Magic & Mercy

by Annabel Chase

  Once they’d swallowed, I unfroze the women. Hannah smiled at us.

  “We hope you enjoyed your visit,” she said pleasantly. “Come back soon.”

  “Thanks, we will,” I said, grabbing the sheriff by the arm and pulling him out the door. I didn’t ever want to go back, but we had to, now that we knew they were hiding something. Maybe it was only a family recipe for the best chocolate in the paranormal world, but the jaded part of me worried that it was something far more sinister.

  I wasn’t thrilled to show up on the doorstep of Casper’s Revenge by myself, but the sheriff and deputy were called to a meeting with Tish and Belvedere for an update on the case. Since the sheriff and I had both let this place slip through the cracks, I thought it was time to pay a visit and cross it off the list.

  I’d never believed in ghosts. My father avoided such topics, probably because he feared saying too much and revealing a sliver of his past. Our past. He was very particular about the wisdom he imparted and the anecdotes he shared. Ghosts didn’t make the cut. So far, the only ghost I’d ‘met’ was Jefferson, the manservant at Haverford House.

  I shivered before I even took hold of the brass knocker. It was the head of a minotaur, nostrils flaring, which would have intimidated me if I hadn’t already met Rick.

  “Hey there, big guy,” I said softly, and banged the brass hoop of his nose against the door. The door creaked open and I gulped down as much air as I could manage before stepping inside.

  “Hello?” I called. The foyer was devoid of paranormals, ghosts included. It was an attractive space, with portraits on the wall and a crackling fireplace. I wasn’t sure why the fireplace was on when the weather in Starry Hollow was a balmy seventy degrees.

  “Because the house has a constant chill,” a disembodied voice said. “It’s like living in an icebox.”

  I whirled around in search of the source. “Who said that?”

  “Fire warms us from the inside out,” a second, more soothing voice said. “Our guest knows fire, don’t you, dear? You’ve commanded it.”

  “No,” I said slowly. “I used rain to put out a fire.” The ghost seemed to be referencing my crisis with Jimmy the Lighter.

  “She could command it if she wanted to,” the first voice said. “She has a streak of elemental power. I sense it.”

  “Who cares about power? It’s sympathy this girl is in dire need of,” another voice said. “Send her to my room.”

  “No,” the first voice objected. “I distinctly feel her need for tough love. She belongs in my room.”

  I felt an unseen hand push me toward the staircase. I rallied my courage. “Hold up there, eager apparitional beavers. I’m not going to anybody’s room. I’m here to ask questions.”

  “I love your shoes,” the third voice said. “If I were still alive, I would absolutely wear those with my black mini-dress.”

  “You never wore a mini-dress,” the first voice argued. “Not with those varicose veins you had.”

  “Nobody would notice the veins with those shoes,” the softer voice replied. “I’d be like Dorothy in her ruby red slippers. She couldn’t go anywhere without someone noticing them.”

  “That was because they belonged to the Wicked Witch of the East,” the first voice grumbled. “You’ve completely misunderstood the point of the shoes.”

  “Um, excuse me?” I interrupted. “I’d like to ask a few questions if you have time between pointless arguments.”

  “Ooh, a smartass,” the second voice said. “How delightful.”

  “We’ll answer your questions,” the third voice said, “but first you need to be an official guest.”

  “But I don’t want to stay,” I said. “I live locally.”

  “No matter,” the second voice said. “Rules are rules.”

  I huffed. “Fine. How do I become an official guest?”

  “There’s a registry over there on the table,” the first voice said. “Add your name and address.”

  “And positive comments about your stay are also welcome,” the third voice said.

  “But I’m not…” I stopped. There was no point in correcting her. Instead, I headed to the table and added my name and address to the registry. In the comments section, I wrote, “TBD.”

  “Interesting choice. It’s like a threat,” the second voice said.

  “She’s grown on me significantly since she arrived,” the first voice said. “Initially, I was put off by the hair.”

  “Hey!” I objected. “What’s wrong with my hair?” I held up a hand. “Wait, don’t answer that.”

