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

by Nancy Warren

  "Of course." He handed me a business card and I took it eagerly. "I can't tell you how grateful I am," I gushed. But inside my stomach was churning. Martin Hodgins was on a slab in a morgue right now, while Sanderson sipped wine and accepted accolades for work that wasn’t his. Somehow, I was going to see that justice was done, for his reputation and for Gemma.

  Charles Beach turned, with the two glasses of wine in his hands. "Dominic wouldn't be here without his fans, and he always tries to give back."

  I was hoping he’d have a chance to really give back. He could give the stolen manuscript back to its rightful owner, who, I supposed, was now Gemma.

  Rafe was chatting to an intense young woman who listened to him so eagerly she was practically licking up his words. I was surprised at the shaft of discomfort I felt. If he were a different kind of man, I’d have thought it was jealousy. But there were things about Rafe that made him a very unsuitable partner, like the whole undead thing. Still, he was an extremely attractive man. And she clearly thought so.

  I left him to it and wandered around the room reviewing my brief conversation with Charles Beach. I wondered if I would take him up on his offer. I could get Rafe to help me come up with some innocuous sounding questions and then, when I actually had a one-on-one interview with Dominic Sanderson, I could ask the questions I really wanted answered.

  "Well, hello. Fancy seeing you here." I glanced up to see Ian Chisholm walking up to me with a smile on his face. I returned it. "You got a night off. Congratulations."

  "I was determined to come. Bought the ticket months ago. What are you doing here? Haven’t suddenly turned into a Sanderson fan, have you?"

  "No. Rafe Crosyer had two tickets. He invited me. But, I was just thinking I should read the Chronicles. I've never been a fantasy reader, but they do sound fascinating."

  "They are. I think you'll enjoy them."

  "Did you get a chance to chat to Dominic Sanderson?" I asked him.

  He gazed across the room. "Not a hope. I hovered at the edge of the crowd around him for couple of minutes, but he’s got a soft voice, I couldn’t really hear what he was saying. I gave up in the end. Maybe I’ll get a moment later to tell him how much the books meant to me. Still, at least I got him to sign the new edition. That was something."

  I glanced around and when I was certain there was no one close enough to hear us, I asked, "Were you able to reach Gemma’s father?"

  He scratched his head. And I thought he looked disappointed to be talking about police business when he was actually enjoying a social night out. “The father seems to be a bit of a recluse. He has no phone. No email. Local police paid him a visit yesterday morning, I believe and told him about his daughter.” He looked as though he might say more and then stopped himself. I suspected he’d already heard about the fire.

  "Did you hear the news?"

  Maybe he was going to tell me about the fire, except that he sounded as though he had good news. I shook my head. He said, "Gemma squeezed her grandmother’s hand."

  I knew very well that the hand she squeezed wasn't her grandmother’s. But still, it seemed a very exciting development. I felt a smile bloom. "When did it happen? That's good news, right? What did the doctor say?"

  He held up a hand and laughed. "Whoa. It happened earlier this evening. I checked messages between the lecture and coming over here. That’s when I heard. The doctors definitely think it's a good sign. They won't commit themselves further than that."

  I decided that it was an excellent sign. He glanced behind me and then said, "Well, let me know how you get on with the books. Once you're done, perhaps we can discuss them." He leaned in and dropped his voice. "The crowd around Sanderson looks a little lighter. Think I’ll have another go."

  I wished him luck and he walked off. Almost immediately, Rafe come up to my side. "Detective Inspector Chisholm is quite a fan."

  I glanced at him sharply, because it sounded to me that it wasn't Dominic Sanderson he was referring to as the object of Ian's interest. He was one to talk, with that intense young woman who’d practically been drooling on him.

  "How was your conversation with the agent?"

  "Very interesting." I showed him the business card. And then related the conversation as well as I could remember it.

  Rafe rolled his eyes. "So he deflected your questions and insisted that you’d get no help for your thesis unless you followed a line of inquiry more flattering to his client."

