Broom Mates

by Morgana Best

  I tried the front door, but it was locked. The builder was supposed to meet me here and give me the keys. “Hello?” There was no response. I called out again—still nothing.

  I hobbled around to the back of the house. A vehicle was parked out the front, and considering it had an extension ladder strapped to the roof, I figured it belonged to the builder. So where was he? I snatched my mobile phone from my handbag, and as I did so, my keys flew out and fell through a crack in the old boards of the veranda. I tried to flip on the torch on my iPhone, but my phone was flat.

  Great! Now I was stuck here without keys at dusk, and I had locked myself out of my car. I had no hope of retrieving the keys—it would take tools to do that.

  I surveyed my surroundings. There were only two houses as far as the eye could see, mine and the house next door. After a good five minutes of knocking on the neighbour’s door, I had to accept that no one was home.

  I had no option but to break into my house, but that proved impossible. Who says country people don’t lock their houses? A SWAT Team wouldn’t have been able to get in. Every window was secured.

  Given that it was almost nightfall, I weighed up my options. It was too far to walk to town in the dark, so I would have to stay here. I looked behind the house to see if there was some sort of shelter I could use. It was then I spotted the tent.

  I knew nothing about tents. After all, I had never entertained the slightest wish to go camping. The tent was rectangular, and seemed a decent size. I hurried over and stuck my head inside.

  This time, it seemed I was in luck. There was a low-slung camp bed covered with blankets, next to a table and chairs. It all looked quite clean. I only hoped it would withstand the wind.

  I slept fitfully. Every time I woke up, the howling wind was shaking the tent.

  When I opened my eyes the following morning, it was bright, brighter than it should have been inside the tent. It took me a moment or two to realise the tent was gone. I saw it in the distance, billowing away on the wind. I got out of the camp bed and backed up, shielding my eyes from the sun, only to fall backwards over something, and land hard. I struggled to my feet and looked around to see what had tripped me.

  It was the body of a man. A knife was protruding from his back.

  Chapter 4

  I staggered back to the road like a mad thing on my one and a half heels. The only running I had done in years was on a treadmill, but somehow I made it across all the rocks and the mud. Just as I reached the road, I saw a car coming.

  Without thinking, I jumped in front of it, waving my arms frantically. The car veered off the road and narrowly escaped running into a drain. A man wearing tight jeans and an angry expression jumped out. “Are you mad?” he snapped. “I could have hit you.”

  Before he could get a chance to berate me further, I said, “There’s a dead man! Over there!” I pointed in the direction of the body.

  I thought he would ask questions, but mercifully he said, “Show me.”

  I hobbled back over to the body, more slowly this time. I hung back while the man had a close look. He finally straightened and looked at me. “Did you do this?”

  I clutched my throat. “No!” I screeched. “I arrived from Melbourne only last night. The builder was supposed to meet me here with the house keys, but he’s vanished, and the house is locked. That’s why I had to stay in the tent. My mobile phone’s flat. When I woke up, the tent blew away, and that’s when I fell over… him!” I paused for breath and pointed to the body.

  “Do you know what happened to him?” he asked me.

  I was infuriated. “Weren’t you listening? The first thing I knew of his existence was when I tripped backwards over him.” The man seemed sceptical, and I must have looked a sight, covered in mud, with a broken heel. I imagined my hair was wild, and my mascara, streaked. Maybe I did look like a crazed murderer.

  He walked over to me, so close I could smell his soap, all coconut and lime. It was then I noticed his eyes, green-grey like holly oak leaves. I shook myself.

  “Where were you at the time of the murder?”

  I jabbed my finger on his chest. “I could ask you the same thing! And that’s a trick question, isn’t it? How would I know when he was murdered? We need to call the police. Anyway, if he was murdered before last evening, I have an alibi. I left Melbourne four days ago and have been staying in motels every night.”

  He pulled a notepad and pen out of his pocket. “What are the names of these motels?”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “None of your business! Now, can you call the police?”

  “I am the police. I need the names of those motels.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I was infuriated.

