Witch Is When It All Began (A Witch P.I. Mystery Book 1)

by Adele Abbott

  “Morning, Mrs V.”

  “Morning, Jill. How are you this beautiful morning?”

  “I’m absolutely fantastic. Any mail?”

  “Only a few bills. I threw them away.”

  Mrs V had a system. If the bill wasn’t a final demand, she threw it away. It seemed to work. We hadn’t been evicted—yet.

  “That stupid cat won’t drink his milk.” She took out her latest knitting project from the bottom drawer of her desk. Needless to say, it was a scarf.

  “Did you give him full cream?”

  “They didn’t have any. I had to get semi-skimmed.”

  Winky would only drink full cream milk. He turned his nose up at anything else. Mrs V knew that, but refused to pander to him.

  “Okay. I’ll see to him.” I walked through to my office; the sound of knitting needles echoed behind me.

  “Meow!” Winky jumped onto my desk, and gave me a one-eyed death stare. “Meow!”

  “What’s the matter with you?” As if I didn’t know. The untouched saucer of milk was under the window. He had to be the most ungrateful cat on the face of the earth. I’d rescued him from the cats’ home when no one else wanted his scary ass, and how did he thank me? By trying to scare off my clients and being precious over what he would and wouldn’t drink.

  “That old bag knows I only like full cream milk.”

  “You shouldn’t call her that.” I stooped down to pick up the saucer. “I’ll nip out in a minute to get you some—”

  As I spun around to face Winky, I almost spilled the milk. Okay. It was now official. I was going crazy. I thought I’d heard the cat speak, and what was even worse, I’d answered him.

  “Meow! Meow!”

  “Okay. Okay. I’m going.”

  “I’m just nipping out for—” I hesitated. “For some biscuits.”

  Mrs V had started on a new ball of wool. So far, the scarf was red, yellow, green, blue and orange.

  “You’re going to get full cream milk for that stupid cat, aren’t you?” she said, without looking up from her knitting. She knew me too well.

  “You know what he’s like. He won’t drink semi-skimmed.”

  “Only because you give in to him all the time. He’s like a spoiled child.”

  That was all very well for Mrs V to say. She wasn’t the one who had to share an office with the one-eyed feline from hell. If I wanted to get any work done, I’d have to get full cream milk.

  “I won’t be long.”

  I bought biscuits—custard creams obviously, a bottle of over-priced water, which I’d have to hide to avoid Mrs V’s ‘plenty of water in the tap’ lecture, and a carton of full cream milk.

  “There’s someone to see you,” Mrs V said when I arrived back at the office. She looked accusingly at my bag, making me feel like I was smuggling contraband.

  “Who is it?”

  “That nice detective.”

  “Maxwell?” He was many things, but ‘nice’ wasn’t even on the list.

  “That’s him. Such a handsome young man.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I sent him through to your office.”

  “You did what—? Never mind.” I’d told Mrs V a thousand times to make sure visitors waited in the outer office, but she had an annoying habit of disregarding my instructions. I wasn’t in the mood for Maxwell.

  “What’s wrong with this cat?” Maxwell had moved his chair away from my desk because Winky was hissing at him.

  “He’s waiting for this.” I opened the carton and poured the milk into the saucer. Winky was off the desk in a flash, and soon purring loudly, as he lapped up the milk.

  “I thought he was going to take my eyes out.” Maxwell pushed the chair back towards the desk.

  I took a seat opposite him. “Nice scarf!”

  He tugged at the two-tone green woollen scarf that was wrapped around his neck.

  “The lady out front gave it to me.”

  “That’s Mrs V. She likes to knit.”

  “Don’t you mind her knitting when she’s supposed to be working?”

  “Not really. It’s not as though I pay her.”

  “You don’t pay her?” He pulled the scarf a little looser. It looked like a boa constrictor wrapped around his neck. “Taking advantage of the elderly? Not cool.”