  "Exactly. But here's the interesting thing. He had instant recall of the name, when the scandal was forty years ago."

  "The name’s fresh in his mind."

  "Dominic Sanderson's got a lot more money and clout now, than when he was in his twenties." I gazed across at the author, still surrounded by eagerly chatting fans. "Maybe Martin Hodgins didn't just send a piece of that manuscript to his daughter. Maybe he also sent a section to Dominic Sanderson."

  "And Sanderson decided to get rid of his old friend permanently."

  I could picture the whole scene. "It would be so easy. He phones up his old friend. Says, Hodge, old buddy, I got your manuscript. Let's bury the hatchet. Why don't I drop by your house and we'll talk about this. Have a drink for old times. Maybe I don't want to give up my reputation or my name on this book, but I'd be happy to make a sizeable financial contribution to your retirement."

  Rafe nodded. He was also watching Sanderson, so at home with the adulation and the fans. "So he goes to see his old friend. He probably takes a bottle of scotch or whatever his drink of choice is these days. He takes a few sips to be polite and presses more and more drink on Martin Hodgins."

  I picked up the thread again. It was playing like a movie in my head. "Maybe Sanderson was prepared to pay up. But Hodgins doesn't want money. Not anymore. He probably never did. Everyone says those books are full of passion. They were his life's work. His greatest achievement. He wants the credit. He wants his name on those books. Sanderson can’t have that. So, he gets Martin Hodgins so drunk he passes out." I looked at Rafe. "And then what? He lights a cigarette and starts the fire? How could he possibly know that would be enough to kill the man?"

  "More likely he made sure he was dead before the fire started." He shook his head. "Smothered him to death with a pillow, maybe? If he was smart, he made sure Hodgins breathed in a few lungfuls of smoke first, so smoke inhalation would show up in the post mortem. It's cold-blooded, but quite a brilliant way to get rid of an adversary. No one would ever know he committed murder."

  I took a sip of wine, hoping it would ease my aching throat. Just thinking about smoke inhalation and suffocation made my throat hurt. "Imagine having to live with that all your life. First, knowing that everything you were famous for was a lie. And then, taking a former friend’s life in order to perpetuate that lie." I shook my head. "How does a man like that live with himself?"

  Rafe and I were still watching the author, glad-handing and chuckling, signing books that were shoved under his nose. Rafe said, "He doesn't look like he's having much trouble living with himself. He's probably created his own fiction around the success. Talked himself into believing that those novels were half his anyway because he'd talked them over so often with Martin Hodgins. And, if Martin had been reasonable, they could've made an arrangement. In his mind, Martin probably caused his own death, by being obstinate."

  I couldn't even look at the author anymore. "I guess you've had more experience of evil people than I have."

  He nodded, grimly. "In six centuries of dealing with humanity, that is undoubtedly true."

  I put down my glass. "Well, even free wine and hanging out with lords and ladies isn’t enough to keep me here another minute."

  We walked out into the cold night air. Rafe turned to me. "Well? Can I buy you a glass of wine that I can assure you will be of a higher quality?"

  I had to laugh. "Have you always been this much of a snob?"

  "I’d say that life is too short to drink bad wine. But, in my case, that's clearly not true."<
br />
  I was shocked. "Rafe Crosyer, did you just make a joke?"

  He looked down his snooty nose at me. "I'm not devoid of humor."

  I let that go. "What I really want to do is go back to my place and see how Clara and Mabel made out with Gemma today. Ian told me that Gemma squeezed the hand of whichever one is pretending to be her grandmother." I looked at him uncertainly. "That's good news, right?"

  "I'm no doctor, but I should think so."

  Chapter 15

  We got back to my flat and found the knitting club was working at its usual, ferocious pace. I noticed that every time Christopher Weaver showed up, he set the bar a little higher. He had now begun to inset pieces of embroidery into his stockings. The pieces of embroidery were exquisite scenes that were works of art on their own. Naturally, the vampires were now embroidering, as well as knitting, equally quickly.

