by Ellen Jane
Heather privately noted that she certainly didn’t think Sinéad was her friend. Then she remembered the brief daydream from mere moments ago and took a gulp of tea to hide her blush.
“I heard you talking to Chief Cooper last night,” Sinéad continued. “You find things: lost things. Well, I’ve misplaced a lying arsewipe with a vendetta against me—find them.”
Heather frowned. “How do you know they’ve got anything against you? Your painting could have been a convenient scapegoat. Though, what spell was used?”
“Compulsion,” Sinéad said flatly, taking a sip of her tea. “They compelled someone to stab the Earl and then disappear. No idea who held the knife, or if they knew what they were doing at all. They might not even remember doing it. And even though the room was crowded, no one saw them do it—which could all be the charm, of course, aiding them to act discreetly.”
That explained why they’d taken Sinéad in, but as for the rest of it . . .
“It doesn’t make sense,” Heather insisted. “How did they get the charm onto the painting in the first place, when it was in the main room? Unless the charm was woven through the art itself—which you’re telling me it wasn’t—it would make far more sense to put it on an item they could bring into the room with them, like a plate of food. Why put it on something so noticeable, so easily thwarted, unless they were trying to frame you after all?”
Sinéad grinned, a feral bearing of teeth, over the top of her cup. “I told you I wanted you to find them. I’ll help you, of course—witch magic can only get you so far—but I’m sure you’ll find something to get us started on the right foot. The police don’t look like they have a shred of magic amongst them.”
Heather ignored the barb—nothing she hadn’t expected from a sorcerer—and chewed on her lip, staring into her cup of tea as she tried to convince herself she was ridiculous to even consider it. She wasn’t a police officer; she didn’t hunt down criminals, let alone murderers. She had a small, modest business retrieving lost and, very occasionally, stolen items, that was all. It was ludicrous to even consider . . .
“I’ll do it,” she said, eyes snapping up to Sinéad’s.
Sinéad watched her intently, as if she could predict Heather’s response via telepathy. It was unnerving and, oddly, a little captivating.
“I mean,” she amended. “I’ll try. I make no promises. I’m not even going to draw up a contract for this, because there’s no guarantee there will be any results.”
“Pro bono?” Sinéad enquired, sounding deeply disappointed. “Why am I not surprised?”
Heather sniffed. “It wouldn’t be right to charge you.”
“Tell you what: you offer your services pro bono, and then, at the end, I will gift you an appropriate amount for your time and dedication.”
“How much are you gifting me?” Heather narrowed her eyes. “It has to be lower than my going rate, or it’s not a gift, it’s a payment.”
“It is a gift if I say it is a gift and if you have chosen not to charge me,” Sinéad insisted with a predatory smile. “Do you presume to limit the monetary expression of my gratitude?”
They glared at each other for several moments.
“If it’s too large, I simply won’t accept it.” Heather finished with a smile, and then she drained her tea.
After a pause, Sinéad sniffed and followed suit, rising from the table in one graceful movement.
“If you need me, I’m staying in room three at the Shepherd’s Inn.” She produced a card with her number on it and slid it across the table. “Would you like me to write it down?”
“No need,” Heather said, taking the card and sticking it to the fridge. “I eat there on Wednesdays. I know the owners.”
She thought Sinéad might have muttered ‘of course you do’ under her breath, but she ignored it.
They stepped over the boxes in the hall and reached the front door.
“You’re putting up your Christmas decorations?” Sinéad asked, prodding one of the boxes with her toe. It jingled.
“I was just about to.”
Heather nudged the boxes out of the way. It seemed they had been knocked over when the dogs came through.
“Oh, actually,” she said, pausing and wondering if she was about to get verbally slapped just for asking. “Would you mind holding this up for a second? The spells wear off every few years, and the lights are getting a little too worn to make it all the way on their own.”
