Or, there was the timely awareness of inter-species feuding. The vampires and the werewolves were frequently at odds. It seemed the vampires harbored resentment against their hairier counterparts just because they were not constrained to mobility after the sun set. The vampires felt this gave the werewolves an unfair trading advantage on the NYSE (New Yeti Supernatural Exchange), a market where supernatural folk traded in all manner of paranormal commodities.
And then, of course, there was the consistent monitoring of the current unicorn population. The beautiful creatures were often poached for their alicorn which was said to grant immortality, neutralize most poisons, and purify even the most polluted of water sources. Between that and running afoul of local farmers (the one-horned magical beasts frequently nibbled on more than one irate homesteader’s crop), the police chief often found himself having to stringently enforce the wildlife protection laws of the S.P.C.A. (Supernatural Protection Coven Association).
“Certainly I remember Amber,” I repeated, a little more graciously this time. “And, I understand giving the case a little personal attention for her benefit. What I still don’t understand is, why investigate this as a murder?”
David stopped at the threshold of the gypsy caravan and turned toward me.
“Because, Amber quite clearly overheard someone threatening to kill her aunt.”
“Oh, my gracious! Who?”
“Violet Mulberry.”
3
Blow the House Down
“What possible reason would I have to kill Spithilda Roach?” Violet Mulberry blustered. She flushed petunia purple all the way to the tips of her ears. “I hardly even knew the old bat!”
Several of the patrons in Glessie’s Glamour Emporium turned curled and foiled heads towards the ruckus. The news of Spithilda’s death had spread through the town overnight like an insanely infectious epidemic of dragon pox. A few of the ladies in the shop bent curious ears toward our conversation, jockeying for the opportunity to hear the latest juicy gossip first.
“We don’t know, and that’s probably the only reason we haven’t brought you down to the station yet,” Chief Trew explained. He cast an anxious glance toward the lookie-loos. He discreetly steered Violet by her elbow toward the door.
“Why don’t we take this outside?” he suggested.
Once out on the sidewalk, the briny tang of the harbor filled my nose. Gless Inlet wasn’t so much a “stop-and-smell-the-roses” town, but it was certainly a “stop-and-smell-the-mackerel” one. One of the things I loved about our little burg was it didn’t possess the rush and hurry of the Mainland. More, it was a serene little corner of sanity with classy, ebony-trimmed, Tudor styled wooden housing, a smattering of quaint, pastel gingerbread cottages, and an assortment of nostalgic five-and-dime shops and eateries that dotted Main Street with names like Hats in the Belfry and the Fingernail Moon Alehouse.
Gless Inlet was a place where locals gathered for the Firemen’s Pancake Breakfast, shot dragon fireworks on the Solstice, and where the locals relaxed on a patch of beach, elbow to elbow with visiting mainlanders. It was a town bursting with authentic, working class charm, with a functional harbor, salt-water taffy carts, and a requisite lighthouse on the bluff at the far end of the Sugar Dunes.
Which is why it was all the harder to fathom how such a heinous thing as murder could occur here. And, for the second time in a year. Nonetheless, Spithilda Roach was dead, and Chief Trew and I were compelled to ferret out exactly why. I had left Fraidy at home with his siblings. Last night’s proximity to a corpse had rendered his nerves…well, nervier than usual. I had no doubt he was hidden under layers of expensive sweaters under the bed as we speak.
The Chief pulled out a small spiral notebook. “I have to ask, Violet. Where were you around three am this morning?”
Violet folded her arms as if protecting some dark secret. “Well, if you must know, I was with Rad Silverback. We had both attended the Mutley Crew Charity Gala — that organization is doing so much to rescue stray and mistreated dogs, you know? — and I suppose you could say we hit it off rather well. He’s incredibly charming. And that strong jaw and shock of silver through his hair? Devastatingly handsome.” Violet’s eyes glazed over at the memory of the wolf-shifter’s attention.
I mentally groaned. Millie was going to be an absolute grump around the apothecary for the next few days. Violet continued.
“After the party, we took a long romantic stroll on the beach. A few clouds, but all-in-all, it was quite lovely.”
“And Mr. Silverback can corroborate that?”