  Nyx had discovered the Christmas stockings were just the right size for her. She had somehow crawled into one of them and was peacefully asleep, her black head and one paw emerging from the top of one of the stockings laying on top of the table, looking like the most adorable Christmas gift ever.

  After I'd gushed over everyone’s work, which was easy to do as all their work was amazing, I asked Clara, who was present, about the news from hospital.

  Her sweet face was suffused with smiles. "She squeezed my hand." She glanced around at the group. "It's true. I didn't want to say anything until Lucy got here, but dear, sweet, Gemma squeezed my hand today."

  "But you're not even her real grandmother."

  "And I don't pretend to be. We told a bit of a porky pie to the medical people in order to be able to help your friend, but I wouldn't demean myself to lie to a young woman in the in a coma. It wouldn't be right."

  “What do pork pies have to do with anything,” I asked, feeling extremely confused.

  Theodore chuckled. “Porky pie is Cockney rhyming slang for a lie.”

  Sometimes, I really understood how Meri felt, confused by the customs of a completely foreign society. Porky pies. Honestly. "So, how did she come to squeeze your hand?"

  "I talked a lot about you, Lucy, because you and she were friends. I was talking about your knitting, and how you're getting better all the time." She patted my hand. "You are, you know. One day, you will be as proficient with the needles as your grandmother."

  Unless I became undead and had hundreds of years to practice, I very much doubted that would happen. And, since I had no intention of turning into a vampire, I was going to have to accept that at knitting, at least, I sucked. However, I didn't say that. I said, "Do you remember your exact words?"

  She paused in her knitting and gazed up at the ceiling. "I think I said, Lucy is getting so much better at her knitting. And when she comes to see you next, I'll encourage her to bring hers along. It's very soothing to have your knitting by you when you're sitting in the hospital for long hours." She shook her head. "If Mabel were here, she could probably give it to you word for word, but that was the gist of it. I was just talking."

  Had Gemma just randomly chosen to squeeze Clara’s hand? Or, even from that dark place where she currently was, was she trying to get a message across? Perhaps she was trying to warn me not to visit her. Because she thought she was still in danger.

  "And Mabel's there now?"

  "Oh, yes. We won't leave her. One of us is always there." She hesitated. “Alfred told us about the fire. Poor Gemma. I almost dread her waking up, knowing she must find out she’s lost her other parent. It reminds me of the Blitz, you know. In the war, everyone lost people they loved. Terrible, it was.”

  This wasn’t war, though, it was murder. I wanted to rush to the hospital and sit beside Gemma all night, but I knew that was foolish. Mabel was accustomed to staying up all night. It was her natural waking time. I'd be no good to anyone if I deprived myself of sleep. I was tired as it was.

  "I'll go and visit her tomorrow."

  "You will be careful, won't you? Someone very dangerous is out there. Gemma didn't put herself in that coma."

  No, she hadn't. The question was, who had? And how are we going to catch them?

  I slept deeply and well. Somehow knowing there was an entire nest of vampires just downstairs made me feel safe. Rafe had settled down to join them and it added to my sense of safety knowing he'd be down there all night.

  Meri and I went down to the shop together in the morning. I needed to put in another huge wool order to keep up with the Christmas stocking factory. With only a week left of the holiday market, we were expecting even bigger crowds.

  There was also extra work in Cardinal Woolsey’s. I was glad to have two assistants out front as that gave me time to get to work packing shipments.

  I was working in the back, packing up the mail-orders, some of which were Christmas gifts that I wanted to make sure arrived in plenty of time. It was peaceful work and allowed my mind free rein. Not that they were particularly happy thoughts galloping around in my head. I was think about Gemma, and her poor father, and Dominic Sanderson, and Darren the stalker.

  I hated that Gemma’s attacker and, presumably, her father's murderer, was out there. Gemma would never be safe until he was caught. But how were we to do that?

