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

by Wendy Meadows

  Getting onto her hands and knees, Cassy scurried over to the nearest one. For a moment, she considered what she might do if a porter, or even the manager of the Auberge walked in, drawn by the sound of Donald’s booming voice, and found a middle-aged witch crawling around on all fours. When she decided there was no possible explanation she could give that wouldn’t sound implausible, Cassy relaxed. There was a certain amount of confidence in knowing what you were doing was inexplicable. It took some of the danger out of it; that uncertainty just wasn’t there. In a way, sneaking around between the tables was liberating. If she was caught, then it would be a fair cop, and she wouldn’t argue with it. But Cassy still had to focus on the task at hand. As untroubled by the consequences as she was, Cassy still wanted to hear what was being said.

  The closer she got, the more she was hidden from view. The angle at which the tables were aligned made it nearly impossible to spot her. Besides, both Willows and Saint-John were focused on each other.

  “…wouldn’t be here if you’d just accepted the deal.” The calm voice hid a tremble of anger. It was Willows’ smooth, lawyerly delivery.

  “That was no deal,” retorted Donald’s deep gurgle. “That was extortion. And this changes nothing. All this mess. If you think that I’m going to be somehow more amenable to your offers out of sympathy, then you’ve got a shock headed your way.”

  “Mr. Sin-Jun,” Willows pleaded, “would you please show a little decency? The tragic loss of my close partner has nothing to do with this. The offer we’re making is the same revised contract as before. If you think that I would somehow try to use this terrible situation as leverage in a property deal, then you have greatly underestimated me.”

  “No, it’s just a happy coincidence, isn’t it?” Donald’s voice lost a little of its solid footing, aware that he’d perhaps stepped over a line. “You know what I mean. You’re in a better position now than before. The police suspect she was killed, and that just makes me look bad, doesn’t it? If I capitulate, then I lose face, but if I stand strong, then I’m heartless and quite possibly liable to incriminate myself.”

  “I hardly think that—”

  “You don’t know the small-town mentality. If someone sees smoke, they cry fire. Mark my words. You may have lost a colleague, but my reputation is at stake.”

  The extent of Donald’s insensitivity was staggering, and Cassy had to restrain herself from standing up and calling him out on it. It was a miracle that Willows had refrained from punching the man for as long as he had.

  After a deep, tired sigh Willows spoke once more.

  “The truth was that Jane was not the best-loved person. She was hard to get along with sometimes, but she was professional and got the job done, and that alone got her a lot of friends. Even her enemies respected her. If you’re talking of a small-town mentality, it’s the kind that would erase a problem rather than solve it.”

  “Just what do you mean to imply by that?”

  “You very well know what I mean. I spoke to Sheriff Noyce earlier today, and they have suspicions that she was poisoned. And the way I see it there aren’t that many people who would benefit from Newmark pulling out from Havenholm. We can still make this backwoods little town a prime holiday destination, and you can still be involved. I just need to know what kind of a person I’m dealing with.”

  “Are you saying that I was somehow responsible for Mrs. Fontaine’s death—?”

  “Miss.”

  I hear you, thought Cassy. After a certain age, you become a Mrs. whether you like it or not.

  “Miss, Mrs., Señor for all I care. If I was the killer, you’d still want to do business, wouldn’t you? I bet it would make the deal more attractive even. That’s how unscrupulous you are.”

  “Scruples are forged by circumstance, Mr. Sin-jun.”

  A bench juddered back as someone knocked into it, and Cassy shrunk down so as not to be seen. Judging by the sudden halt in the argument, it was neither of the dueling men who had made the noise. They made idle noises like children having been discovered somewhere they shouldn’t have been. If Cassy dropped close to the floor, she could see Saint-John’s shiny black shoes (with a preposterous golden buckle) and Willows’ sleek brogues. There was another pair, bright white trainers, just a little farther beyond the men. A cleaner had entered the room and was wiping down the tables. Cassy had to back off now or risk being discovered. Suddenly the threat of being found became real, especially as she now knew that all parties on the panel the previous night at the town hall were in cahoots. Without getting up, Cassy shuffled back the way she’d come but paused when Saint-John talked once more.

