Stockings and Spells: A paranormal cozy mystery (Vampire Knitting Club Book 4)

by Nancy Warren

  "Remember that we are here with the purest of intentions. She need never know we've been inside her room, and anything we discover we use only to help Gemma and to get her justice."

  I nodded. "You take the laptop." I thought I'd feel less intrusive going through her things. Besides, I was her friend, and another woman. If anyone was going through her underwear drawer, it was going to be me.

  And I did. I went through each of her drawers carefully and methodically, and tried to put things back the way I’d found them. She wasn't the tidiest person, so I doubted very much she'd notice if things were slightly out of place. Her underwear drawer contained nothing but underwear. The middle drawer was stocked with T-shirts and sweatshirts. In the bottom drawer were two pairs of jeans and a pair of black trousers. Even though she had unpacked I still took the time to unzip her suitcase and check inside of it. At first glance, it appeared empty and then I noticed there was a separate flap. I ran my fingers inside it and discovered a file folder.

  The minute my fingers touched it I felt an electric zapping. I pulled my hand out immediately because sometimes electric sparks shot from my fingertips without me being able to control them and I didn't want to set fire to whatever this was. I shook my hands for minute and imagined I was plunging them in cold water. That took care of the heat in my fingertips. I reached in again and this time I was able to take out the file folder. It was a well-worn, manila one. There were grubby thumbprints on it and pencil notations. I was no expert but it looked quite old. I glanced at Rafe but he was tapping away on the computer, a study in concentration.

  I sat on the bed. I was glad I was wearing gloves as I set the file folder beside me and opened the cover. I don't know what I expected. Maybe a series of increasingly threatening letters from the unhinged ex. But this was nothing like that that. It looked like the beginning of a novel. I began to read and then I thought the words sounded familiar. "Rafe."

  He didn't look up. "Found something?"

  "I don’t know. Does this sound familiar?"

  I began to read. The prose had a peculiar rhythm to it. The phrases were cold, and haunting. They described a man and a woman walking across a snowy landscape. I reached the end of the first paragraph.

  Now, Rafe looked up. "That's the opening paragraph of the first volume of Chronicles of Pangnirtung."

  I felt a funny bubbling sensation in the pit of my stomach. "I'm not reading to you from a novel. These look like old manuscript pages.” The typewritten words had faded and the pencil scrawls had smudged over time. “Why would Gemma have manuscript pages from Chronicles of Pangnirtung?"

  We looked at each other. Clearly we were both recalling the story that Rafe had told me about how her father had claimed to have written the fantasy trilogy.

  He stood slowly and came over to the bed. He sat beside me, picked up the first piece of typewritten paper. He looked at the first page and turned it over and then he looked at the second one, studying it closely. I was going mad with impatience but I forced myself to stay quiet. Rafe was always slow and methodical and I knew that I would not rush him.

  If I pestered him with questions I'd only slow the process down. After about what felt like an hour and was probably eight or ten minutes, he said, "This is very interesting. It’s a very early draft with pencil corrections. I’d have to look at a copy of the published work, but I think this is slightly different. Maybe from before the manuscript was edited."

  "Do you think it's possible that Gemma's father actually wrote the Chronicles?"

  He looked at me but I felt that he was looking into the past. "I don't know. Anything's possible, of course. This could also be an elaborate hoax. He and Sanderson were friends at Oxford. He could've taken the draft and tried to pass it off as his own."

  I looked at the pile of pages. The beginning of a legendary novel, lumped on a cheap, polyester bedspread in a shabby hotel room. "Or Sanderson could have?"

  He tapped his gloved fingers against the open file folder. "Of course, Sanderson could be the villain.” He ran a finger over the first page. “Provenance. It's all about provenance. Sanderson has the weight of history, success, and an entire industry built around these books. That’s all stacked on his side. On the other side is a lone voice, a man who was discredited as a young man and whose claims were summarily dismissed when he first brought them nearly forty years ago.”