  Meanwhile, the cheerful bells kept announcing new customers in the shop. Meri and Violet between them seemed perfectly able to take care of the customers. It was nice working in the back quietly by myself, hearing the cheerful chatter and the very satisfying sound of the cash register ringing up another purchase.

  I was no closer to an answer of how to trap Gemma’s attacker, when I heard a voice out front that I thought was Ian's. I paused in the middle of taping my latest package shut when I heard him say, "Is Lucy around?"

  I was mildly flattered. Violet said, in her clear voice, "Lucy? There’s someone to see you."

  I called out. "You can come on back."

  Ian pulled the curtain back and stepped in to my back room. Any idea I'd had that he was here on a social visit swiftly vanished when I saw the look on his face. Thunderous was the word that best described his expression.

  I raised my brows. "Ian. What brings you here?"

  "I don't know where to start." He paced rapidly back-and-forth. It wasn't a very big room so it didn't take him long. "Gemma Hodgins’ hotel room was broken into."

  My eyes widened. "What?"

  He shook her finger at me. "Don't you play the innocent with me, Lucy Swift. We went over the CCTV footage. What were you doing there? And don't even pretend to tell me you were visiting Gemma because at the time that footage was taken she was already in hospital."

  His anger was firing mine. "Are you accusing me of breaking into her room?" I thought going on the attack was my best form of defense. I hadn’t actually broken into her room, I'd magicked my way in. There was a difference. And I certainly hadn't damaged anything. There was no way the police could have suspected a break-in based on Rafe’s and my visit, which made me certain someone else had done the breaking and entering.

  He looked as though he didn't know what he believed. "Don't play games with me. What were you doing there?"

  I was thinking rapidly. I was positive there hadn’t been any cameras in the hotel hallways. They could only have been in the lobby and outdoors. At most the cameras had picked me up going in and possibly walking out with a package, though, when I came to think of it, Rafe and I'd slipped out the back way. I said, "I'd had a package dropped off for her. It was one of our Christmas stockings. I just thought it would cheer up her room. But, after she was in hospital, it seemed stupid and depressing to have a Christmas decoration waiting for her when she returned. So, I went to pick it up again."

  His eyes narrowed on my face. "And that's all you did?"

  I put my hands on my hips. I was still holding the tape dispenser so I whacked myself a good one. "Just what, exactly, are you accusing me of?"

  "Someone turned her room upside down. They were obviously looking for something. Do you know what
that could've been?"

  "No." I stepped forward and got right into his face. "Do you know why someone tried to murder her?" Which seemed to me a more relevant question.

  His face grew ruddy. "That is what I am trying to find out." He said each word separately and very deliberately.

  He paced across my room and back again once more. "Gemma's father's house burned to the ground the day before yesterday. I suppose you don't know anything about that, either?"

  "Why would I?"

  He turned on me. "Because, a uniformed officer at the scene said a black Tesla drew up with a man and a woman inside. They said they were there to visit the occupant of the house that had just burned to the ground. He described the people in the car. One of them sounded very much like you. And the other sounded like a certain antiquarian book expert who owns a black Tesla."

  Busted.

  I put the tape dispenser down on the table beside the stack of neatly wrapped packages. "Okay. I asked Rafe to drive me to Gemma’s father’s house. I wanted to encourage him to visit her. We were going to offer to drive him back to Oxford with us."

  "You know they retrieved a body?"

  I closed my eyes. But like a film playing on the back of my eyelids, I saw that sad lump on the stretcher being wheeled and put into the back of the ambulance. I nodded.

  "What is it about you, Lucy?" The words seemed to explode out of him. "Where you go, disaster follows."

  "That is so unfair. By the time I got there, the house had already burned down. I had nothing to do with it."

  "What do you know? What aren’t you telling me?"

  I was as irritated and frustrated as he was. "I tried to tell you about Darren, the ex-boyfriend, and you weren’t interested. Did you know that Darren left town on his motorcycle the night before the fire?"

  I could tell from his expression that he didn't know that. Because, obviously, they weren’t watching Darren's movements. He narrowed his eyes. "Go on."