  “Look I’m sorry — I’m a bit high-strung now,” he said in as close to a whisper as he could get. “Bring the documents to my office, and I’ll look over them. Maybe I was being rash when I… What I’m saying is that I’m an impulsive man, prone to do things on the spur of the moment.”

  “Well, I have them with me, in my room, if you want.”

  No, he doesn’t want! Cassy needed the men to stay exactly where they were. Dealing with one rapidly approaching cleaner was bad enough.

  Cassy dropped to her belly and twisted so she was facing the other way. This meant that she couldn’t keep an eye on anyone, but it allowed for a faster retreat. She just had to hope she wasn’t spotted. Through the mesh of benches and table legs, just by the door through which they’d entered the mess hall, Cassy spotted Dot, diligently standing guard. She was oblivious to anything happening inside the room, as her gaze was fixed on the hallway beyond.

  By the third bench, Cassy allowed herself a little peek over her shoulder and froze when she could no longer see either of the men she’d been spying on. A flurry of movement alerted her that they were crossing the mess hall. Cassy rolled under a bench to hide herself completely and watched with strained horror as they approached. Dot was oblivious to them. Willows wouldn’t know her from Eve, but there was a chance that Donald might figure out who she was.

  There was little Cassy could do to warn her friend beyond calling out to her, and that wouldn’t have been wise. Her fingers strummed the floor nervously as her mind raced for a solution.

  Ever since she was a kid, Cassy had been enthralled with the more mystical aspects of life. It was something she’d picked up from her mostly strict and remote mother, being the one thing they had in common and could share. Since those days, Cassy was loath to use her skills for anything but the most trivial things. Occasionally, she was called upon to do things beyond mixing a love potion or an ointment for curing hair loss.

  Cassy rolled onto to her back and looked down the length of her body using her feet as a sight, as you might find on a rifle. It was always good to have a target when practicing magic, and in her cross-hairs now was the bucket into which the cleaner was occasionally dipping an over-sized sponge. With her hands clasped together as if in prayer, Cassy placed her thumbs to her lips and blew between her palms. The breath was warm and continued to get warmer as she chanted some old words she had learned phonetically without ever understanding them. It was a simple spell, as were all her spells, and crucially it required little time to take effect. She jerked her hands downward and unleashed her breath from between her hands. Pneuma, her mother had called it, but Cassy thought of it like a little breeze. The gust was just enough to knock over the bucket, sending water across the floor.

  “Scheisse!” the woman proclaimed as she tossed the sponge into the expanding puddle of soapy water. It was that exclamation and not the accident itself that drew Willows’ and Saint-John’s attention. The expensive shoes stopped on just the other side of the bench Cassy was hiding under. She squeezed out from below carefully and trotted towards Dot, who had a panicked look on her face as she frantically pointed at the men behind Cassie.

  Chapter Ten

  “Yes, I know,” Cassy mouthed, then shooed Dot out of the hall. She grabbed Dot by the arm and walked briskly back to the reception area. In her heightened state, the larg
e wooden bear gave Cassy a shock, as it seemed to loom above her suddenly.

  “Can I help you?”

  Cassy twisted sharply to the woman who had addressed them. She was a small woman with thick glasses, perched eagerly at the computer on the reception desk.

  “Yes, we were thinking about staying here, me and my, erm…” Cassy looked to Dot, “mother.”

  “Mother, that’s right,” confirmed Dot, to Cassy’s relief. Improv was not the woman’s strength. “I had her when I was thirteen, which accounts for how young I look.”

  Cassy deflated but kept the smile on her face. “We’re just driving though to Raven’s Home…”

  “Havenholm,” the receptionist corrected.

  “That’s the one,” Cassy said, “We’ll be on our way now. Come along, Mother. I left your pills in the car, and we don’t want another accident like last time, do we?”