“If you can find him. The cad deserted me right there on the beach!” The look of a woman scorned replaced the starry-eyed expression immediately.
Score one for Millie!
“Shame, too. The clouds cleared, and he missed such a beautiful view of the moon from atop the Sugar Dunes.”
The Chief and I exchanged a knowing look. The Unawakened remained blissfully ignorant of some of the quirkier traits of some of our residents. Even if they did witness anything magically untoward, they usually wound up on the business end of an Obliviscatur spell. From Eclipse, or some other knowing witch/wizard. But, David and I both knew that Rad had a shaky relationship, (at best) with the full moon.
“Anyway, I had to walk myself home. Two miles. In heels! I have blisters the size of pancakes!” She pointed to her fuzzy, slippered feet.
“You should try to apply a little witch hazel to those,” I suggested. “The tannins will help dry them right up.”
The Chief threw me an annoyed glare. I shrugged.
Once an apothecarian, always an apothecarian.
Chief Trew flipped back a page or two in his little notebook. “Miss Mulberry, we have a witness who reported overhearing you threaten Miss Roach’s life. Care to explain that?”
Violet froze with a momentary deer in headlights stare. For a fleeting second, I dared entertain the luck we’d already managed to solve the case, and I could get back home, retreat under the covers, and steal back some sorely missed sleep. Millie could handle running the shop.
But, luck’s a witch, and then she flies.
Violet threw her manicured hands in the air. “I – was – upset! I may have suggested that Gless Inlet would be better off without people like Spithilda Roach in it.”
“And why is that?” the Chief asked.
“She threatened to close my shop is why!”
Everybody in town knew Spithilda held the land deeds to most of the town’s businesses. She may not have been the world’s greatest witch, but she was certainly a shrewd businesswoman. And, although she herself lived in near squalor, the woman was ridiculously wealthy. She was the Donald Trump of Gless Inlet – with better hair. And, no delusions of leading the country. Spithilda owned most of the property up and down Main Street, and on most Main Streets in most towns scattering Glessie Isle.
“I’d say that was definitely a plausible motive for murder,” Chief commented. “Why did she threaten to close your shop? Were you behind on the payments?”
“Of course not! I do a respectable amount of business here, Chief. I am (her hand did a gay little flourish) a coiffeuse!”
I wasn’t satisfied my herbal assistant would have agreed with Violet on that point.
Chief Trew made a concerted effort not to roll his eyes. Judging from the pained look on his face, I think he may have pulled something in the attempt. Violet took no notice. She rambled on.
“I do, however, operate a small dog grooming business on the side. The way I see it, animals have a right to feel beautiful, too. I’m a huge supporter of animal rights. That’s why I was at the charity gala last night. Mutley Crew does so much for the orphaned dogs of the Islands, as I’ve said. Spithilda even adopted her dog, Remulus, through the organization. The two of them were supposed to be at the event. Lady Roach was actually scheduled to make some big announcement, but of course she never showed, no doubt because she was dead, and Farmer Groovymud hijacked the st
age instead, to perform some bizarre dance with handkerchiefs, sticks and bells.” Violet finally came up for air, gulping for oxygen after her outpouring.
“Announcement? What announcement?” Chief Trew asked.
Violet shrugged. “I have no idea. But, that’s the reason she sent Amber to me with Remy for a groom. I guess the dog was going to be on stage with her too. It’s not my fault Spithilda couldn’t appreciate my artistic vision.” Violet crossed her arms in defense mode once more.
The Chief raised an eyebrow. “Artistic vision?”
Violet hitched her shoulders noncommittally. “Pink Bows.” She stated flatly.
Pink bows?
“Pink bows?” David mirrored my thought out loud. “How could she get mad at pink bows? Not exactly as if you changed the dog’s appearance.”
“I didn’t tie the bows to Remy, Inspector,” Violet puffed out her chest indignantly. “The pink bows were made out of Remy’s own fur. A delightful neon pink from the ‘Florid Lights’ range was applied first, and then the bows were fashioned right from Remulus’ own coat. Did I not just tell you I am a coiffeuse?” Again, the flourish of the hand.