  “We have all the amenities you need, dear,” the second voice said. “A flatiron, perhaps? There are several rooms to choose from and a hot tub on the back porch. The bathtubs are all claw foot.”

  “I won’t be needing a tub,” I said. “Hot or otherwise.”

  “Oh, but it’s a must,” the second voice said. “It’s part of being a guest here.”

  “She needs a spot of tea,” the third voice said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “My name is Ember,” I said, as I felt a burst of air push me toward the room on the left. “I’m investigating a murder.”

  “A murder? How exciting!” the second voice said.

  “Not for the victim,” the first voice said.

  “Would you mind telling me your names?” I asked. “I’d like to think of you as more than voices in the air.” And it might calm my nerves.

  “I’m Ethel,” the second voice said. “The grumpy one is Allan, and the one preparing your tea is Irma.”

  “Are there only three of you?” I asked.

  “No, but we’re the three in charge today,” Ethel said. “We rotate.”

  I entered the next room. The sign above me read ‘Parlor Room’ in fancy script lettering. A chair slid out from under the small, oval table and I sat.

  “Is this place really operated entirely by ghosts?” I queried.

  “That’s right,” Allan said. “We’re a special type of inn.”

  “Because you’re all ghosts?”

  “And because we cater to our guests’ emotional needs,” Allan said.

  “Well, some of us do,” Ethel said pointedly.

  “Tough love fulfills an emotional need,” Allan shot back. “Just because you don’t agree with it, doesn’t mean it’s untrue.”

  A silver tray floated down in front of me. It carried a teapot, teacup, a sugar bowl, and a small milk jug. When I reached for the pot, one of the unseen hands smacked me.

  “Ouch!” I said.

  “We cater to you,” Irma said.

  “Okay, no need for violence.” My hands moved to my sides. I watched as the tea was poured and then the sugar and milk added.

  “Not too much milk,” I said. “I like it strong.”

  “I know, dear,” Irma said. “I read your preferences the moment you walked in.”

  “That’s…creepy,” I said.

  “Don’t let it sit or it will get cold,” Ethel said.

  “She doesn’t want to burn her tongue, Ethel,” Allan snapped.

  I held up my hands. “I’m a grown woman. I can decide for myself whether the tea is the right temperature.”

  “She is quite grown, isn’t she?” Irma said. “Breastfeeding was good to you, wasn’t it? So fortunate.”

  “Yes, those boobs are the ideal size,” Ethel said. “What are they? A 36C?”

  I wrapped my cardigan around my T-shirt. “That’s personal.”

  “They’re a bit lopsided,” Allan grumbled.

  “Seriously?” I objected hotly. “It isn’t really polite to critique someone’s body without their consent.”

  “We’re only trying to cheer you up,” Ethel said. “We can tell you’ve been unhappy lately.”

  “We excel at compliments!” Irma added.

  “I don’t,” Allan said.

  I sipped my tea. “I haven’t been unhappy.”

  “No?” Irma queried. “How odd. You radiate sadness and
loss.”

  “I told you she just needs tough love,” Allan said. “Send her to my room.”

  I set down my teacup. “I’m not going to anyone’s room until you explain what you mean.”

  “Like Allan said, the inn caters to its guests emotional needs,” Ethel said. “If someone arrives in need of tough love, they go to Allan’s room and he provides the emotional support they need. If the visitor needs cheering…”

  “They steer clear of Allan. Got it,” I said.

  “Guests tell us their problems,” Ethel explained. “Even if we can’t fix their problems, they feel better having discussed the matter with someone else.”

  “So you’re kind of like a confessional in a church?” I asked.

  “We’re a bit more interactive,” Irma replied. “We don’t drop rosary beads from the ceiling and tell them to pray. We offer guidance and support.”

  “Some people find comfort in rosary beads and prayer,” I said.

  “People don’t come here,” Allan said. “Paranormals do.”

  Fair enough.