  And with that Cassy led Dot back outside to the car and allowed herself to breathe again only when they were safely in the car. Cassy shut the door and clicked her safety belt and waited for Dot to do the same.

  “Thirteen?” Cassy giggled.

  “Well, while we’re coming up with stories I thought I’d make it a little more believable. Do you think she’d really buy that I was your mother?”

  “Come on, let’s just get out of here before Donald catches up.”

  The drive back into town was reasonably quiet, but all Cassy’s thoughts were jostling for her attention. Even the death of Mrs.—Miss?—Fontaine hadn’t dampened either Willows’ or Saint-John’s enthusiasm for making a deal. She suspected the meeting at the town hall had been for show, the unexpected death notwithstanding. This didn’t account for how it came about, however. It stretched credibility that Mrs. Hamswell, the clear instigator in setting it up, was associated with property deals. This was the woman who judged the cake competition at the local school and who had once driven a ride-on lawnmower from one end of Havenholm to the other when she’d locked her keys in her car. If the goal was to create a false competition in the market, as Cassy suspected was the case with Newmark and Havenholm’s own property magnate, Mrs. Hamswell was the last person you wanted involved.

  The giant, brooding treeline receded in the rear-view mirror, and the comforting and familiar skyline of Havenholm rose up in front of them.

  Mrs. Hamswell lived in a small house on the site of the first house in what became known as Havenholm. That original settlement and the buildings erected there had long ago been taken by time, fire and inclement weather, but Mrs. Hamswell still considered herself the very center of the town. It was as if living on the foundation stones of Havenholm somehow made her more important. It didn’t, but Cassy wondered if it had something to do with just how meddling the woman had become. Had she always been that way, or did she find inspiration from where she lived? The house she occupied was one of five tightly packed buildings that were more modern than those that surrounded them. They all looked alike, but Mrs. Hamswell’s was obvious from afar; it was the one with excessive posters in the windows.

  With Dot leading the way, they made their way up the short flight of steps and across an impeccable front garden (save for a banner unceremoniously staked into the lawn).

  “You’d think she’d take down some of her posters now that the meeting’s over with,” Dot remarked.

  “You know what she’s like,” Cassy sighed. “She’s trying to hold onto the small amount of influence she has for as long as she can. They’re like trophies. Come next week it’ll be something else. Remember when she tried to start a vegetable competition?”

  “Three pumpkins and a bunch of underwhelming carrots.”

  “When this whole thing blows over she’ll find some other cause to sink her teeth into.”

  The Hamswells’ front door had a dreamcatcher hanging above it. It jingled as Cassy approached. Other than that, the house was quiet. She rapped her knuckles against the door after having tried the doorbell with no response.

  “No doubt scouring the town for gossip,” Dot snickered. “She feeds on it, don’t you know. Like a vampire. No need for her prying ways, if you ask me.”

  “Oh, come on, Dot, don’t be so negative. Just what do you think we’re doing? We’re not here on a social call, are we?”

  Dot shrugged and forcefully banged on the door. It swung open lazily and the two women looked into the entrance hall beyond.

  “Hello?” Cassy offered weakly.

  When no reply came, Dot stepped inside.

  “What are you doing?” Cassy snapped. She wanted to investigate but didn’t have the same brazen entitlement as Dot had. It was that, or Dot just didn’t understand social etiquette.

  “The door’s open, so that means we can go in. Don’t tell me you don’t want to have a look round?”

  “We barely made it out of the Auberge without being spotted. I don’t want to push my luck by actually breaking and entering.”

  “It’s not breaking in if the door’s open, is it?”

  “The legal definition of breaking and entering means that even if you just—” It was no use. Dot was already inside, and Cassy felt obliged to follow if only to make sure she didn’t make things worse. “I’ve seriously got to learn to drive,” Cassy muttered to herself.

  As expected, the Hamswell residence was immaculate. Cassy felt ashamed that her apartment was so cluttered and disorganized. She could feel the house itself judging her. Messy old witch, it said, until Cassy realized that it was all in her head.

