Witching in a Winter Wonkyland: A Wonky Inn Christmas Cozy Mystery

by Jeannie Wycherley

  Witching in a Winter Wonkyland:

  A Wonky Inn Christmas Cozy Mystery

  by

  * * *

  JEANNIE WYCHERLEY

  * * *

  Copyright © 2019 Jeannie Wycherley

  Bark at the Moon Books

  All rights reserved

  * * *

  Publishers note: This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and for effect or are used with permission. Any other resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of very brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  * * *

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  * * *

  Witching in a Winter Wonkyland was edited by Anna Bloom @ The Indie Hub

  * * *

  Cover design by JC Clarke of The Graphics Shed.

  Formatting by Tammy

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Introducing Spellbound Hound Magic and Mystery Books

  Demand More Wonky!

  The Wonky story begins…

  The Wonky Inn Series

  Please consider leaving a review?

  Also by Jeannie Wycherley

  More Dark Fantasy from Jeannie Wycherley

  Coming Soon

  Witching in a Winter Wonkyland

  * * *

  is lovingly dedicated

  to the memory of my late grandfather

  James Alderson Sharp

  1899-1974

  * * *

  He taught us all we needed to know about the magic of Christmas.

  * * *

  I hope he would be proud

  xxx

  “Whaaaaaaaachoo!”

  I’d been skipping down the stairs but now I paused, cocking my head in disbelief at the volume of the sneeze; unsure where it had originated from.

  “Gesundheit,” I said when no-one appeared, and continued on my way. I really hoped none of my guests were falling ill. That would be such a shame when we were counting down to Christmas. And what a Christmas it would be. I intended to make up for last year when a fierce storm had dampened our spirits somewhat, and to that end I’d planned a week of celebrations and feasts, starting with Yule on the twenty-first and culminating in a party for the villagers on Boxing Day.

  With all the baking, roasting, and general preparation well underway, I followed my nose into the kitchen, intent on discovering the source of the delightful scents that abounded throughout my wonky inn. The kitchen smelled especially fragrant. I might have known I would find Florence hard at work, baking her beloved cakes. I could have applauded when I lay eyes on the two-tier cake she was decorating.

  “Ooh that looks beautifully festive, Florence!” I sang in delight.

  Only a few months ago, Florence had been runner up in The Great Witchy Cake Off, a popular baking programme produced for Witchflix. After almost being disqualified, because she was a ghost rather than a witch, she had scraped into the final and taken the competition by storm. Now she had a book contract in the works, and a social media presence run by her capable friend—and fellow ghost—the technical wizard, Ross Baines.

  The show had only recently finished airing and we were still receiving fan mail for Florence. There were days when I felt more like her personal assistant than her boss. She was ‘employed’ (in a manner of speaking, because I didn’t actually pay her), as the housekeeper of my Whittle Inn. On days like today she spent her afternoons perfecting recipes, scribbling down her ingredients and methods, in pursuit of the perfect mix of recipes for her forthcoming baking book.

  “Festive? I hope not, Miss Alf.” Florence frowned. Having burned to death when her skirts caught alight as she lay a fire in the bar back in the 1880s, her dress and apron had been destined to smoulder for all eternity. The sight could be off-putting if you weren’t used to it, and even now I sometimes had to waft away the stench of charred cotton myself. “It’s not a Christmas cake.”

  I investigated more closely, creeping closer and having a quick sniff, then reaching out a finger to scoop some icing from the bowl that hovered in the air between us. Ghosts only interact with the physical world through some supreme effort of will. They make things move by utilising the power of their minds. It’s a form of magick. Not much different to that which I—as a witch—employed on a daily basis.

  “Miss Alf!” Florence scolded me. “I haven’t finished with that yet. I don’t know where your hands have been.”

  “They haven’t been anywhere,” I grumbled.

  “Well that’s not strictly true, is it, my dear?” Another ghost apparated into the kitchen. My great-grandmother, Alfhild Gwynfyre Daemonne, whom I’d been named after, challenged me. Gwyn, as I called her, but never to her face, had a habit of keeping tabs on everything I did. “You were upstairs playing with that owl familiar of yours a minute ago.”

  “Weren’t you supposed to be catching up on paperwork?” Charity, my manager and at twenty-three years of age, a mere mortal fledgling, looked up from the kitchen table where she was checking through the week’s menus.

  “Are you lot ganging up on me?” I groused, deciding that offence was the best defence in this situation. I couldn’t deny that I’d been playing with Mr Hoo, and I hadn’t washed my hands, so Florence was justifiably right to be suspicious of me.

  “Wha-aaa-aaa-chooooowa!”

  “Who is that?” I asked, turning around at the sound of the sneeze, but nobody else seemed to know or care.