“I even went through the trouble of delivering him all the way out to that miserable little wagon Spithilda calls home to deliver him. Do I get so much as a ‘thank you’? No. Not by a long shot. What I do get is a threat from Spithilda saying she is going to write a letter to the S.P.C.A. and tell them I’m using beauty products in my salon that have been tested on animals!”
Spithilda had been writing something in my dream! Maybe she intended to make good on her threat to Violet after all.
“Is there any basis in truth for her accusation?” the Chief questions dutifully.
“Why, of course not! The‘ Florid Lights’ range is certified 100% cruelty-free! All of my products are! But, the accusation alone could ruin me. If a formal complaint were filed, the S.P.C.A. would require me to suspend business while they conducted an investigation. I close, even for just one day, and I would be devastated!”
The Chief slowly closed his notebook. “Thank you for your time, Violet. I think we’ve got enough information for now, but don’t make any immediate travel plans to the Mainland anytime soon.”
Violet huffed, and she fluffed, turned on a fuzzy heel, and stalked back into her salon.
Chief Trew sighed heavily. He rubbed the furrow creasing his brow. “Violet certainly had a motive, if Spithilda did actually threaten to close her shop. But, I can’t imagine threatening someone’s livelihood over something as petty as pink bows. Fur bows or not. I mean, who would get so bent out of shape over something like that?”
Eyes askance, I muttered. “Did you ever meet Spithilda?”
He dismissed my rhetorical query with a wave of his hand. “At any rate, Violet had a motive. But, we still have to establish opportunity and means. We need to corroborate her alibi. What time is it?”
“Just past five,” I replied.
“Happy hour at The Fingernail Moon. Let’s go see if Mr. Silverback is thirsty after all that running away he did from Violet.”
“You know, if you’re extra sweet, I might even let you buy me dinner.” He held out an extended arm for me to hold.
My heart fluttered just like the butterflies Eclipse loved to chase in Portia Fearwyn’s overrun garden. The insects loved the purple-pink flowers that blossomed on the unkempt foliage. I grinned wryly. Butterflies. One of the only beautiful things that could be found near Portia’s dismal estate in the Gorthland Swamps. Portia herself was a sallow, beady-eyed, beak-nosed practitioner of the Gloomy Arts. I made regular deliveries to her doorstep; supplies of all kinds of baneful herbs. But, Portia’s bulk orders of some of the nastier herbs I carried kept the apothecary afloat. If it weren’t for that little gem of a fact, and the butterflies, I would likely never venture there. Not that I was scared of her like most others were. But, the Swamps were an unnerving place to be, whatever the reason or time of day. Gaunt Manor was hardly a relaxing, welcoming homestead. My stomach got all flip-floppy again realizing whose arm I was holding onto. I batted my eyelashes exaggeratedly.
“Why, Chief Trew! Is this a date?”
“Nope,” he stated matter-of-factly. Like it was a fact in the case. “Just dinner.”
I’m not going to lie. I pouted a little on that one.
Throw a girl a bone, Chief.
“And afterward, we’ll go visit Maude at the morgue. I suspect we’ll want to be done with Mr. Silverback by the time the moon rises. We also need to find out exactly how Spithilda was dispatched.”
I had to admit; the Chief was right. About paying Maude a visit and about the case. Maude Dulgrey did keep odd hours. Well, for a one time Mainland coroner anyway. But, Gless Inlet operated in its own little time zone, and that suited us just fine.
The Chief was right, too, in that we needed to determine just how Spithilda met her untimely demise. Hopefully, the after-hours coroner would be able to shed a little light on the subject. My vague unease for the shriveled hermit aside, not even Spithilda deserved to have her life cut short by someone else’s dastardly plan; be it Violet’s or some other as yet unknown party lurking in the shadows.
As I walked down Main Street, arm in arm with the Chief, neither of us noticed we had a shadow of our own. He peeled himself from the shade of a nearby alley and followed us at a discreet distance as we strolled toward The Fingernail Moon and, hopefully, closer to some answers to fill in the growing list of blanks.
