Witch Is When Life Got Complicated (A Witch P.I. Mystery Book 2)

by Adele Abbott

  “And it’ll only cost three pounds,” he said.

  “Per year?”

  “Per issue.”

  “How many people have signed up for it so far?”

  “I only started canvassing yesterday.”

  “Right. So how many?”

  “Most people are very busy; it’s difficult to catch them.”

  “Right, so how many?”

  He checked his notepad. “One.”

  “Would that one be you?”

  “Yes, but as soon as people see what they’re going to get for their money, the numbers will rise. Look!”

  “What’s that?”

  “This is the first newsletter. Let me show you.” He patted the seat next to him on the sofa.

  As I saw it, I had two choices: Curl up on the sofa next to the world’s most boring man and listen to him drivel on about every film he’d seen in the last two weeks or—.

  The spell worked a treat. Mr Ivers was fast asleep—his newsletter was on the sofa beside him. I took my cup of tea and jammy toast out onto the patio, where I enjoyed the early morning birdsong. This was the life.

  By nine-thirty, I’d changed and was ready to leave.

  “What?” Mr Ivers jumped when I shook his shoulder.

  “It’s nine-thirty.” I pointed to the clock.

  “Nine thirty?”

  I had to stifle a laugh when I saw the panic-stricken look on his face. “You fell asleep.”

  “I’m late,” he said, as he gathered up his notebook and newsletter.

  “Bye, Mr Ivers.”

  “What about the newsletter? You didn’t sign up.”

  “Can’t be all that good if it sent you to sleep, can it? See ya.”

  Another bullet dodged.

  I still had plenty of time, so I gave Aunt Lucy a call.

  “Hi, Jill, is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine, thanks.”

  “When are you coming over again?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve got a big case on at the moment, but I’ll get over there as soon as I can. Have there been any more developments on the Candlefield Cup?”

  “Nothing. The two sides are still throwing accusations back and forth.”

  “Hopefully, I’ll be able to help when I get back there. Anyway, the reason for my call was to say thank you to you and the twins, for the Ipod. You didn’t have—”

  “What Ipod?”

  “The one you sent me for helping out in the tea room?”

  “I didn’t send it.”

  “Maybe the twins did?”

  “I’m certain they didn’t.”

  “It came to my office yesterday. I was listening to it when—”

  My blood ran cold.

  “Jill? Are you still there?”

  “Yeah, I just—”

  “What is it?”

  “I was listening to it yesterday in the car when I fell asleep at the wheel and almost crashed.”

  “The Dark One,” Aunt Lucy said.

  I smashed the Ipod into a million pieces, and threw it in the bin.

  Harrison Scott was a hipster/hippy hybrid. His glasses probably cost more than my car. No one should ever wear flip flops with fungus toe. He insisted on making me a cup of herbal tea, which I donated to the pot plant when he wasn’t looking.

  “How did you and Bruce Digby get along?” I asked.

  “I hated him.”

  On the fence then? “Any particular reason?”

  “He was talentless, obnoxious and overbearing.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I’m glad he’s dead.”

  “Did you kill him?” Don’t ask, don’t find out.

  “You get straight to the point. I like that. No, I didn’t kill him, but I admit I’ve often dreamed of doing it.”

  “Do you have any idea who might have wanted him dead?”

  “It would be easier to tell you who didn’t, but it looks like Milly beat us all to it.”

  “You think she intended to kill him?”

  “Milly is a lovely person, but she’d fallen for Digby’s ‘charm’.”

  “You knew about their affair?”

  “It was an open secret. She was pretty torn up when he ended it.”

  “Do you know for sure that he was the one who ended it?”

  Harrison nodded. “Milly told me.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “She didn’t say. He’d probably moved on to the next in line.”

  “Any idea who that might have been?”

  “No. Pick any one from ten.”

  “Have you had any run-ins with the law, Mr Scott?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Are you referring to the parking ticket fiasco?” He laughed. “Guilty as charged. You’ve been talking to Hargreaves, haven’t you?”

  I shrugged.

  “Of course you have. Only he would be petty enough to bring that up. Is that why you’re here? Did he tell you I murdered Digby?”

  “He said you’d threatened to kill him.”

  “I never actually threatened to kill him. I might have said I wished he was dead because I did. And I’m not sorry he’s gone.”

  Before setting off back to the office, I gave Fiona Digby another call. I’d tried several times before, but hadn’t been able to get past her voice mail.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs Digby?”

  “Who is that?”

  “My name is Jill Gooder. I’m a private investigator. I’m looking into the murder of your husband.”

  “Isn’t that the police’s job?”

  “Of course, but I often work alongside them.” Maxwell would kill me if he knew I’d said that.

  “I’ve told the police everything I know.”

  “If I could just have a few minutes of your time?”

  “I’m busy today.”

  “What about tomorrow?”

  “I’m busy tomorrow.”

  “How about next week? Any day, to suit you?”

  She sighed. “Will it take long?”

  “Ten minutes. No more. I promise.”