  "But why would Gemma bring this with her if she didn't somehow think that maybe her dad was right?"

  He smiled, sadly. "Love can blind us to any number of faults. It's commendable that she believes in her father. But what do these pages prove?"

  "You’re the antique book specialist. If anyone could determine provenance it has to be you."

  He looked at me and I could see the wheels turning in his brain. He didn’t so much as twitch a muscle but I could feel his excitement. He relished the challenge of investigating this literary mystery. "One of the key exhibits in the Sanderson retrospective is the earliest known draft of the book. Sanderson himself has said it's the earliest draft. If we can prove that this one is earlier, Gemma’s father would at least get a hearing."

  His excitement was catching. Who knew a bunch of old typewritten pages could cause so much fuss? "The manuscript’s not doing Gemma any good here in a suitcase. I think you should take it. Keep it safe. Find out what you can."

  He nodded, slowly. "Yes, I think that's best. It's not safe here. Anyone could break into this room.” He grinned at me. "Even you were able to manage it."

  I punched him on the arm, but not very hard because I didn't want him dropping that precious manuscript.

  "That's quite a find."

  I thought so, too. "How about you? Any luck with the computer?"

  He looked as though he’d forgotten all about his computer search. Then, after glancing over at the laptop, nodded. "There are some emails I think you'll find interesting."

  The way he said the word ‘interesting’ had me getting to my feet and walking over the open laptop and what looked like a list of her recent emails displayed on the screen.

  He sat down in the chair, turned the laptop towards me and hit a button that brought up the first email.

  It was from someone called Motorhead325. Rafe said, "The spelling’s appalling. I don't know why they can't teach children to spell anymore."

  "Probably because we don't have flogging, like in your day."

  “Pity.”

  I started to read. I saw what Rafe meant about the spelling, it was appalling.

  “I dont know what you think yer playing at. I thout you were the coolest girl, now I just think your a cold bitch. Why wont you talk to me? We have to talk. You have to talk to me. I luv you."

  I looked up at Rafe. "Note to Motorhead, not the best way to a woman's heart.”

  He nodded. "That was only the first one." There were a string of emails and not only did the spelling get worse but they started to ramble. "Do you think he'd been drinking when he wrote these?"

  "I couldn't say. Disturbing, though, aren't they?"

  I nodded. Also evidence. “We don’t know for sure these are from Darren, but who else could have written them?” I wished I could just forward the emails to Ian. He could find out who owned that email address. But I knew I couldn't. I could only hope the police came here to search her room. I had no idea what the legalities were if a woman was in a coma. I was certain of one thing. "Darren sounds unhinged and dangerous. If he left Gemma for dead and finds out she's alive and in the hospital, what's to stop him from going in and finishing her off? A few minutes with a pillow over her face? Everyone would think she died of her injuries."

  "You don't trust the police and hospital staff to look after her?"

  Did I? "I know they mean well. They’re understaffed. They don't know what we know. I tried to tell Ian about the guy hanging around, asking questions about Gemma, and he said there was nothing he could do."

  "In fairness to him, somebody hanging around asking where the proprieto
r of the shop is isn't particular criminal behavior."

  "It is if he tried to kill the woman in question."

  Rafe opened his briefcase, took out a memory stick and very quickly copied the file of emails onto it. I looked my question at him and he said, "In case they get deleted somehow. At least there will be evidence somewhere that these emails were sent. Hopefully, it's just a backup and the police will find this laptop themselves. Or be able to dig into her email account."

  I brought my thumb to my mouth and began to gnaw on my nail, a horrible habit I have when I'm really stressed. I said, "I suppose I could tell Ian that Gemma showed me these emails."

  Rafe put a gentle hand on my shoulder. "But she didn't. It's never a good idea to lie to the police."

  "I know. I'm just so frustrated. I want to do something."

  "One thing we can do is to put an informal watch over Gemma. I've got people in the hospital, connections. Between us, the members of the knitting club can find reasons to visit friends in the hospital. We'll do our best to keep her safe."