  “Well, I’m sorry to break the news, but I’m not here for guidance, or support, or rosary beads, for that matter. I need to talk about a treasure map.”

  “Ooh, which one?” Ethel asked. “I do love a good story.”

  “I don’t know which one,” I said. “But your inn was mentioned by the man in possession of the map the night before he died and it’s marked on the map.” A breeze tickled the back of my neck as a ghost drifted past.

  “Really?” Irma asked. “Are we supposed to have buried treasure somewhere?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m only following a lead. Has anyone else been here asking questions?”

  “No, in fact things have been oddly quiet, haven’t they, Irma?” Ethel asked.

  “Very much so,” Irma said. “I’ve been bored senseless.”

  “I associate the Whitethorn, or some other pub, with vampire pirate treasure,” Allan said. “Captain Blackfang never would’ve set foot in here, not with our special brand of hospitality.”

  I sipped my tea, noting the perfect temperature. “Yes, I know about him. This map seems to be connected to his first mate, Irina. She was in love with him, but it didn’t end well.”

  “Great Mother of Invention,” Allan hissed.

  “What is it, Allan?” Ethel asked. “Did a guest leave the tap on in your bathroom again? I told you to post a reminder on the mirror.”

  “No, there’s a strange man in the backyard, near the hydrangeas,” Allan said. “He’s digging with a shovel.”

  “What?” Ethel and Irma shrieked. The table shook and my teacup rattled. I grabbed the cup and steadied it before the tea spilled.

  “Would you like me to deal with him?” I asked. “Or, I can call the sheriff.”

  “Call the sheriff,” Allan said. “I’ll deal with this monster. Imagine coming onto someone’s property and mucking up their garden. Filthy animal!”

  “Show him some tough love, Allan,” Ethel cheered.

  I shot off a quick text to the sheriff and hurried to the backyard. By the time I got there, the intruder was unconscious on the ground and tied up with a garden hose like a trussed pig.

  “I need him awake so I can ask questions,” I said.

  A bucket of water floated over and tipped sideways, dumping the contents on him. He sputtered and bolted upright.

  “Welcome back. What’s your name?” I asked.

  He cocked his head. “You look familiar.”

  “Let me take a stab in the dark,” I said. “You’re a butler.”

  His brow lifted. “How did you know?”

  I reached into his shirt pocket, where the edge of the map peeked out. “Where did you get this?”

  “That’s mine.”

  “If this is yours, then that makes you a murderer,” I said. “So let me ask you again, where did you get this map?” When I spotted the symbol of the crossed daggers in the bottom corner, I knew for certain it was the missing map.

  “Ooh, she’s good,” Allan said.

  “I like what you did there,” Ethel agreed.

  The intruder writhed on the ground, struggling to locate the source of the voices. “Who’s talking?”

  “They’re ghosts,” I said. “And they own this property that you’ve trespassed on.” I unfolded the map the rest of the way and saw where Casper’s Revenge had been marked. “You think Irina’s treasure is here?”

  “Who’s Irina?” he asked.

  “Oh, you don’t even know the story,” I said. “That’s too bad. Tell me where you got the map because the last time it was seen was on Higgins, which doesn’t bode well for you.”

  The intruder’s eyes popped. “The dead butler?”

  “That’s right.”

  “My name’s Jeremy Higginbotham,” he sputtered. “I found the map at my hotel. It was stuck to the trash chute on the third floor. I went to throw away a bag on my way out and saw it.”

  “Why didn’t you turn it in?” I asked.

  “I didn’t know it was connected to the murder, I swear,” Higginbotham said.

  “How could you not know?” I asked. “It’s all anyone can talk about.”

  “I knew about the murder,” he said. “I didn’t know anything about a treasure map.”

  “What makes you think treasure is buried here?” I asked.

  “Nothing in particular,” he said. “I decided to go around and dig up everywhere on the map, see if I struck gold. I figured it would keep me busy while we were waiting on the sheriff to tell us we could leave town.”