  See what I mean? The man was an asshat. “What’s it got to do with you what I pay my staff?”

  “You said you didn’t pay her.”

  “Why don’t you arrest me for slave labour and have done with it?” There was something about the man that set my snark on full throttle.

  Mrs V had been with Dad forever. A few months after he died, I’d told her that I couldn’t afford to keep her on because business was so quiet. She’d insisted she wanted to continue to work anyway. As far as I knew she had no family, so if she hadn’t come into work, she’d have been stuck in the house all alone—all day, every day. Instead, she’d chosen to come into the office—to knit. Scarves—lots of them.

  “I don’t like to see anyone being taken advantage of,” Maxwell said. “Especially not such a sweet old lady.”

  “Mrs V is more than capable of looking out for herself. She doesn’t need you to fight her battles.” It hadn’t taken long for Maxwell to remind me why I despised him so much. “What can I do for you, Detective?” I was curious as to what had brought him to my office. Although our paths had crossed several times, he’d never been there before.

  “I heard you are working on the Caroline Fox case.”

  “No comment.” How exactly had he heard? Did he have my office bugged? Paranoid? Who? Me?

  “I don’t want you interfering with our investigations.”

  “Noted.” I pictured myself strangling him slowly with the green scarf.

  “I know that Danny Peterson has a bee in his bonnet about a serial killer,” he said.

  “Apparently, he isn’t the only one.”

  “You mean the Bugle? No one takes that rag seriously, but if you help to fuel this stupid rumour, then the story might get legs. I don’t want mass panic over what is no more than silly speculation.”

  “How can you be so sure that there isn’t a serial killer at large?”

  “You’re going to have to take my word for it.”

  I wouldn’t have taken his word that it was cold, even if there were icicles on the roof.

  “Is that everything, Detective?”

  “Not quite. Did you know that the first victim’s surname was spelled—?”

  “L Y O N. Yes, I did know. That doesn’t mean you should discard the serial killer theory. It just means that the murderer can’t spell.”

  “This isn’t the work of a serial killer.”

  “You sound awfully sure of that.”

  “The MOs are different.”

  “All of them?”

  “The first two have similarities, but the third one is completely different.”

  “How?”

  “That’s as much as you’re getting. I need you to steer clear of this investigation. Tell your client that he’s got it wrong, and that he should let us handle it.”

  “I’m very sorry, but I can’t do that.” I wasn’t even the slightest bit sorry.

  “It would be better for you if you did.”

  “Is that some kind of threat? What will you do if I don’t leave it alone? Set your scarf on me?”

  Maxwell’s face reddened. I wasn’t sure if he was angry at what I’d said or if the scarf was slowly choking him to death—hopefully the latter.

  “I’ve asked you politely, and now I’m telling you. If there is any interference from you on this investigation, I’ll have you arrested for obstructing the police.”

  I’d had enough of him. I walked across the room and opened the door. “Thank you for dropping in, Detective Maxwell.”

  He took off the scarf, dropped it onto my desk, and then left without another word.

  “Such a nice young man,” Mrs V said after he’d lef
t. “Did he ask you out?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “He didn’t take his scarf with him.”

  “He must have forgotten it.”

  I’d been in such a positive mood, but Maxwell had ruined it.

  “This came for you while you were with the detective.” Mrs V handed me an envelope marked ‘Special Delivery.’

  Back in my office, I found Winky curled up in the scarf that Maxwell had dropped onto the desk. I closed the door quickly so Mrs V wouldn’t see him—she’d have had a fit.

  The postmark on the envelope was indecipherable. The letter inside had been beautifully hand-written. It was signed ‘Aunt Lucy,’ and was apparently from my birth mother’s sister. It explained that my mother had insisted on moving to the nursing home only a week before her death. She’d done it with the intention of contacting me. Apparently, I had more family: two cousins, a grandmother, and of course the writer of the letter. She said that the main reason for writing was to invite me to attend my mother’s funeral, which was to be held in a village called Candlefield in two days time. On the back of the letter was a hand-drawn map with directions to Candlefield, which was apparently twenty miles away. Strange, I’d never even heard of the place.

