Murder, Magic, and Moggies

by Pearl Goodfellow

  The governor looked at my clutch of cats. “Or should I say ‘meowing’? Anyway, I’m afraid I am needed back at Chalice. And, Hattie?”

  “Yes, Gideon?”

  “About that dinner date?”

  I nodded my head. “I’ll be there. With bells on.”

  Gideon smiled genuinely, and “I look forward to seeing you soon, Hattie. It’s been a remarkable pleasure.”

  The governor turned and looked toward the darkening bank of thunderheads in the distance. He pointed. “Have you seen that, Chief Inspector?”

  A distant rumble rolled in the distance.

  The governor locked eyes with David, and half turned toward the helicopter that would take him back to Chalice, Cathedral's regal capital. An almost regretful smile swam across Gideon's face. Stating the obvious, the governor said: “Looks like a storm’s coming.”

  Chapter 3

  Gideon hadn’t been wrong. A storm had been coming, and after the cats and I had wrapped up our “vacation” and had headed back to Glessie Isle and The Angel Apothecary, we looked more like Jack than Rose in the final scenes of Titanic.

  You know, call me a romantic, but I always thought there had been more than enough room on that door for Jack.

  The sky had taken on a steely cast mysteriously fast, and the bottom-heavy clouds unleashed their fat, wet payload over the entire stretch of the islands. The trip home had been made even more treacherous with Fraidy’s violent shivering and nervous pacing on the thatch of the broom. Several times on the ride, I nearly lost control of the old besom and almost dumped the cats off the back end. But, we made it back happy, safe, and sound...more or less. Okay. Happy…less a definitive one.

  “P.S.A.,” Gloom grumbled as we stood just inside the threshold, a fat pool of water welling beneath our thirty collective feet. “Cats…do not…like…water. Achoo!”

  Before I could stop her, she squished a drippy trail off toward the kitchen. Three steps and a shake of the paw.

  Sneeze.

  Three steps and a shake of the paw.

  Sneeze.

  Yeeeaaahhh. I don’t think she’s gonna let me live this one down anytime soon.

  “Carbon, do you think you could get a crackling fire going in the shop’s hearth? Maybe that will help us all dry out faster,” I suggested as I peeled my cover-up from my wet body. It was like peeling the skin off an uncooperative banana.

  “I don’t-t-t th-th-th-ink s-s-s-o, B-b-boss.” Carbon’s teeth chattered so hard it sounded like he had castanets in his mouth. “I think my pilot light’s gone poof.”

  Indeed, a thin wisp of ineffectual smoke trailed from his dripping paw as he sat, staring in vain hope, at the cold, brick fireplace.

  “Alright then,” I declared positively. “Time for one of Grammy Chimera’s warming tea recipes. That’ll put us to rights in a jiffy.”

  All of us, the entire bedraggled bunch, made our way to the back end of the shop where Grammy’s cozy kitchen resided. While Grandma’s ghost didn’t officially live between the hanging cookware and the red geraniums on the sill (Grammy Chimera always said you could tell a good witch by red geraniums in her window box), her spirit was definitely imbued in the herbal traditions I employed both in the shop and sometimes in the kitchen.

  I say “sometimes” because I can burn water. No, seriously. I once nearly set the entire shop ablaze when I forgot a pot of pasta water boiling on the stove. I would have grabbed the handle to yank the heated metal crock off the gas flame, but, heh, wouldn’t you know, the handle had melted into a thick, contorted twist of liquefied, black plastic.

  After the third such incident, Zander Diablo, captain of the Gless Inlet Volunteer Fire Department, had heartily suggested I stick to microwave meals.

  But, tea? Tea I could make. Herbs were my wheelhouse. There wasn’t much I didn’t know about them…or couldn’t do with them. I suppose that’s why Chief Trew kept requesting my assistance on police cases. Death was always a real mother, but when the “mother” was Nature? Sometimes it took a skilled eye to pick her out of the proverbial line-up.

  “Maybe he just likes having you around, Hattie,” Onyx chimed in rudely reading my thoughts again.