Sinéad looked at her in confusion, one hand poised to turn the handle. Before she could make up her mind, Heather pounced on the box, pulled the lights out, and shoved them into Sinéad’s hands.
“I just need you to hold them up against the wall,” she said. “Just above your head or something. It will only take a minute.”
Sinéad stared at her, brow wrinkled in alarm, before she slowly held the lights above her head.
“I’m docking five percent of your gift on account of the fact that you’re utterly mad and clearly going to drag me down with you,” she said calmly.
Heather ignored her and picked up the trailing end of the lights, hooking it over her wrist and holding it in front of her mouth.
“Up you go,” she said.
With a lazy rustle, like an old man getting out of a chair, the lights flickered into life and began to rise into the air. Sinéad’s eyes widened.
“My dad made them do that,” Heather said as the lights arranged themselves above the picture rail in the hall and into the living room. “Both he and my mum were carpenter witches. He threaded wooden beads along the lights and spelled them to float when commanded. It’s wearing off now, but I freshen them up with potions every couple of years. I did it to all the rest of the decorations, too.”
She turned to the rest of the box and lifted the lid to reveal an array of baubles and shimmering, slightly chewed tinsel.
“Decorate the tree,” she told them.
With a little shimmy, they rose into the air and flew to the huge pine tree in the corner of the living room. In a few moments, the tree was shining and full of ornaments.
She turned back to see Sinéad regarding her with an unreadable expression.
“That was surprisingly skilled,” she murmured. “I’m impressed.”
Before Heather could react, Sinéad swept out the door with an elegant wave of her hand and was gone, leaving Heather alone to contemplate exactly what she had just gotten herself into.
This was bound to end in disaster. What had she been thinking, saying yes? Even her most talented line of questioning was unlikely to return anything useful. It had been such a crowded party; none of the furniture was likely to have seen anything at all.
She walked back into the kitchen and stared at the business card stuck to the fridge. It had a little design in the corner: the silhouette of a woman sketched in two swift lines of calligraphy. As Heather watched, the image shifted, the woman peering over her shoulder and winking at Heather before looking away.
She raised her eyebrows, wondering what exactly the purpose of that was, and moved to turn away, when she froze. Perhaps there was someone she could ask after all.
Chapter Three
It was amazing how one day the town would just be an ordinary, quiet village—well-kept gardens and a pretty shopping strip, to be sure, but nothing special—and then, on the first of December, everything exploded into a sea of colour and glitter.
The tiny village of Old Wetchhaven, where Heather had lived all her life, prided itself on its overnight transformation. Bigger cities would spend days on the task, often decked out in Christmas colours by the start of November, but Old Wetchhaven kept to its tradition and turned into Tinsel Town in a span of twelve hours.
When she was little, Heather used to think it was elves. Now that she was an adult, she had known for many years that it was a volunteer crew of village shopkeepers that rolled up to the town square at midnight, decked out with thick coats and steaming thermoses, and got to work as quietly as th
ey could.
Still, it felt a little magical as she walked through the town square, snow falling gently around her while the lights from the enormous Christmas tree danced across her white coat. Carollers were setting up by the fountain, warming up their voices and jostling each other for a spot closest to the tree.
Several people looked over at her and began to talk rapidly to their friends, but Heather held her head high and ignored them. It wasn’t as though she had done anything to be embarrassed about, and most of the town were her friends. It would blow over. It was just a matter of when. Small towns were the kings of the rumour mill.
She marched through the town centre and up the hill to Patricia Cornwell’s manor. Unsurprisingly, there were three police cars out front when she made it to Patricia’s gate, and the whole area was fenced off with tape. She glanced around to make sure no one was looking and ducked under.
“Oi!” A policeman, whose lopsided hat was barely managing to contain his wild red hair, started running up to her. “This is a crime scene. You’ll have to go, Miss.”
Heather held up her hands innocently and smiled, her heart beating fast. “I’m friends with Patricia Cornwell,” she lied. “I seem to have lost an earring at the party last night. I just wanted to come and see if I could find it at all.”