  “Monday then. Midday.”

  “Thank—”

  She’d hung up.

  “Did you get my voice mail?” I asked Mrs V when I got back to the office. Blinky was curled up, fast asleep, on top of the linen basket. She must really have taken a shine to him if she trusted him to be so close to her beloved yarn.

  “I haven’t had time to check voice mail,” she said. “Something urgent came up.”

  “To do with the Digby case?”

  “The what?”

  “The murder case I’ve been working on.”

  “No, nothing like that. The lagoon blue has been discontinued.”

  It sounded like some kind of code. The type of thing secret agents would say when identifying themselves.

  ‘The monkeys are high in the trees today.’

  ‘The lagoon blue has been discontinued.’

  “Sorry?” I said. “Lagoon blue?”

  She sighed and looked at me as though I was the stupidest person on planet earth. “Lagoon blue!” She held out the smallest ball of wool I’d ever seen. “I’m only three-quarters done, and they’ve discontinued it.”

  I was slowly putting the pieces of this cryptic conversation together. “You’ve run out of blue wool—”

  “Lagoon blue.”

  “You’ve run out of lagoon blue wool, and now they’ve discontinued it.”

  “So inconsiderate of them.”

  “Couldn’t you use a different blue? One that was close to—?”

  She gave me the kind of look she usually reserved for Winky.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Silly idea. How come you didn’t buy enough before you started?”

  “Normally I would have, but lagoon blue has been available for years. It never occurred to me that they’d sabotage me like this.”

  Strong words, but who was I to argue. T
he world of wool was a mystery to me.

  “I’ve phoned every shop I know.” She sighed. “No one has any.”

  “That’s a shame.” It was hard to sound sympathetic when in truth I didn’t give a monkey’s.

  “You could find some for me.” She looked at me, her eyes suddenly full of hope.

  “Me? I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “You’re a private investigator, aren’t you? You find people and things.”

  I’d once investigated a case of sheep rustling—did that qualify me? “I’m not sure I’d be any use.”

  “Please, Jill. It’s an emergency.”

  “You could always call wool search and rescue.” I laughed.

  She didn’t.

  “Sorry, bad joke. I’ll see what I can do. No promises though.”

  Lizzie now had seven beanies. Either she got way too much pocket money or they were breeding.

  “Kathy, you know about knitting, don’t you?” I said.

  “I knitted a jumper—once—if that counts.” Kathy was picking up Lego again.

  “Yeah, for Peter. I remember. I need your knitting expertise.”

  “I don’t have any knitting expertise. Don’t you remember how the jumper turned out? One sleeve ended up longer than the other.”

  “I thought that was deliberate.”

  “Why would I make one sleeve longer than the other?”

  “Peter is a funny shape.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with Pete’s arms, thank you very much.”

  “So where do you think I could I find some rare yarn?”

  “Rare yarn? Have you been overdoing the custard creams again?”

  “I’m serious. Mrs V has run out of lagoon blue wool, and thinks I’ll be able to source some.”

  “Where?”

  “That’s what I hoped you would know.”

  “Sorry. Not a clue.”

  “You’re a great help.”

  “No problem. Anyway, enough of Mrs V and her wool. I have news.” A huge grin appeared on her face. I recognised that grin. It was the kind of grin that said she was about to drop me right in it. Like the blind date with the nose picker.

  “I’ve bought a ticket for you.” She sounded way too pleased with herself.

  “I don’t want to go.”

  “I haven’t even told you what it is yet.”

  “Whatever it is, I don’t want to go.”

  “She pulled a ticket out of the back pocket of her jeans. “Ta dah!”

  “A circus?”

  “I knew you’d be pleased.”

  “I hate circuses.”

  “The kids want you to go.”

  “That’s blackmail.”

  “Tell you what. Come to the circus, and I’ll try to find that wool for you. Deal?”

  “Go on then. Deal.”

  Chapter 9

  “What’s up with old misery guts?” Winky said. He was perched on the window sill, basking in the sun.

  “Who? Mrs V?”

  “Yeah. She didn’t even curse me out this morning. She just put the food in my bowl, and poured out the milk. That’s not like her.”

  “She’s got the lagoon blues.” I laughed at my own joke. Winky looked confused.

  “It’s a yarn situation. She’s run out of wool.”

  “There are a billion balls of the stuff in that basket. Has she forgotten? I reckon she’s losing her mind.”

  “Not just any old wool.” Why was I having this conversation with a cat? Or with anyone come to that? “She’s run out of lagoon blue wool.”

  “So she can use another shade of blue. What’s the problem? They all look the same.”

  “Never mind about the wool. Where’s Blinky?”

  “How would I know?” Winky did a tiny, cat shrug—cute. “He spends all of his time sucking up to crazy knitting lady.”

  “I didn’t see him when I came in.”

  “He’s probably under her desk. Last time I saw him, he told me he had her eating out of his paw. I’m telling you, that cat is bad news.”

