to the store for a well-earned cup of tea and, finally, something to eat. Famished beyond all reason, she practically devoured all of Patty’s cookies—the ones she kept by the cash register and would routinely snack on throughout the day.

  One benefit of having a store at the intersection of two streets is that it becomes a meeting place. You never ask someone to meet you halfway down the road, but always on the corner. And so, the Spicery would often become a hub for gossip.

  With her hunger tamed but not defeated, she was about to head back out into the world when she overheard a conversation from two women browsing the meager selection of books, hoping to find recipes.

 
After having been bewildered by the shelf of identical books (Allow’s Thousand-and-One Recipes for Potatoes, Sweet and Otherwise) their conversation turned to the meeting the night before. One of them mentioned how she’d seen someone whom she called “the scrawny little sidekick guy” at the Auberge.

  The ‘sidekick guy’, Cassy assumed, was Willows. She’d planned to accidentally-on-purpose bump in to Mrs. Hamswell after eating, but now she had an idea that Willows was still in town, and tracking him down gained priority. The police would want him to stick around for a while, she guessed, but she wouldn’t have long before he went back to the Big City.

  “Where are my cookies?”

  Sheepishly, Cassy turned to Patty. She wiped crumbs from the corner of her mouth then struggled to swallow the last of her ill-gotten loot before replying.

  “I’ll buy you some more. I promise.”

  “Aww…man!” Patty had a way of making anything sound like it was probably the end of the world.

  “Things are going to get worse before you get more cookies, though.” Cassy put on her best ‘you love me really’ smile before continuing.

  “Go on, what?” Patty groaned, already resigned to her fate.

  “Do you think you can hold the fort for the rest of the day?”

  “I thought you were going to take over. I’ve been struggling without Dot.”

  Dot had a very relaxed relationship with timekeeping and would often come to work late. This wasn’t out of laziness or contempt for her coworkers but more a deeply ingrained disconnect with reality. Late in life, she’d been diagnosed with dyslexia and other associated disorders, which meant that she was officially and clinically scatterbrained.

  “Well, where is she then?”

  As if on cue, the little bell above the door heralded Dot’s arrival. She entered as always with a beaming smile on her face.

  “Morning all,” she said, then looked at her watch. “Good afternoon, all.”

  Patty threw her hands in the air in celebration. It would be painful for Cassy to inform her that Dot was needed elsewhere.

  “Let’s say I pay you double-time today, and then you can have all of tomorrow off?” she said to Patty before she got any ideas of freedom.

  Even with her youthful and naturally cute face, Patty pulled off quite a determined scowl.

  “Seriously?”

  “I can’t drive, Pats, and Dot has a car.”

  “I have a car,” Dot offered, as she made her way round behind the counter.

  “Not so fast, Dot. I need you to take me to the Auberge.”

  “The place just out of town?”

  Cassy nodded. “I’ve got this bee in my bonnet about that poor woman who died, and I have to get a better sense of who she was. Her partner is still in town, it seems.”

  Dot rubbed her chin for a second. “Do you mean the woman who wanted to destroy Havenholm?”

  “That’s not quite accurate, Dot,” Cassy responded, “but yeah, her.”

  “Well, let’s get going then. We can’t wait all day.” Dot was already halfway out of the shop before Cassy realized what was happening. Patty waved Cassy away.

  “I promise you’ll get a whole day off tomorrow,” Cassy promised.

  “And double pay.”

  “Of course.”

  “And two packs of cookies.”

  “Three, I promise.”

  “And I get to choose the radio station in the store.”

  “Don’t push your luck, Pat.”

  With a belch of black smoke, Dot’s car spluttered into life. It was a small old thing with what Dot liked to call ‘character’ but was a high yearly maintenance bill. The seat on the passenger side was a good three inches lower than the driver’s. Dot was already much taller than Cassy, so the older woman now towered over her. It was disconcerting, and Cassy tried to keep her eyes fixed on the road ahead rather than crane her head up when talking.

  “You know where it is, don’t you?” Cassy asked. It occurred to Cassy she had no idea how to get to the Auberge, a tavern on the outskirts of Havenholm, which was the place of choice to stay when visiting the area for those who could afford it.

  “The roads are my second home, hun. Don’t you worry.”

  By the time it became apparent they’d set off in the wrong direction, the cookies Cassy had stolen from Patty were wearing off, and she dreamt of what she might order to eat at the Auberge. Swearing in the mildest and most restrained—and to Cassy highly amusing—manner possible, Dot turned the car around and raced back across town. They were soon back on track.