He shook his head, curls bouncing around his face. “Not today, you can’t. Send ‘er a message an’ come back tomorrow.”
“Is Chief Cooper here?” she enquired, sidling up to the door like she hadn’t heard a word he’d said. “He can vouch for me. Chief!” She called into the house and hoped he was there.
The poor policeman looked both confused and upset, as if he had never imagined someone simply not listening. “You’ll have to leave, Miss.”
“Heather,” Chief Cooper stuck his head out the door and gave her a bemused look. “I would have thought you’d want to keep far away from here.”
She gave the red-haired policeman a blinding smile, pretending not to see his hangdog look, and ducked into the foyer.
“Lost an earring,” she said, tapping her ear and adopting a sad expression.
Chief Cooper barked a laugh. “Well, can’t imagine it will take you long to find it. I’ll escort you through the crime scene. Must be careful not to touch anything.”
“Of course!” she agreed, her heart sinking.
She had hoped for a spare moment to question the painting herself, but it would seem luck wasn’t on her side. But then . . . she could always join forces with the police. Offer her services this one time, and then pursue her own investigation.
She fought back a grimace at the certain knowledge that Sinéad would not be happy with that. She’d have to think of something else.
“I just have to do a little spell,” she said with a smile, holding up the pair to her earring—which was currently sitting at home in her jewellery box.
A voice from the stairs interrupted her planning. “And there she is—the gate-crasher.”
Patricia’s aristocratic tones were at odds with the sneer on her face. A servant followed behind her, carrying several large suitcases and staggering under the weight.
Heather felt her cheeks heat. “It was only—”
“Is there anything else you might like to help yourself to in my home? You’ve already invaded my privacy, the privacy of my guests, and our sense of decorum.” She came to a halt on the second to last step and glared down at Heather, her blonde bob framing her face and making her features seem even sharper. “Honestly, I was relieved you cast something to hide that hideous thing you were wearing last night. If we’d been able to notice it, our guests would have lost their appetite.”
There was a special sort of hell in being dressed down by a rich elitist in front of one’s friends, especially when it was a rich elitist with whom one had gone to school. It didn’t happen very often, since Heather made a point to avoid all opportunities, but when Jen had insisted the only way of finding her ring had been to enter Patricia’s home, Heather had decided one night couldn’t hurt.
“Patricia, it was for a good reason,” she said, trying to ignore the way Patricia’s lips thinned whenever she grew dangerously close to lashing out. If Heather could just mollify the situation, maybe she could get out of here without causing a scene.
“Good reason?” Patricia snapped. “You call entering my home uninvited—using magic to invade my privacy—and practically accusing me of common thievery good reason? Mr. Cooper, you should have kept her overnight until she at least found a sense of decency. What happened to consequences these days? People seem to think they can get away with anything.”
“Miss Cornwell, please try to keep it civil. Miss Millington is only here to collect her earring and then she will be on her way,” Chief Cooper said, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck and looking like he’d very much prefer to be home taking a three-hour nap.
Patricia sniffed. “Her earring? A likely story. How does a witch who sniffs out jewellery for a living lose some of her own, hmm? Don’t you have a spell for that?” She looked down her nose at Heather, her contempt shifting into suspicion. “She’s probably here to steal the silver.”
“That’s quite enough, Miss Cornwell.” Chief Cooper hustled over to the staircase and stood between the two of them, his stout frame blocking the tiny Patricia from view as if he could prevent Heather from hearing her vitriol by sight alone. “My men will escort you to your car.”
He jabbed his fingers in a complicated gesture, and one of the newer recruits, who was just walking past, stumbled to follow orders.
Heather’s face went white with rage, but she was powerless to say anything. It was as if she wanted to say so much that everything got caught up and tangled on her tongue, trying to come out all at once.