  I heard the outer door open, followed by the sound of a familiar voice. To what did I owe this pleasure I wondered. Mrs V showed Jack Maxwell into my office.

  “We can’t keep on meeting like this,” I gestured to the chair in front of my desk. “Have a seat.”

  “This isn’t a social call.” He stared at Winky, then swivelled around in his chair and stared at the door behind him. I knew that the two of us weren’t always on the best of terms, but I did expect the basic courtesy of him not turning his back to me.

  “I’m over here,” I said.

  He swivelled back around. “He.” He pointed to Winky. “He was out there.”

  “No, I’m fairly sure he’s right there—on the window sill.”

  “But I saw him in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet in your outer office.”

  So that was where Blinky had been hiding.

  “That’s Blinky.”

  “What is?”

  “The cat in the filing cabinet.”

  “Who’s this then?”

  “This is Winky.”

  “You have two cats? Winky and Blinky?”

  “Yep.”

  “Identical?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “They both have one eye.”

  “They both have different one-eyes. Right and left.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why do you have two one-eyed cats?”

  “I collect them. Like stamps. Or coins.”

  He looked dazed, so while I had him on the ropes, I went in for the kill. “Do you know anything about knitting by any chance?”

  “Knitting?”

  “Yeah, you know, two needles and a ball of wool—clickety click.” I did an impression with my hands.

  “No. Why would I know anything about knitting?”

  I couldn’t say I was surprised; he had more the look of a crocheter.

  “Look,” he said. “I’m here about the Digby murder.”

  “What’s the latest?”

  “I’m the one asking the questions. I understand you paid a visit to the understudy, Harrison Scott, yesterday.”

  It didn’t sound like a question, so I waited for more.

  “So, did you?”

  Apparently, it was a question.

  “If you’ve come here to tell me to keep out of police business, you’re wasting your time and mine. I’ll talk to whoever I want.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Who’s dead?”

  “Harrison Scott.”

  It was my turn to be dazed. “How? When?”

  “Yesterday evening. Suicide.”

  That simply did not compute. The man I’d spoken to hadn’t been suicidal. No way.

  “How?”

  “He threw himself off a cliff.”

  “Are you sure it was suicide? Someone might have—”

  “He left a note. He confessed to Digby’s murder.”

  This made zero sense.

  “I don’t believe it,” I said.

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “Have you forgotten what happened with the ‘Animal’ case? You had a confession then too.”

  “This is different.”

  “If you’re so sure you have your man, why are you here?”

  “Just routine. You were probably the last person to see Harrison Scott alive. I need you to tell me everything he said to you.”

  I spent the next ten minutes recounting my conversation from the previous day. Maxwell barely commented; he was just tying up loose ends. The case was already closed as far as he was concerned.

  Mrs V had Blinky in her arms, and was doing the waltz—or it might have been the foxtrot. Jack Maxwell gave her only a cursory glance—I guess by now he was used to the crazy that was my office.

  “Why are you so happy all of a sudden?” I said to Mrs V, after Maxwell had left.

  “Kathy came throu
gh!” Mrs V smiled.

  “She did? The lagoon blue?”

  “Yes. She’s found more than enough for me to finish off the scarf. Give her a big hug from me the next time you see her, will you?”

  “Sure.” Maybe Kathy should have been the one to take over the family business.

  If I’d had any sense, I’d have left well alone. Milly was free, the police had their man—even if he had committed suicide. All was well with the world. But then common-sense had never been my strong suit.

  It was a fifty mile drive to the coast, but it was a beautiful sunny day and the roads were quiet. A little music would have made the journey even better, but after my recent experience, I decided not to risk it. Instead, I listened to a talk radio station. They were discussing the world shortage of tuna. Better not tell Winky.

  Moston Bay was a secluded beauty spot. Located between two large, popular seaside resorts, it attracted mainly the older crowd. If the price of tickets in the town’s only car park was anything to go by that would have been the affluent, older crowd.

  After Maxwell had left my office, I’d searched the news channels online. They’d had only sketchy details about the suicide, but they had shown aerial images of the cliffs from which Harrison Scott had supposedly thrown himself.

  “The red brick road is closed,” the man in the small refreshment kiosk called to me.

  “Sorry?”

  “It’s closed about half a mile down that way because of what happened yesterday. Didn’t you hear?”

  “The suicide?”

  “Yeah. The police have it taped off.”

  “What did you call the pathway?”

  “The red brick road. It’s what all the locals call it. The stupid council had it resurfaced with red shale or clay or something, about a month ago. Look.”

  There were several sets of red footprints across the car park.

  “It’s okay when it’s dry, but every time it rains, we get this. Some of the locals reckon they’re going to sue the council. I might do the same. It ain’t doing my business any good.”

  “I’m a private investigator.” I flashed him my card. He was suitably unimpressed. “I’m working on what might be a related incident. Were you here yesterday?”

  “Yeah. I actually saw the guy who topped himself.”

  “How did he seem?”

  “Okay. We get the occasional jumper up here. I can usually pick them out. He didn’t seem to fit the mould.”