  He quirked one eyebrow. “Tell you what?”

  “That you’re a police officer.”

  “I just did. Detective Max Grayson. And you are?”

  We stood there, facing each other. I wasn’t a morning person, and normally I would have had plenty of coffee by this time of day. Finally, I said, “Goldie Bloom.” I realised he was going to ask me about the motels again, so I added, “I’d have to look at my iPad.” My hand flew to my mouth. “Oh no, they’re in the car, and I’m locked out! I dropped my car keys under the porch and it’ll need to be partly demolished to get them.”

  The detective merely raised his eyebrows. No doubt he thought I was some sort of idiot city slicker at best, and at worst, a murderer. “I’ll have to make some calls, and then you can come to town with me.”

  “Lucky me,” I muttered sarcastically, a little more loudly than I intended.

  He looked pointedly at my shoes. “Don’t you think it would be a good idea to change into sensible shoes?”

  “Yes, that is a good idea, Sherlock,” I snapped, “but my sensible shoes are locked in my car.”

  I don’t know if I imagined it, but I thought his lips twitched slightly. “On second thoughts, let me see if I can open the house for you.” He escorted me back to the front door, his hand under my elbow. At that moment, a white bus came around the corner and screeched to a halt outside my house. The words East Bucklebury Aged Care Services were emblazoned along the side in a flowing green font.

  The driver stuck her head out the window. “What’s happened here? Has there been an accident?”

  “I’ve just moved to town,” I called back. “I inherited Peter Proteus’s house. He was my uncle.”

  The driver looked surprised, but before she could respond, the folding doors opened, revealing a man and a woman. Both were tall and slender, and both had wild, grey hair. “Detective Grayson,” the woman said, “I hardly think that’s a police emergency.”

  I was surprised to see the detective’s cheeks flush red. “Well, there’s been a murder.”

  His remark was met by a collective shriek from within the bus. I thought it strange that neither the man nor the woman looked surprised. “Detective, have you met our driver, Harriet Hemsworth? She’s just moved to the retirement home.”

  The two nodded to each other. The woman turned her attention to me. “And you must be Goldie Bloom. Your dear uncle told us all about you. I’m Oleander Blanche, and this is a friend of mine, Athanasius Chadwicke-Pryor.”

  The man bowed slightly. “And who was murdered, Detective?”

  Grayson shrugged one shoulder. “The local officers will be here soon. For now, I assume he’s a builder.” He pointed to the vehicle.

  My hand flew to my mouth. “Of course! He was working on my house.”

  “That’s Nat Jefferies’ ute out the front,” Athanasius said. “Don’t tell me he was the victim?” A collective gasp went up from the group.

  “I’m afraid so. Did you know him?”

  Oleander and Athanasius exchanged glances. “Poor Nat was a bit of a loner,” Oleander said. “He wasn’t a local, so he’d camp here whenever he had work in town. There are no builders in town, and he worked cheap.”

  “You’ve had a terrible shock, dear,” Athanas
ius said. “We should take you inside and settle you in. Does anyone mind? We can go on our little outing after Ms Bloom is settled.”

  The detective took no time in picking the lock on the front door, and the people from the retirement home filed in. I was about to follow them when another car pulled up. A woman jumped out and hurried over to me. “You must be Goldie. I’m Laura. Sorry I wasn’t here to meet you.”

  I sized her up. She seemed to be my age, possibly a little younger, and unlike me, was not covered with mud. In fact, she was rather well groomed. So this was the mysterious Persnickle. It must be her surname, after all.

  The woman held the door open wide and returned my stare. “Whatever happened to you?”

  “Came here, fell in mud. Camped overnight in a tent. Woke up, found a dead body. Spoke to police. Need coffee and a shower.”

  The detective scowled. “I’m afraid there’s been a murder. The victim appears to be the builder who was working on the house for Ms Bloom.”

  She looked shocked, but recovered her composure rather quickly. “Why don’t you have a shower while I make you a hot drink? There are towels and stuff in the bathroom. Third door on the left.”