  I took a moment to wash my hands at the vegetable sink while Monsieur Emietter, my French ghost chef, glowered at me. Not only did he prefer that people wash their hands in the washroom provided next door, but his absolute preference was that only ghosts prepared or went anywhere near the food. Ever since we’d had a bout of food poisoning at Whittle Inn during filming for The Great Witchy Cake off, he had apparently claimed that ghosts are the most hygienic way to produce meals. However, I don’t speak French and have to rely on my great-grandmother’s translation so there’s a possibility she might have been making it up. To that end, both Charity and I were barred from touching anything in the kitchen. This was proving impossible to police because the kitchen is the warmest and cosiest place in the inn, and everyone naturally gravitates there when they have a free moment; or are hiding away from the guests and their often bizarre and eccentric demands.

  I returned my attention to Florence’s cake and brandished my now clean hands at her. “May I?” I asked and she nodded, albeit a little reluctantly. I scooped a small amount of the green icing out with my little finger and tasted it, blinking in surprise.

  “Lime?”

 
“You don’t like it, Miss?” Florence looked at me, her forehead creasing with worry.

  Charity jabbed her finger into the bowl and had a taste too. “Oooh. Sharp! That makes your eyes water a little, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s not unpleasant,” I said, connoisseur of all things cakey. “What sponge is to complement?”

  Florence nodded confidently. “Strawberry, Miss Alf.”

  “Strawberry and lime?” A note of uncertainty crept into Charity’s voice. “I tried that flavour as a cider once…” She pulled a face.

  I pondered for a few seconds. “No I can see that working just fine.” I smiled at Florence. “Can’t we try the sponge as well?”

  “No, Miss Alf. This is for the photographers when they come in a few days.”

  “Photographers?” I raised my eyebrows at Charity. I left it to my manager to deal with the reservations. But even she shrugged.

  “For my book, Miss Alf,” Florence scolded me. “I did mention it before. Several times.”

  “Oh I do remember.” I tried not to sound grudging, but I think I was a little jealous of Florence’s success, and rather worried that she would desert the inn and go off and live a celebrity lifestyle in London or some other big city. New York maybe.

  I didn’t want that to happen.

  “It does look like a Christmas cake,” I said. “All green and red like that.” But now I could see that the pretty piped icing decorations arranged along the side of the cake, were not baubles but strawberries.

  “I think you might need spectacles, Miss Alf.” Florence attended to piping delicate and tiny strawberry seeds on her decorations.

  “It’s all about context,” I said. “We’re only a week away from Christmas. You should be preparing orange and cinnamon cake, or fruit cake, or… or…” I flailed around trying to conjure up more Christmas type flavours. “Rum and coke!”

  “Don’t you worry, Miss Alf, it’s all in hand. Now go away and stop bothering me. I have so much to do and you’re not helping.”

  Feeling suitably chastised, I pouted. “I was hoping for a piece of cake and cup of tea for my afternoonses,” I protested.

  “Out. Out!” Florence shooed me away. Gwyn snorted in amusement and even Charity had to hide a grin.

  “Fine. I’ll starve then.” I glowered at my great-grandmother.

  “Chance would be a fine thing.” Charity giggled. “Go back to your ‘paperwork’, boss. I’ll fetch you up a cuppa when I’m finished with the menus.”

  “Thank you, Charity! That’s generous of you,” I said loudly as I backtracked to the door. “At least someone cares that I’m getting the proper amount of sustenance.”

  This time both Charity and Gwyn guffawed in unison. Admitting defeat, I swung through the kitchen door and into the hall.

  “Whaaaaachoooo!”

  I paused and wrinkled my nose. One of my poor guests evidently had a touch of the winter sniffles. It seemed beholden on me, as the proud proprietor of Whittle Inn, to investigate who that might be and arrange for the proper remedies to be administered. My kitchen could provide healthy and warming soups or lemon and ginger drinks for invalids. I could even arrange for medicinal doses of brandy or whisky if required. And if those failed to make my poorly guest better, I supposed I could always consider sending for my good friend Millicent, who lived down the lane in the village of Whittlecombe. A fellow witch, Millicent’s potions were second to none.

  So I followed the sound of sneezing, intent on fulfilling my role as benign benefactor. Little did I know just what a cataclysm of events were about to unfold.

  “Luppitt?”

  “I wouldn’t come any closer, my Lady. I think I may be suffering with the plague.”

  Luppitt Smeatharpe had sought refuge in one of the guest bedrooms on the same floor as my own suite of rooms. The exact same room where I’d originally found him, months ago, hiding out and weeping as though his heart would burst because somebody had been trying to kill him. I’d struggled to understand that at the time. Luppitt Smeatharpe, a ghost from the court of Elizabeth I, was after all, and had been for over five hundred years, dead. How, I’d puzzled, do you kill a ghost?