  The sudden appearance of my birth mother had tilted my world. Learning that I had a whole new family was threatening to knock it off its axis. Since my adopted parents had died, the only family I’d had were Kathy, Peter and the kids. Now, suddenly, I had an aunt, a grandma and two cousins. And, I’d been invited to attend my mother’s funeral.

  “How’s tricks?” Peter, my brother-in-law, greeted me at the door.

  “Okay, thanks.” I forced a smile. I hadn’t felt like going out, but Kathy had persuaded me it would take my mind off things. I was a little apprehensive in case she’d decided to set me up on another blind date. What could I expect this time? A guy who cut his toenails at the dinner table? I peered around the living room door.

  “It’s okay,” Kathy said. “I haven’t invited anyone else. I was going to, but after the last few days, I thought you might be feeling a little fragile.”

  “Your sister is more than capable of finding herself a man,” Peter said.

  “Thank you, Peter.” I wished I shared his confidence.

  “No she isn’t,” Kathy said. “Look at all the losers she’s been with.”

  “Thanks, sis!”

  “It’s true. Look at your track record.”

  She was right, but I could have done without the reminder. “At least the guys I found for myself didn’t pick their noses.”

  “You should date Jack Maxwell,” Kathy said.

  “Who’s he?” Peter asked.

  “Jill’s new detective friend. He’s hot!”

  “He is not my friend.”

  “He is hot though. You said so yourself.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You so did. You gushed about him.”

  “I’ve never gushed in my life.”

  “You told me he was panty-melting hot!”

  Sometimes I hated my sister. Usually when she was right. “I never said that!”

  “Whatever.” Kathy sighed. “What did he do to upset you this time?”

  “He tried to warn me off the Fox murder case.”

  “The serial killer?”

  “What serial killer?” Peter’s ears pricked up.

  “There is no serial killer.” I was regretting telling Kathy already.

  “There might be. You said so yourself.”

  “Anyway. Maxwell said if I continued with my investigation that he’d charge me with obstruction.”

  “Does that mean you’re off the case?”

  “What do you think?” Jack Maxwell’s visit had made me even more determined to stay involved with the Fox case. I liked nothing better than solving the police’s cases for them.

  “You need to be careful,” Kathy said. “Dad tried to avoid conflict with the police. Do you remember what he used to say? Softly, softly catchee tiger.”

  “Monkey.”

  “What?”

  “It’s ‘softly, softly, catchee monkey’.”

  “Whatever. I’m only trying to help.” Kathy sighed.

  “I can handle the police. Now can we please forget about Jack Maxwell?”

  “I still think you should date him.” Kathy always had to have the last word.

  “Not happening.” So did I.

  “Thanks. That was great.” I’d just eaten the last spoonful of sticky, toffee pudding. “You must let me do the washing up.”

  “Sit down!” Peter said, already on his feet. “I’ll do it while you two gossip.”

  “I do not gossip!” Kathy protested.

  “Yes, you do!” I said. “It’s what you do best.”

  Peter disappeared into the kitchen and shut the door behind him. I wasn’t sure if that was to give us privacy, or so that he didn’t have to listen to our jabbering.

  “Haven’t you noticed anything?” Kathy held out her arms expansively.

  Had she bought new furniture? It couldn’t be that—I’d have already noticed. She hadn’t changed her hair. I shrugged.

  “The room. It’s tidy. I spent all afternoon tidying up.”

  “Oh yeah. Of course.” Kathy’s idea of tidy and mine were miles apart. I’d noticed Lego pieces under the armchair while I was eating dinner. And the ornaments on the mantelpiece were facing the wrong way. “It looks great!”

  Kathy seemed pleased. “It won’t stay this way for long. As soon as the kids are back, it’ll be like a bomb-site again.”