  “Thanks, Onyx. But, really. Who am I fooling? David and I have known each other for years. And, he hasn't made his move yet, has he? Not to mention, something has been different with David lately. Did you see that streak of white in his hair? I know they say stress can turn you prematurely gray. And I know he’s been under a lot of pressure from the suits in Talisman lately. What with the suspicion of a Fae uprising, and what-not. But, a pure white streak? And nearly overnight? I don’t believe that nonsense about Violet for a second! I don’t like it. We’ve always told each other everything.”

  “Everything?” Shade teased.

  I grabbed a tea towel hanging from the door of the range and threw it over him, giving his fur a vigorous rub with it in the process. I heard his purr from underneath the fabric.

  “What is he hiding from me?” I cried. I surprised myself even with the sound of desperation in my voice.

  I grabbed the jar off the top shelf. The startled outcry toppled Onyx off the counter and onto Jet, my heretofore feline in absentia.

  “Fur-real, dude!?” Jet yowled.

  “My humblest apologies, dear brother. How did you fare in our absence?” Onyx queried.

  Jet shrugged. “Stayed in. Binge-watched old episodes of Bewitched. I kept trying to do that nose thing, but, I gotta say. Elizabeth Montgomery? Girl had skills!”

  While the rest of the cats had been fairly eager to join me on Cathedral’s sunny shores, Jet had remained perfectly content to curl up on the overstuffed sofa and succumb to a little boob-tube sedation. Agoraphobia had that effect on him. He was usually able to keep it in check with a regulated helping of catnip, but, the downside was, I lost a lot of glassware when he rocketed around the shop. Millie had taken to keeping a spray bottle handy. And when Jet needed to cool his, Millie doused him proper with a well-aimed stream. If “The Water Bottle” ever becomes an Olympic event on the Mainland? She'd claim Gold. For sure.

  “Whatcha whipping, up, Hat?” Jet asked, nosing around the Mason jar I held in my hand. “Anything with catnip, by chance?”

  “No, Jet. Just nettle.”

  Nettle was a fairly prolific plant, not much more than a common weed chucked out of most folks’ gardens when they did the spring landscaping. What a folly! Urtica had a plethora of uses! ‘Course, I might not want to let that little tidbit out, or I might put myself out of business! Who would come to the apothecary to assuage their ailments when all they had to do was nick a little nettle from their own backyard? Cut yourself shaving…nettle acted as a styptic to stop the blood flowing. Feeling stuffy? It was a natural decongestant. Just gave birth? It was a super-effective galactagogue.

  “Galactagogue,” I said the funny word out loud.

  Yeah, okay. The cat’s ears all perked on that last. Galactagogue was just an herbalists’ term for “milk-stimulator.” First time I heard it, though, I would have sworn it was some exotic temple on a far-flung alien planet from Star Trek. Ha! Kirk thought he had trouble with Tribbles? He should have tried living with eight immortal magical cats!

  I trailed a curious finger through the air, perusing the rest of the vast inventory of fresh and dried flora I kept stocked on the shelves. Herbs for cooking. Herbs for salves. Herbs for unguents, balms, elixirs, infusions and teas. Let's not forget the herbs to increase libido. (Bee-tee-dubs. In case you’re wondering, forget oysters. Try a little basil.)

  Oh, I carried plenty of baneful herbs as well. Hellebore, wormwood, hydra-root, demongrass et al. And the deceptively named Angel’s Trumpet. Beautiful though the plant was, with its perfumey, bell-shaped flowers, it could cause intense, skull-splitting, migraine-like headaches not to mention mind-blowing hallucinations.

  “Angel’s Trumpet! Oh, H-E-double hockey sticks no! That’s like asking for a bad trip, man!” Jet moaned as I pondered th
e deceptively evil herb on the shelf of the baneful supplies cupboard.

  It was sage medicinal advice. And exactly why the dangerous herbs stayed under watchful lock and key. Large quantity purchases even required an exclusive license from Talisman, the governing body of our clutch of magical isles. Not many people were granted such a permit here in Gless Inlet. In fact, I could think of only one.

  The intimidating Portia Fearwyn, witch of the Gorthland Swamps.

  Remember those warty old crones of movie and book fame I may have mentioned earlier? Yep, the old hag was their poster child.