  I thanked her, asked for black coffee, and stepped inside. I was pleasantly surprised; this room mate arrangement might work out, after all. I gasped when I saw the interior. It was charming: high ceilings, polished timber floors, delightful fretwork, and through the bedrooms either side of the hall I could see French doors opening onto the deck.

  The bathroom was more Federation in style than Victorian, but did have a lovely claw foot bath, and what’s more, there was a heavenly vanilla and caramel scented candle. I ripped off my clothes in my haste to get into the shower. As refreshing as the shower was, I was desperate for coffee, so shampooed and conditioned my hair and cleansed my face as fast as I could. After quickly towelling myself dry, I put on the first skirt and blouse I found in my suitcase. I quickly applied some makeup and dried my hair. A quick glance in the mirror showed I was almost back to my old self.

  Laura greeted me with a wide smile. “Are you going out?”

  “No?” I didn’t know what she meant. It occurred to me she might think I was overdressed, given that she was wearing jeans and a tee shirt. I would have to get used to these quaint country ways of casual dressing.

  “Would you like some breakfast?” She made to rise from her chair at the kitchen table, but I waved her back down.

  “Just coffee, please. Where are the others?”

  She nodded to the large mug in front of me. “The police have just arrived, and the detective is out there speaking to them. I assume they’ve all gone outside to eavesdrop.” She chuckled.

  “I thought my uncle’s house was beachfront,” I said.

  “Yes it is, sort of. There’s a road between you and the beach.”

  “But there are no waves.”

  “East Bucklebury is a canal town,” Laura explained. “The broadwater, that is, the body of water between us and the island over there, is deep, but the surf breaks on the other side of the island.”

  I nodded and lifted the cup to my lips. Milliseconds later, I gagged. “What was that?” I managed to say after swallowing the vile liquid. It had taken all my willpower not to spit it out.

  Laura looked surprised. “Coffee. Isn’t that what you wanted? Anyway, we must be careful. Coffee is illegal in this town. It’s due to an old trade agreement or something, but I don’t know the details.”

  “Coffee?” I echoed. “Illegal?” Surely she was joking.

  She pointed to a jar. It took a moment or two to dawn on me, and then I said, “Instant?” I could barely keep the horror out of my voice.

  Laura smiled and nodded. “You’re a witch!

  I was offended. “Isn’t that a bit harsh? It’s just that I don’t do instant. Still, the removalists will be here soon with my good coffee machine.”

  Laura laughed. “I mean, you practise witchcraft.”

  I was impressed with her insight. “How did you know?”

  “Your uncle said most of your family are witches.”

  Well, that was news to me, and I was about to tell her so, when there was a noise outside the kitchen door. “That must be Persnickle,” Laura said.

  I was aware that my jaw fell open. “You’re not Persnickle?” I asked her. “You’re not my room mate?”

  She laughed and clutched her sides. “No, I live next door. Your uncle and I were friends. Look, here’s Persnickle now.” She pointed as the door swung open.

  I screamed.

  Chapter 5

  “It’s a giant rat! Or a strange dog!” I screeched, jumping to my feet and placing a chair between myself and the huge, hairy creature, as it ambled towards me at a determined fashion.

  Laura laughed. “Haven’t you ever seen a wombat before?”

  “A wombat!” I shrieked. “Persnickle is a wombat? That wombat is my room mate?”

  Laura appeared oblivious to my distress. “He’s awfully nice,” she said, walking over to stroke him. “You can even take him for walks on a leash.”

  I eyed the creature warily. He did look kind of cute, in a threatening sort of way. I had always wanted a pet, but I was thinking of a dog or a cat. Having a wombat as a pet had never occurred to me. “Does he bite?” I asked her, after the creature opened his mouth to reveal four rather huge teeth.

  “Only if you call him P-e-r-c-y,” she said, spelling the name.

  I wasn’t sure if she was joking, but I wasn’t about to put it to the test.

  “How about we take our drinks to the living room where you can get to know Persnickle in a more informal fashion?”