Near the eastern edge of town, through an alley of ghostly white oaks, The Fingernail Moon nestled in the crook of a winding lane. The location exuded a distinct sense of history and place, transporting passersby to an era of bygone days. It was no wonder. A tavern of one sort or another had sat on the very spot for nearly two centuries since the first inhabitants of Glessie Isle had set buckled boots down on her shores. A bit of the character from each incarnation had soaked into the spot, recalling a time when hooded highwaymen held clandestine meetings by flickering candlelight, and drunken sailors clinked pewter tankards spilling dark, heady brews. If you listened hard enough, you could almost hear the raucous cheering as yet another bare-knuckled brawl tossed about on the wood-chip scattered floor.
One such historical altercation had tipped over a burning oil lamp, sending fast, hungry flames to devour the thatched roof and wooden Tudor beams in a conflagration that consumed both the tavern and any number of lost souls. But the Glessie Isle population was tenacious, if not thirsty, and another bar was quickly erected on the same site.
The inn, whether it was called The Rose & Crown, The Green Dragon, or even The Slaughtered Lamb, was the axis of the community. It was a place where locals gathered to wind down from a day’s hard tasking; to drink readily from the bar’s excellent selection of carefully crafted ales and assorted bitters (my personal favorite was a non alcoholic beverage called “Griffin’s Beak.) Or, to savor a bite of gastric bliss from the freshly prepared menu, and to chat convivially in a place where the news of the day was imparted through human conversation.
It was also a place where an astute investigator could glean some extraordinarily useful information. The trick was to separate fact from fancy.
That was exactly what Chief Trew and I hoped to accomplish as we walked through the thick, oaken door of Horace Mangler’s friendly watering hole.
“Hattie Jenkins! An’ Chief Trew! Two of me fav’rite people!” I was fairly sure Horace greeted every patron who crossed the threshold of the Moon in a like manner. The great bear of a man broadened his arms wide, exposing the huge spread of his ample girth, then stroked his long whiskers. His fists were like meaty hocks of ham, yet still, they managed to get lost in the wiry, black nest that spilled over his belly.
“What brings ya two into me fine ‘stablishment?” he asked in a slurry, accented baritone.
“Good friends and good food, Horace,” the Chief answered smoothly. No need to draw attention to our more official purpose, I supposed.
Horace clapped two strong arms around both our shoulders and steered us toward a small, intimate table in the corner near the stained-glass window.
“Well, your’n luck!” Horace bellowed. “‘Cause we’ve plenty o’ both here at The Fingernail Moon. Here. Sit.”
We obliged the big man as he scraped an empty chair across the planked floor and joined us. He leaned in conspiratorially. “So, what’s this I ‘ear ‘bout Spithilda Roach being murdered?”
“I really can’t comment on an open investigation, Horace. You should know that ” Chief Trew admonished. Horace waved his ham hands in mock surrender.
“A’right, a’right. You cannae blame a fella for tryin’. ‘Tis just a bit o’ a hot topic, right now. Spithilda t’werent on a lot o’ people’s Christmas list, ya know. ‘Tis any number o’ folks who t’aint sheddin’ a single tear o’er her passing. Take the debonair Mr. Silverback o’er there, fer instance.”
Both the Chief and I started at the mention of the very man we’d come to the Moon hoping to find. Horace gestured toward a crisply suited, older gentleman seated across the room. He was mature, yet still carried an air of animal magnetism about him. His lips parted in genial laughter at a neighbor’s comment, exposing a line of perfect, straight white teeth. His flawlessly coiffed hair bore a single streak of regal silver over the left temple. And his eyes sparkled with a youthful vigor that belied his real age. I could certainly see why my assistant found him so “dreamy.”
“Rumor has it tha’ Spithilda took a fancy to our dashin’ Mr. Silverback when they met as youngsters. When he did nae return her ‘fections in kind? Well let’s jes say she worked a l’il o’ that gloomy magic of hers, and that’s why t’ings get, ahem, a l’il hairy for Mr. Silverback once o’ month. If ‘n he don’ take a special elixir when the gibbous moon waxes full, things get, how can I say, ‘ruff.'”
The Violet Countercharm: A Paranormal Cozy Mystery (Hattie Jenkins & The Infiniti Chronicles Book 2) Page 3