  I nodded, feeling the weight ease off my shoulders. I knew I could count on Rafe and the other vampires. "Thank you."

  He shook his head. "No. Thank you. Before you came along, we were all in danger of falling into lives of utter boredom. Since you've arrived in Oxford, there's never been a dull moment."

  I knew he was being sarcastic, but he was right. There’d been one disaster after another since I'd arrived. Most of it wasn't my fault. But, some of it was. Flying standing stones, I had to take responsibility for. Maybe, my parents bringing curses from Egypt was partly my fault. But the rest? I put that down to bad luck and circumstance. I felt, sometimes, like I and Cardinal Woolsey's were at the epicenter of an earthquake of bad luck.

  Rafe slipped the manila folder containing the manuscript into the briefcase. It couldn't have looked more innocuous. Then, after opening the door a crack and making sure there was no one in the corridor, we eased the door open and headed down the stairs. The scent of disinfectant and dust felt choking in my throat as I walked faster and faster. I just wanted to get out of this place. We had essentially stolen private property out of a hotel room. Even though we’d acted with the best of intentions, I’d feel a lot better when we were far away from here. I wondered if they had CCTV cameras. I glanced around guiltily. Why hadn’t I thought of security cams? They were everywhere in England. I didn't see anything, but, as we slipped out the back entrance, I kept my head down. Not until we'd arrived at Rafe's car and were sitting inside it, did I express my fears that we might've been caught on camera.

  He didn’t look worried. "If anyone asks, a friend left something at the front desk for Gemma and, when you realized she wasn't going to be coming back for it, you went to the hotel and picked it up. The bag has Cardinal Woolsey's printed on the front of it. It's a perfectly logical explanation."

  I looked at him suspiciously. "Wasn't it you who said one should never lie to the police?"

  He started the car. “There are exceptions to every rule."

  It seemed to me that Rafe lived by his own set of rules but I didn't feel like getting into an argument. He’d done me a huge favor. He was going to do me another one by investigating that manuscript we’d found in Gemma’s suitcase.

  Chapter 9

  By this time, it was after three o'clock and I decided I'd best put in an appearance in my own knitting shop. When I got there Meri was looking rather flustered, holding a smartphone as though she’d never seen one before, while two customers posed in front of the colorful wall of wool waiting for her to snap their photo. “I am sorry, which button is it?" she asked in her sweet, soft voice.

  Oh the poor dear. I strode forward and said cheerfully, "Meri doesn’t believe in mobile phones. I'll take the photo for you."

  Meri sent me a glance of gratitude and I snapped the photo. The girls turned out to be from Italy and were going to put a picture up on Facebook of my delightfully English knitting shop. Since they’d made a sizable purchase, they were helping to keep my unique English knitting shop in business, which I appreciated.

  When they’d left, Meri said, "I will never understand everything there is to know. How did the world change so much?"

  I said, gently, "A lot happens in three thousand years. You're catching on fast. It's going to be okay."

  "I hope you are right."

  Since I tried to think of these difficulties as teaching moments, I got out my smartphone and showed her how to take a picture. I described the concept of the selfie, and she giggled. “Why would a person want to take their own likeness? It would be like a court painter making self-portraits all day long.”

  I loved her take on habits I no longer thought strange.

  I showed her how I could connect to the Internet, use the phone to find my way around the city and even, astonishingly, make phone calls. She shook her head in amazement. "So much in such a small package. You are certain that machine is not inhabited by a trapped witch?"

  "I'm sure." And I tucked the phone back in my bag before she could try and break it open in case one of our sisters was, indeed, trapped inside.

  “I’ll get you your own mobile. Once you practice, you will love it.” And I’d start her with an inexpensive phone in case she tried to free the witch!

  “Where’s Violet?” The whole point of having my cousin as a second assistant was to prevent Meri from getting into difficulties.

  “She went to get some coffee, but she won’t be long.”