  Portia inhabited a decrepit, crumbling manor in the far flung reaches of the Gorth Swamps. In truth, it was likely much better that way. Or, at the very least, safer for the general populace. Portia was inclined to practice the gloomier side of magic – dark spells with even darker intentions.

  All sorts of odd things could be seen and heard in the peculiar skies above Portia’s home. Chilling shrieks. Curdling howls. Arcing bolts of eerie green lightning, even though no storm gathered for miles.

  I recalled a probing visit during our investigation into the Spithilda Roach murder. Chief Trew and I had had ample reason to suspect Portia had dispatched the unpleasant witch. But, the only thing I’d discovered was an unusually modern, flush, steel set of doors in her basement. I found out about this when the Infiniti and I rescued Portia from being shackled in her own cellar during the Spithilda Roach investigation.

  Portia had waffled when offering an explanation for why doors of such magnitude were located in her basement. “Root cellar” just hadn’t seemed to cut it. The intimidating metal doors with their strange, complicated lock, located in the wall to the right side of them certainly had looked robust enough to contain a formidable secret. Couple that with the tendrils of wispy fog that had snaked its way through the minuscule crack where the doors met, and the secret only deepened.

  Portia, in her defense, did exhibit rare moments of helpful benevolence, however. She occasionally provided tidbits of useful information that helped further our case. I suppose I have Grammy Chimera to thank for that. She had known Portia for a number of years before she passed away. While they weren’t inclined to swap casserole recipes or dance around the Samhain fire together, they had each enjoyed a healthy respect for each other’s abilities as formidable practitioners of their respective arts. Still, I was sorely glad for any opportunity to avoid Portia Fearwyn.

  A sudden shiver rippled down my spine. I turned my attentions back to the tea. “Let’s see. Still need Burdock Root, some Hawthorn Berries to brighten it up, and…ginger for a bit of warmth and zip!”

  “Zip! Jet burbled cheerily, secretly glad, I think, for the return of our company. “That’s my middle name!”

  “No, it isn’t, dufus,” Gloom corrected morosely. “It’s Merlin. But, I’m gonna magically make you disappear if you don’t shut your mouse hole soon.”

  She shivered. Then sneezed. Then gave me a baleful stare that told me I had a lot to answer for.

  Hm. Maybe I’d slip a little St. John’s Wort into Gloom’s tea. After all, she needed a whole other kind of chill.

  I placed all of the gathered herbs on the weathered formica countertop and filled Grammy’s old tea kettle with water. I had just set it onto the gas burner when a scream rang out, and a loud thud echoed from the front of the shop.

  The cats and I, sans Gloom, rushed to the front of the store as a collective unit to investigate. As we skidded into the room, it was snowing. Well, not snow snow. But, a flurry of paper flyers swirled in a printed blizzard around the bubblegum dolloped form of Millie Midge, who lay crumpled in a heap on the wooden-planked floor, as the paper fluttered down around her.

  “Millie?” I queried, not sure I recognized my herbal assistant under all that pink hair.

  “Omigosh! Hattie! I am so glad you’re here! I was just leaving the print shop, you know, to print all these flyers about the town meeting and I saw the lights on in the shop. Oh, and have you heard about the Sugar Dunes project that’s being proposed? Goodness, no. Of course you haven’t. You’ve been on vacation. Goodness. That reminds me. How was it? Anyway, I saw the light on, like I said, and came in to check on Jet and the shop. You know, to make sure everything was okay. You know how Jet is. But, there was water on the floor. So, I was afraid a pipe had burst. But, now I see you’re all wet, so I guess that’s where the water came from. But, then I slipped, and the papers fell. And so, here I am, and there you are, and…where was I going with this?”

  “Midnight Hill from the sounds of it,” Jet whispered to Carbon from behind a discreet paw. His reference to Glessie Isle’s asylum for the insane wasn't lost on me. Millie looked positively raving.

  “Think she needs a douse with the water bottle?” Shade offered?

  I gave him a reprimanding look and rushed to help my assistant to her feet.

  “Are you okay, Millie? You took quite a tumble.”

  She grabbed my hand graciously. “Oh, no. I'm all right, Hattie. I’m just a little flustered, what with the Sugar Dunes proposal, and all. The impact it will have on the environment if the plans go ahead could be disastrous!”