  The forest started suddenly as they passed the sign thanking them for visiting Havenholm and warning them to drive safely. The trees were tall, dark and tightly packed, with deep shadows creeping between them, even by the light of the summer sun. They formed a wall that separated the town from everywhere else. It was a psychological thing above all; there were many roads that cut through the forest, and the town was readily accessible, but that great sea of tall, dark and shadowy trees was a mental barrier of sorts that gave the residents of Havenholm an island mentality. It played no small part in the business with Newmark. Haveners (as they called themselves) enjoyed the remoteness of their hometown, as it made them special. Havenholm was a place you either stumbled upon or didn’t find at all.

  Chapter Nine

  The Auberge was a halfway house, neither consumed by the forest nor part of the town. It had been a safe house for smugglers many moons ago but in more recent times was a sought-after retreat for those keen to get away from life. Rarely was it home to visiting suits planning their next big commercial construction project.

  As they pulled into the short driveway that led to the grand, old, wood-fronted building, Cassy sensed trouble. A car she recognized, a tasteless gold-sprayed old thing, which those with an interest in such things might call ‘classic’, was parked askew across several parking spots.

  “Is that Donald’s Cadillac?” Dot asked, as she cautiously navigated her way around the vehicle, then delicately parked beside it.

  “Yeah.” It was his car. The license plate read BLDR 4. Builder Four. Cassy guessed 1-3 were already taken.

  As they got out of Dot’s car, the cool air hit Cassy. The first days of summer hadn’t been able to warm this part of the world yet. The skyscraping trees on both sides of the tavern cast long shadows.

  “What do you reckon Saint-John is doing all the way out here, then?” Dot questioned, pronouncing the name Sin-jun as Donald was constantly correcting people to do.

  “My guess is that he’s doing the same thing we are.”

  “Putting his nose in where it isn’t wanted?”

  “Exactly.”

  The reception area was empty save for a large bear carved from a single block of wood that stood menacingly at the very center of the room. Whether it should greet visitors or give them second thoughts was unclear. Dot walked right up to it, entranced.

  While Dot was occupied Cassy had a preliminary look around. It was a nice place and had an unforced quaintness that spoke of great care and attention to detail. Caught somewhere between log cabin and five-star Manhattan hotel, Cassy thought it was somewhere she might like to stay sometime. It occurred to her a desire to take a vacation somewhere just minutes from home showed a lack of ambition, but it did little to dissuade her. There was a bell at the reception desk that a small sign invited guests to ring should they need assistance. Cassy went to perform the task, but she halted before her hand touched the bell and stepped back. The last thing she wanted was to summon someone who could stop her sneaking around.

  “Dot!” Cassy cried in a loud stage-whisper. She beckoned her over, and together they crept through the foyer, through the double doors that led them to a maze of corridors.

  “Do you hear that?” Cassy whispered.

  Dot tilted her head. “Voices.”

  “They’re coming from over there.” Cassy nodded in the direction of farther down the hallway. One of them was Saint-John for
sure. She recognized his booming, pompous baritone. The voices led them to a mess hall. Four walls were floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out into the forest. The trees swept down a steep incline, revealing the true expanse of the woodland that seemed to stretch to the horizon.

  Silhouetted against the expanse of blue-gray pines were two dueling figures, wielding jabbing fingers, neither daring to get anywhere close to physical contact. Cassy sighed. It was the kind of rage-fueled but conservatively restrained fight that only men in their fifties would engage in. She’d been secretly hoping she might find Saint-John challenging Willows to a punch-out. The worst-case scenario here would be that one of them might get a stained shirt if his pen burst during a mild scuffle.

  “He’s gone off the deep end,” Dot said. “He’s frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog.”

  She wasn’t wrong. Donald had turned a delightful shade of puce, and his neck strained at his collar. Despite being loud, none of his words were intelligible from where the two of them were hunkered down behind the entrance door.

  “Something’s got him riled, that’s for sure. You’d think he’d be a bit more restrained.”

  “Especially as that poor man just lost his friend.”

  ‘That poor man’ was considerably calmer than Saint-John, though from his balled fists Cassy could tell that Willows wasn’t serene.

  “Should we break them up? We don’t want this getting nasty.”

  Cassy considered doing just that, except that she wanted to know what they were talking about. Believing they were having a private argument meant that they would be unguarded.

  “No, I’m going to get a bit closer,” Cassy responded. “You stay here. If a member of the staff comes by, you knock three times.”

  “Got it.”

  Between Cassy and the two men were a dozen long, wooden tables with thick benches on either side of each. She could go from one to another without being seen. That was the plan, anyway.