  It had turned out that you could, but we’d put his world to rights and reunited him with his travelling minstrel friends, The Devonshire Fellows. Now he drove me crazy by constantly practising court music on his lute at all hours of the day and night.

  One thing I’d found since taking over at Whittle Inn is that ghosts have few, if any, boundaries, and if you attempt to set some yourself, they are soon overstepped.

  I stood in the bedroom doorway regarding Luppitt with some trepidation. I wouldn’t put it past him to have contracted the plague just to spite me. Things had settled down at the inn in the run up to Christmas and I was looking forward to the festivities. I needed a little peace and goodwill to all witchkind in my life after the year I’d had. Luppitt, more than any other ghost residing within my four walls knew that. He was also the one most prone to melodrama.

  “Come, come Luppitt,” I told him. “I think you’re being a little OTT. Have you been sniffing the poinsettia?”

  “Certai-ah-ah-ah-chooooooowa!” Luppitt sneezed so hard, he propelled himself backwards by a good few inches. “Certainly not, my Lady. It’s the plague I tell you.” He slumped further down, head low over his stomach, his shoulders hunched around his ears.

  “How, by all that’s green, do ghosts get the plague?” I asked aloud, more for my own benefit than his. I knew it had to be feasible. This was Luppitt after all. Anything goes where he’s concerned. “Do you have buboes?”

  “Not that I know of, my Lady. Perhaps they haven’t fully developed yet.”

  “Ever the optimist, eh Luppitt?” I clapped my hands, attempting to rally his spirits, if you’ll pardon the pun. “Come on! Think positive. You know I need you—and the rest of The Devonshire Fellows—fighting fit and ready to entertain all of our guests on Christmas Eve. The inn will be full, and everyone is already really looking forward to it.”

  “I’ll try not to give in to it, my Lady. It may not be fatal, after all. I shall do my very best to recover.” Luppitt sniffed and coughed and clamped a hand to his forehead with a groan. I pursed my lips, considering his slight figure. Given that ghosts are already fairly transparent, is it possible for them to appear paler still?

  I had to admit, he didn’t sound at all well. The dark circles under his eyes suggested he might be telling the truth. But I doubted he had the plague. In this day and age? Surely not.

  “Maybe you should take it easy for now,” I decided. “But I don’t think you can stay in this room, Luppitt. It’s booked out for one of our guests. You’ll have to go up to the attic.”

  Luppitt nodded slowly, a pitiful movement if ever I’d seen one. “Very well, my Lady. It’s just my head is aching so… I came in here. I merely desired a little peace.”

  “I feel for you,” I said, because I did. It’s never any fun being ill after all. “Maybe you’d benefit from a little fresh air? A walk in the woods always does me the world of good.”

  Luppitt shuffled off the bed, his shoulders remaining hunched as though to ward off blows. “I’ll certainly take that into consideration, my Lady. But at the moment I’m not sure I could make it that far.” He bowed stiffly to me, not his usual flamboyant farewell, and disappeared from view, heading—I supposed—to the room in the attic where most of the inn’s dozens of ghosts hung out.

  “I hope you feel better soon,” I called after him, but I couldn’t be sure he’d heard me because he didn’t respond again.

  Back in my office I glared at the spreadsheet on my computer screen. The numbers seemed to blur into each other. “Boring.” I groaned and then tapped a couple of numbers into one cell half-heartedly before rapidly deleting them.

  “Oh I can’t be bothered.” I slumped in my chair. “It’s the holidays!”

  Mr Hoo, sitting on his perch in front of the cheerful fire that burned in the grate, regar
ded me through bright knowing eyes.

  “Hooo. Hoo. Hoooo.”

  I tutted. “Yes, thanks. I know I have to have the figures ready for Penelope by tomorrow… but it’s Christmas!”

  “Hoooo. Hoo!”

  “Well it’s practically Christmas,” I griped. “You’re such a wretched pedant.”

  He turned his head right around, like some weird extra from The Exorcist. “Hoo. Hoooo-oooo.”

  “Yes. I’d love to go for a walk.” I peered with longing at the window. Outside the sky was milky white. It would be dark within an hour.

  “Hooooooo?”

  I glanced from my spreadsheet to Mr Hoo and back to the window. “I suppose I could always come back to this after I’ve finished helping with the dinner service this evening?”

  “Hoo!” My little owl winked at me.

  “Alright! You’ve convinced me!” I pushed myself away from my desk with more energy than I’d displayed all afternoon and stood up.

  “Hooo-ooo. Ooh.” Mr Hoo shook himself so that all his feathers puffed up.

  “Yes, I’ll wrap up,” I replied and trotted off in search of my coat and scarf.

  My owl wasn’t wrong. The temperature had plummeted during the course of the afternoon and I was glad of my coat, scarf and gloves. I pulled my witch’s hat down as far as I could, but it didn’t come close to covering my ears. I’d have been better off investing in a pom-pom hat.