  “I’ve had a letter from my birth mother’s sister,” I said. I’d been debating all evening whether or not to tell Kathy.

  “You have more family?”

  “So it would seem. An aunt, a grandma and two cousins.”

  “Wow! How do you feel about that?”

  “I don’t know. I’m still in shock.”

  “What did the letter say? Did you bring it with you?”

  “No. It was actually an invitation to the funeral.”

  “Will you go?”

  “I’m not sure. I doubt it. Not after what she said to me on her death bed.”

  “She was probably delirious. It could have been the drugs. She might not have known what she was saying.”

  “Maybe.” I didn’t believe that for a second. My mother had put so much effort into getting out those last words. She’d known exactly what she was saying.

  “I could go with you if you want.”

  “No. It’s okay. If I do go, I’d rather go by myself.” I didn’t want to tell Kathy that the invitation had specifically said I must attend alone.

  Chapter 5

  It was raining on the day of the funeral. I’d wrestled with my decision ever since the letter arrived. A part of me had wanted to forget all about my birth mother. After the way she’d treated me, why should I waste another second thinking about her? In the end, I decided that I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t attend her funeral. Even though she’d rejected me more than once, I still owed my very existence to the woman who had used her dying breath to insult me. The other factor in my decision had been the opportunity to meet my ‘other’ family. Perhaps they’d be able to throw some light on why my mother had given me up for adoption, why she’d refused to see me when I tried to contact her, and why she’d asked to see me from her death-bed.

  I hardly slept the night before. By six o’ clock, I couldn’t see the point in lying in bed a minute longer. I had to force myself to eat breakfast. I was so nervous I actually felt as though I might be sick.

  Kathy phoned me a little after seven. “Are you okay?” She sounded sleepy, and I could hear the kids shouting in the background. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be up.”

  “I’ve been up since six. Couldn’t sleep.”

  “Are you still planning to go?”

  “Yeah. I think so, unless I lose my nerve between now and then.”

  “I wish you’d let m
e come with you. I don’t like to think of you doing this alone.”

  “I’ll be okay, honestly. I’d rather go alone.” The truth was I’d have given anything to have Kathy go with me. What was with my crazy, new family? Who dictates who can and can’t attend a funeral?

  “If you change your mind, give me a call.”

  “I’ll be fine. I promise.”

  After four miles, I began to have doubts as to whether or not I was headed in the right direction. I’d expected to see a signpost for Candlefield a mile back. I did a quick U-turn and drove back the way I’d come. There was still no signpost. I was working from memory because I’d left the directions on the kitchen worktop. Maybe I was on the wrong road altogether.

  I pulled into a lay-by and typed Candlefield into the SatNav. The response said ‘Unknown - try again’. I tried every combination of spelling that I could think of, but they all drew a blank. It made no sense. I had no choice but to head back to my flat to get the letter.

  I rushed in, grabbed it and rushed out again. The directions were very straightforward, and it seemed that I’d been on the right road, so why hadn’t I seen the sign? I retraced my original route, and after three miles saw the signpost for Candlefield. How had I missed it twice before? My mind must have been even more scrambled than I’d thought.

  I checked the time—I was running almost thirty minutes late. What a way to make a great first impression. What would my new family think of me? Did I care?

  Yes.

  I’d lived in Washbridge all of my life, and I’d travelled around the surrounding area extensively. So how come I’d never heard of Candlefield? Since taking the turn at the signpost, I hadn’t recognised any of the roads I’d driven along. I promised myself that when I had more time, I’d come back and explore the area more thoroughly.

  Twenty minutes later, I saw the sign ‘Welcome to Candlefield’. The approach to the village was across a narrow bridge that was only wide enough for a single vehicle. Once over the bridge, the road wound its way up a hill. Quaint cottages, some of them thatched, bordered the road on either side. Candlefield was beautiful. There were very few people on the streets. Since crossing the bridge, I’d seen one elderly man, a young man on a bike, and a young woman with two children.