  I felt so bad that I hadn't seen much of Meri lately that I cooked her dinner upstairs in the flat. For once there were no vampires there. I think they were all still sleeping. The real work began when they were rested and refreshed, at around ten o'clock at night.

  I invited Violet too, and she seemed surprised. “I want your help,” I admitted.

  “So long as we order pizza, I’m in.”

  I wasn’t sure whether Violet really loved takeout pizza, or whether she was as afraid as the rest of the coven that eating food I’d prepared could be as disastrous as getting me to demonstrate a spell. Still, when Meri said, “What is this thing you call pizza?” I agreed that ordering it was a great idea.

  Meri would learn about an essential food and I wouldn’t have to cook. Win-win.

  Once the three of us were sitting around the dining table eating pizza, I explained that I wanted a protection spell for Gemma. I didn’t tell them I’d broken into her hotel room, obviously, or about the emails, but the man I was certain was Darren had been scary enough that they both agreed with me she needed protecting.

  However, we hit a snag.

  Violet said, “I’m not sure how to do a protection spell that won’t prevent the doctors from doing things to her. Sticking IV drips in her and so on.”

  I put my pizza slice back on my plate. “You mean there isn’t such a spell?”

  “No. I mean if there is, I don’t know it. I’ll ask Mother. And Margaret.” She picked a mushroom slice off her pizza and popped it into her mouth. “Could she drink a potion?”

  “She’s in a coma. How’s she going to drink?”

  “Right. Hmm. Let me do some research.”

  It wasn’t what I’d hoped for, but I hadn’t been able to find anything in my grimoire, either. Margaret and Lavinia would know if there was such a spell.

  Meri had been quietly eating her pizza but now she spoke up. “I can help you, I think.” She hesitated, then removed her silver bracelet which was engraved with an Egyptian protection spell and offered it to me. “This was given to me by my priest. It has powerful properties to keep the wearer safe.”

  I didn’t grab for the bracelet. “Meri, you were trapped in a cursed mirror for thousands of years. I don’t think your bracelet worked.”

  She smiled at me, “Lucy. In all that time I did not die. And was reborn here, with you. The spell was, indeed, powerful. That is why I was never killed when the evil demon who trapped me destroyed so many of our kind.”

  I
glanced at Violet, uncertain and my witch cousin said, “Well, it can’t hurt.”

  I drove Gran’s old Ford to the John Radcliffe Hospital that Saturday afternoon. As I made my way to Neurology I wished I had a magic spell that could make Gemma better.

  I went to the nurse’s station and, when I stated my business, the nurse on duty immediately called for a doctor. I waited for a few minutes and then a doctor came toward me walking quickly, as though he were always in a hurry. He was quite young and slim, and already balding. He introduced himself as Dr. Patek. "You are Gemma’s close friend, I’m told."

  Close might be pushing it, but if pretending our relationship was cozier than it was got me in to see her, then I was her BFF. “Yes. Her mother passed away last year and she has no siblings.”

  “So I understand. You were the one who found her?”

  I swallowed as the awful picture of her lying there on the ground flashed on my inner eye. “Yes.”

  “She’s in a coma. When you see her, you’ll think she’s sleeping, and in a way, she is. But it’s very deep. However, we know that some coma patients hear and respond to friendly voices, you might even play her some of her favorite music.”

  “Do you know…will she be okay?”

  He looked kind but he must deal with anxious friends and relatives all day. “It’s too early to say. She was deprived of oxygen and we don’t know for how long, and she probably hit her head. Her body is responding to the trauma and our job is to let her rest and help her heal.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Talk to her. Hold her hand. I'm sure you know better than to refer to the attack. Speak about things you have in common, cheerful things.”

  He led the way into her room. Gemma was hooked up to a lot of monitors and an IV tube ran into her arm. Otherwise, she lay on her back, appearing to sleep peacefully. The marks had come out on her throat, angry and bruised. I touch my fingers to my own throat, feeling as though I were choking.