  I examined the map in my hands. There were patches of dried blood on the parchment. Higgins’ blood, presumably. Other than that, it wasn’t as worn as I would’ve expected, considering its age.

  “It’s been in a vault for decades,” I said, admiring its excellent condition. “Like Irina, it didn’t see sunlight very often.”

  And thanks to the murderer, it nearly never saw sunlight again.

  Chapter 16

  The Aphrodite Hotel reminded me of a five-star hotel in the human world. While it lacked the traditional elegance of Palmetto House or the quirkiness of Casper’s Revenge, its marble floors and imposing columns made it clear that it catered to a certain class of paranormal, including their butlers in Higginbotham’s case.

  The manager’s gaze flickered to Raoul. “Pets are not permitted in this establishment.”

  “We’re not checking in,” I argued. “We just want to check out your garbage chute on the third floor.”

  I think the more salient point is that I’m not a pet, Raoul said. Tell him that.

  I ignored my familiar. “We’ll be five minutes.”

  “I don’t think so,” the manager said.

  “Is there a problem, Rose?” Sheriff Nash appeared beside me. “I told you to wait for me to park the car.”

  The manager’s face turned beet red. “Terribly sorry, Sheriff. I didn’t realize this was part of an official investigation.”

  “It’s okay,” the sheriff said. “My friend likes to shift before the full moon, if you know what I mean.”

  “I do, sir.” The manager glanced at Raoul. “And this animal will be under your supervision?”

  The sheriff patted the raccoon’s head. “Unfortunately.”

  Hey! Raoul objected. I’m not a child.

  “Good luck with your investigation, Sheriff,” the manager said. “The staircase to your left is the quickest way to the third floor.”

  “Isn’t the elevator the quickest way to the third floor?” I queried.

  “Not with a raccoon it isn’t,” the manager replied coolly.

  Racist, Raoul muttered.

  We climbed the stairs to the third floor and easily located the trash chute. I pulled down the handle and popped it open.

  “Sheriff,” I said slowly. “I see something stuck on the side of the chute.”

  “It could be any number of things,” he replied. “How mu
ch garbage has been sent down here since the murder?”

  “Not trash. I think it’s dried blood,” I said, squinting in the darkness. I retrieved my wand and pointed into the chute. “Lumina.”

  The sheriff peered over my shoulder. “How about that? Looks like Higginbotham was telling the truth after all. Can you do a spell that swabs the blood from here so neither of us needs to climb inside?”

  I gave him a haughty look. “On what planet would I be the one climbing inside?” I turned my focus back to the blood. “I’ll see what I can do about a spell.”

  Raoul tugged on my shirt. Not everything is easily solved with magic.

  “I know that,” I said. “You witnessed the Great Meatloaf Explosion. Now be quiet and let me think.”

  He cleared his throat and continued to stare at me. Finally, I connected the dots.

  “Oh,” I said. “I suppose you can climb in there.”

  He held his paw out to the sheriff. Evidence kit, please.

  “He needs the evidence kit,” I translated.

  The sheriff gaped at my raccoon familiar. “I can call Deputy Bolan. He’s small enough to fit.”

  Raoul rolled his eyes. Does he really think the leprechaun will thank him for that privilege? A trash chute is a raccoon’s playground slide.

  I eyed him suspiciously. “You want to make a deal.”

  Of course I do, he replied. I’m an opportunist. It’s in my nature.

  I folded my arms and looked at the sheriff. “Raoul will do it in exchange for letting him slide down the chute and climb around in the trash receptacle.”

  Sheriff Nash scrunched his nose. “As long as he can get himself out again. We’re not fishing him out.”

  Raoul waved a dismissive paw. Child’s play. He took the evidence kit in his teeth and climbed inside.

  “I thought you weren’t a child,” I shot back.

  Once he’d scraped enough blood for the kit, he slid it back up the chute.

  “Don’t come back to the cottage until you’ve washed up,” I called after him.

  “The blood must be the reason it stuck to the side of the chute.” Sheriff Nash sealed the evidence bag. “We’ll test it for a match with Higgins.”