  “What on earth are you talking about, Mil? What Sugar Dunes proposal?”

  Millie grabbed one of the flyers. “Here. They’re proposing an airstrip development out there! Do you have any idea what that could do to the nesting grounds of the terns, or how it will affect coastal erosion patterns?”

  Airstrip? Didn’t I remember reading something about a proposed runway in the research vaults of the Talisman Tribune?

  I looked down at the flyer. “COUNCIL MEETING. GLES INLET TOWN HALL. MONDAY 7:00 PM. AGENDA: OPEN FORUM RE PROPOSED SUGAR DUNES STRIP! COME MAKE YOUR VOICE HEARD!!! STOP THE STRIP AND PROTECT OUR BELOVED DUNES!!!”

  “They’re actually serious about building it?” I said, my brow creasing in worry.

  Millie attempted to put herself to rights and collect the errant flyers. “Yup! But, don’t worry, Hat. We’ve got a lot of good people on our side. And we’ve collected a lot of data to support our arguments. The council’s got to listen to us!”

  “I certainly hope so. It’s bad enough that when the seasonal flooding ramps up the salt content and the plants can’t handle it. It’s so hard to control the damage that can occur to fragile habitats like sand dunes. And when photosynthesis gets muddled up by the elevated water levels? The surviving submerged flora can’t do what they're supposed to, and the whole food chain goes out of whack! Forget that the sand and silt deposits that can smother them. Know what you get then?”

  Millie shook her confection-colored head.

  “Coastal erosion, cliff collapse and slumping!!! There’s your tern threat right there. Their whole ecosystem is disrupted, at best, and eradicated at worst!!!”

  My hands gesticulated with wild emotion, knocking into the counter display of essential oils. The glass vials tinkled wildly. The cats scurried for cover.

  “Correction!” Jet meowed as he raced Midnight for a spot behind the wingback. “I think Hattie’s the one who needs a squirt from the water bottle!”

  “It’s okay, Hattie. We’ve got all our ducks, er, terns in a row. We presented our case to the SPCA, and they’re sending an experienced spokesperson and nature advocate to speak on our behalf. With her on our team, there’s no way we can fail!”

  I allowed myself a moment of relief. If Millie had gotten the Supernatural Protection Coven Association involved, things weren’t as glum as they seemed. The SPCA was a group of ecologically-minded witches who were fierce supporters of all manner of wildlife across the Coven Isles. If they were sending someone to plead the plight of the terns, we stood a fighting chance against the developers.

  “That makes me feel a little bit better. Who is it?”

  Millie beamed from ear to ear. “Millicent Pond!”

  My jaw dropped slack and my stomach vaulted in a twisted somersault. Onyx clucked his tongue.

  “It sounds like yo
ur campaign to save Gless Inlet’s waterfowl has just taken an un-fur-tunate ‘tern’ for the worse.”

  "Yeah," Shade chimed in. "The campaign has run a-fowl of today's untimely events."

  I couldn’t sleep.

  Grammy Chimera’s clock tolled three, deep ominous tolls. 3:00 AM. The Witching Hour. It was an old occult belief that this was the time each night, from three to four, when all manner of malevolent forces were at work, conjuring all kinds of ill will. If something bad was going to happen, this was the time for it to occur. Hauntings. Possessions.

  Murder.

  Okay. Maybe it was my over active imagination that snuck that last in there. But, all sorts of magical practitioners, witches, sorcerers…wizards, were purported to be at their most active during this odd little fold in time.

  But, supernatural hyperactivity wasn’t just limited to magical folk.

  “Hattie?” Fraidy’s quavering mewl whispered from his cashmere fortress under the bed. The quaking kitty had made a personal castle of all my most luxurious sweaters in a vain attempt to keep out beasties and things that go bump in the night.

  “Is it true that this is the time when, gulp, ghosts can cross over to our realm? I mean, I’m not saying we should build a permanent wall or anything. That would just be inviting trouble but how safe is it to hand angry spirits a key to the front door? Have you seen the kind of damage a poltergeist can cause?”

  “No more than Jet,” Gloom growled from the foot of the bed. “Now shaddup, will ya? A girl’s gotta get her beauty sleep.”