She heard the click of heels on wood as Patricia took a step backwards, up the staircase, the top of her hair popping back into view.
“I’ll remain right here until she’s found her earring and left.”
Chief Cooper dropped back down the step, his expression that of a man re-evaluating the responsibilities of his pay bracket.
“Come on, Heather,” Cooper muttered. “It’s best if you just find your earring and head out, quick as you can.”
She started, brought back to the present in a rush as she realised everyone was waiting for her to do her spell, which would lead a shimmering trail straight back out the front door and validate all of Patricia’s accusations.
She opened her mouth to make an excuse, but only managed to stutter.
Patricia rolled her eyes. “See? She’s been caught out. You should arrest her and take her in for further questioning. Last night was probably a cover.” She smirked.
“I was told country towns had their charms,” a bored voice interrupted, the words punctuated by the sound of stilettos clicking across the floorboards, “but I had no idea it came with such petty drama.”
Heather turned to see Sinéad walking across the room. She wore a contemptuous expression that almost made Heather take a step backwards, until she realised it was directed at Patricia.
Her eyes slid to Heather’s for a moment, and the expression softened, though the irritation was still clear to see. Heather blinked a little in surprise, but then, fortunately, her brain resumed working and she realised she was being given a very brief, very fortuitous distraction opportunity.
She tried to communicate this to Sinéad with her eyes, but likely only succeeded in looking like she was about to have a stroke. Sinéad gave her a funny look and then stepped straight into the line of fire.
“Are you honestly insinuating that this woman here, a woman who I can only assume has arranged a charity drive at least once, a woman who offers thousands of dollars in bail money to a stranger, this woman right here, had something to do with the murder last night?”
Heather was almost offended, but then, she had organised the fundraising for the Old Wetchhaven soup kitchen that one time, and there had been the whole thin
g with the cheque and the local newspaper . . . There was probably even a photo. Best to let it go.
Patricia sneered. “She offered you bail money? Chief Cooper, are you hearing this? They’re probably in this together.”
As inexplicable as Sinéad’s defence was, it gave Heather a small boost of confidence that had her turning to shoot Patricia an innocent smile.
“You’re really making this far more involved than it needs to be,” she said.
She injected a note of irritation into her voice that she hoped would convince Patricia to walk off in a huff. She was only ever about five seconds away from it anyway.
Patricia spluttered. “Making it more—? How dare you, you little—! I know you’re up to something, just the same as you always were back in school. Always sneaking around on your own, spying on everyone.”
“I had no friends!” Heather shouted, incredulous.
Sinéad rolled her eyes. “Here, let me lay it out for you very clearly. Patricia, Chief Cooper.” She nodded to each of them in turn.
She plucked a business card from her front pocket. It wasn’t like the one she had given Heather—this one was all in colour. The stylish lines that formed the woman on the side were done in a bold pink calligraphy, and the background seemed to be a strange mix of all the colours of blue that Heather could imagine.
Patricia’s eyes were fixed to the card. There was something strange in her expression, something suddenly a little vague and distant. Heather turned to look at Chief Cooper, wondering if he noticed too, but she was alarmed to find he looked exactly the same as Patricia.
“You begged me for a commission,” Sinéad said slowly. Her eyes slid to Heather’s, giving her a sharp, meaningful look, before she turned her attention back to Patricia.
Heather frowned for a moment, before it hit her like a fifty-pound Rottweiler: this was the distraction. Slowly, she began to back away towards the painting.
“Do you see this card?” Sinéad continued, voice still calm and soothing, despite the edge of genuine anger. “This is my name. My brand. You sent me letter after letter, begging for a painting to be unveiled at last night’s party.” She tapped the card against her chin and looked into the distance. “You were very specific about the date, even when I assured you it would be ready months in advance. And then, I find out that my painting has been used against me. A spell has been cast on it that nearly gets me accused of murder. I find this very intriguing, I have to say.”