  “Creeps you out, doesn’t it?” Dot asked.

  “How so?”

  “It doesn’t look lived in.”

  That wasn’t true, but Cassy got what Dot was saying. There was a kind of, if not sterile, then overly neat-and-tidy vibe to the house as they slowly crept through it.

  “What if she’s in?” Cassy whispered, peeking into the kitchen. In there, at least, there were signs of a normal human behavior with shopping bags on the side counter.

  “If she’s in, she should have answered her door, shouldn’t she?” Dot said, then to Cassy’s utter horror, she cried out again, “Mrs. Hamswell?”

  “Dot!” Cassy clamped her hand to her mouth as if their cover wasn’t already blown. She relaxed when there was no reply. “I came here to get some questions answered, like whose idea was it was to set up the town meeting? ’Cause one thing’s for sure—there’s something going on behind the scenes, and I don’t think the woman who keeps plastic covers on her couch is behind it all. But she’s not here, and neither should we be.”

  It was baffling to Cassy how someone could live this way as she looked into the front room of the house. She was a naturally cluttered person who didn’t mind things looking disorganized as long as she knew exactly where everything was. The Hamswells’ house was the opposite of the small flat above the Spicery. Everything was neat and in its proper place. The fabric on the curtains looked as if it had been steam cleaned that very morning. There was not on hint of dust on the surfaces. Even the armrests on the plastic-covered couch looked like they’d only moments before been wiped down. Immaculate was the word for it. The only thing that spoiled the presentation was the slowly expanding pool of blood that seeped in from the kitchen. The fibers of the cream-colored carpet were soaking up the brilliant red as it poured off the linoleum floor of the adjoining kitchen.

  “Dot.”

  “Yes, hun?”

  “We have a problem.”

  “What is it, dear?”

  “Can you go through to the kitchen from the other side? I think there’s another entrance from the hall.”

  Cassy heard Dot pad across the thick carpet, and then suddenly the footsteps came to a sudden stop.

  “Oh my,” Dot said softly and cleared her throat. “Cass, what do we do? Shall I call the police?”

  The answer was yes. Any normal person in this situation would always call the police, first thing. There would be no logical reason not to.

  “It’s okay, I’ll cal
l them,” Cassy replied. She readied her phone in her hand but did not swipe to unlock it. Instead she crept closer to the redness. Through the doorway that led to the kitchen, Cassy saw that the door itself was propped open by Mrs. Hamswell’s foot. She lay on the floor face down, and judging by the extent of the spreading blood, she had been there for some time.

  “I can hardly look.” Dot flinched but didn’t look away. “It explains why she didn’t answer.”

  Cassy knelt down. She found it was always better to get a different perspective on something to understand it. Mrs. Hamswell had taken a fall, hit her head and had apparently died where she lay. A cup of coffee was still in her hand, or at least the handle was—the rest of it lay scattered around her, its contents mixing with Mrs. Hamswell’s.

  “It makes you think, doesn’t it?” Dot said. “How soon your life can be over, just like that. All it takes is a fall, then BAM.” She slapped her hands together to emphasize the point and made Cassy jump.

  “Just what makes you think that this was an accident? We’re in the middle of a murder investigation here.”

  “No, you’re in the middle of a murder investigation, I’m in the middle of calling the police.” Dot took out her phone and dialed. Cassy needed just a few more minutes to find something she could work with, but there was no stopping Dot. It was, after all, the right thing to do.

  The thing was, it looked like an accident, and that’s what made Cassy suspicious. It was almost like a reenactment of what an accident looked like. Even down to the little details like a broken cup, the foot propping the door open—a suggestion of what tripped her, perhaps?

  “Is that you, Phillip?” Dot asked, phone clasped to her ear, her eyes glued to the grisly sight before her. “Well, Sheriff Noyce if you must. I wish to report a most terrible thing. A murder… No not all, I think it’s just an accident, but Cassy says there’s something about it she doesn’t like… Yes, she’s here. Mrs. Hamswell… Her house, honey. No, Mrs. Hamswell’s.”