  I readily agreed, and sat on a comfortable armchair in the adjoining room. I was careful not to make any sudden moves.

  The coffee was vile. I wondered how far away my good coffee machine was, and I hadn’t received the promised text from the removalists to say they were close. That was when I realised that my phone had no charge. I stood up, rather too abruptly, but luckily the wombat made no move to attack me. “I have to plug in my phone.”

  I retrieved my charger cord from my handbag and plugged in my phone. I walked over to return to my chair, when a shimmering mass suddenly appeared in front of me. I clutched my head. “Migraine!” I said. “That’s all I need.” I fished around in my handbag for some Nurofen. I didn’t get migraines often, but when I did, I had dreadful visual disturbances before the headache actually hit. This was the worst visual disturbance I’d had to date, no doubt from the stress of the last few hours.

  Laura sat on the edge of her seat. “Goldie, what do you see?”

  I made to respond, but the visual disturbance took the form of a person. I fell back into my seat and clutched my head. “I’m having hallucinations,” I said weakly. “I think it was the instant coffee.”

  “Are you seeing a ghost?” Laura asked urgently.

  “A ghost, a ghost?” I stammered. I took my hands from both my eyes and had another look. Yes, it certainly looked like a ghost, not that I’d ever seen one before. The shimmering figure of a man in front of me could be nothing but a ghost. I couldn’t quite take it in—it was surreal. “Can you see it, too?” I asked Laura.

  “There’s something I have to tell you,” she began in a faltering manner, but I held up one hand.

  “Spit it out!”

  “It’s because you’re a witch.”

  Once more, I interrupted her. “I’ve been a witch for years, and I’ve never seen a ghost before.”

  “Goldie, please let me finish.” Her tone was pleading. I nodded, and she continued. “I practise witchcraft too, but I can’t see ghosts. Look, I don’t know how to explain it. Okay, this is how your uncle explained it to me. You’re from an ancient coven of sea witches.”

  The room was starting to spin. I dragged my eyes away from the ghost and put my head between my legs. I didn’t want to faint, in case the wombat ate me. Sure, it didn’t seem likely, but I was having one of t
hose days. “You’re kidding,” I managed to say.

  Undaunted, Laura pushed on. “You’re a sea witch, and Persnickle is your familiar. When he’s around, you can see ghosts, and communicate with them, too.”

  “I’ve never seen a ghost before,” I said.

  “That’s because you haven’t had your familiar with you,” Laura said patiently. “Speak to the ghost—is it a resident of this house?”

  I had no intention of speaking to the ghost, but the ghost spoke to me. “I started working on your house yesterday. I think I’m dead. I remember someone stabbing me.”

  I pointed to the ghost. “He’s the dead man!” I squealed, before I realised that all ghosts were dead. I amended that to, “He’s the man whose body I found this morning! He’s the builder.”

  “That’s terrible!” Laura said in horror.

  I plucked up the courage to address the ghost directly. “Are you Nat Jefferies?”

  He nodded. “I’m so pleased someone can see me. I remember being stabbed, but I can’t remember who stabbed me.”

  Laura was on the edge of her chair. “Is he speaking to you?”

  I nodded. “He says he can’t remember who stabbed him.”

  “I would think that normal, given the trauma,” Laura said. “Ask him if he remembers anything at all.”

  “Tell her I can hear her,” he said.

  “Laura, he can hear you.” I fought the urge to break into hysterical laughter. I was translating for a ghost. The situation was crazy.

  “I can remember something,” he said, tapping his chin. I watched him with fascination, wondering why his hand didn’t pass through his face. “I remember in that split second just before the knife plunged into me, whoever it was—man or woman, I don’t know—said, ‘Blame your Uncle Peter.’ I thought that was strange, because I don’t have an Uncle Peter.”

  I jumped to my feet. “But I do!”

  “What did he say?” Laura asked me.

  “He said he asked the murderer why, and the murderer said, ‘Blame your Uncle Peter.’ He doesn’t have an Uncle Peter, but I do, or rather, did.”