Magic, Murder & Mistletoe

by Ellen Jane

  Heather reached the painting and quickly unscrewed the cap from the little jar of ointment. She rubbed a dab of it onto the corner of the frame and stared at the willowy man in the centre, urging him to hurry up under her breath.

  “Do you think, perhaps, this insistence that Heather is an evil mastermind could be a cover?” Sinéad mused. “What say you, Chief?”

  Chief Cooper grunted. For a second, Heather nearly called out in moral objection on the chief’s behalf, but then she remembered she had technically asked for this. Before she could decide if it was really worth it, the painting behind her coughed.

  She spun around eagerly.

  “I’m so sorry, I don’t have much time!” she hissed. “Can you tell me if anyone has tampered with you since you’ve been hanging here?”

  The man sneered down his nose at her. Remembering who the artist was, she held back a groan.

  “Charming to see manners are still in vogue,” he quipped, brushing an imaginary speck of dust off his jacket.

  Heather closed her eyes and silently screamed. This was taking too long; Patricia was beginning to object in the background. Whatever Sinéad was doing to them was wearing off.

  “Please!” she snapped.

  Another voice beside her perked up.

  You’re back, dear, the geranium whispered. Wasn’t last night just dreadful?

  Heather blinked in surprised. “You can still talk?” she asked.

  Oh yes, it’s shown no sign of fading away just yet. Positively delightful, I must say. Very strong. You’ve done well.

  Heather shook her head. “I’m sorry, I can’t talk just now.” She turned back to the painting. “Please, can you tell me anything at all?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “I assume I am to be compensated for this rude awakening?”

  “You’ve been used in a crime.” Heather tried to speak calmly. “The artist who painted you is being accused of the murder, and we need to know who cast a spell on you and how.”

  “A criminal?” he adjusted his lapel sharply and showed all his teeth in a smile. “How scandalous.”

  “You know,” Heather said shrewdly. “If you don’t help us, I’m pretty sure the artist is going to be so annoyed she’ll paint over you.”

  The man’s face whitened substantially. “I didn’t see them,” he said, his demeanour collapsing into disappointment. “I was sleeping. But when I woke up, there was a spell on my wine glass.” He tapped the offending glass with a sneer. “Compulsion charm, I believe. By eight that evening, there was poison in the punch. Well, someone’s punch. I didn’t see whose.”

  “Poison?!” Heather’s eyes widened. “The victim was stabbed!”

  “Stabbing?” The man shuddered. “How barbaric. No, I’m quite certain it was poison. Dragonshade. Terrible stuff.”

  “Do you know who the spell chose to do it?” Her gaze fell on the wine glass, where someone had made two small stitches into the canvas. The spell must have been in the thread.

  “Hardly. It was an excellent spell, very discreet. Best I can tell, it chose the opportune moment to attract the least attention.”

  The faint stamp of a foot in the background told her that Patricia was waking up and she wasn’t happy. “Thank you for your time,” she whispered.

  Then, she erased the enchantment and hurried back to her place.

  “Oh, take your time,” Sinéad muttered. “I’m only hypnotising a policeman and a madwoman for you. No rush.”

  “Why did you have to paint such an arsehole?” she snapped back. “It would have been done in five minutes otherwise.”

  She pulled out a notebook from her bag and quickly wrote down what the painting had said, including the name of the poison.

  Sinéad smirked. “Not my fault if they come out with some bite.”

  Heather was sure it was entirely Sinéad’s fault, but at that point, Patricia’s eyes lost their vacant look and she shook her head like a duck emerging from water.

  Sinéad tucked the business card back into her pocket and raised her eyebrows politely.

  “What,” Patricia spat through gritted teeth, “exactly are you suggesting? That I somehow purchased your artwork with the express purpose of framing you for murder? You’re insane!”

  “I hear all the best artists are,” Sinéad mused. “But bored housewives make the best serial killers.”

  Heather stepped between them and held up her earring with a bright smile, just as Chief Cooper grabbed ahold of Patricia’s shoulder.

  “I found my earring while you were arguing,” she lied, grabbing Sinéad’s elbow and steering her towards the door, before they could realise it was the earring she had walked in with. “We’ll get out of your hair immediately.”

  “What?” Patricia shrieked. “Chief, I have just been accused of murder. Are you going stand there and let her get away with this? Heather, I know you’re up to something. You probably brought that earring with you!”

  The sound of her voice faded behind them as Heather let the foyer doors shut with a slam. Her whole body sagged with relief, and Sinéad extracted her arm and looked around to make sure they were alone.

  “Did you get what you were after?” she asked. “I saw you walking past the inn and figured you were on your way to investigate.”

  “What did you do to them?” Heather spat, ignoring the question. “Was that even legal?”

  Sinéad shrugged. “Their will was their own, so I did nothing wrong. I merely calmed them and captivated their attention. As you can see, it’s short-lived.”

  Heather wrinkled up her face and closed her eyes. The thought of someone catching them doing that to the chief gave her hives.

  “All right,” she said, opening her eyes and glaring at Sinéad. “Thank you.”

  Sinéad snorted. “Yes, I really believe you, what with the whole ‘drop dead, Sinéad’ thing you’ve got going on with your face there. You’re welcome. It’s nice to be appreciated.”

  “Are you always so sure of yourself?”

  “It worked, didn’t it?”

  They were interrupted by the soft thunk of something hitting the back of Heather’s coat. She spun around and looked down, expecting to see a snowball. Instead, it was a folded piece of paper. Frowning, she picked it up and unfolded it while Sinéad leaned over her shoulder to read.

  Meet me at the Shepherd’s Inn tonight. Seven o’clock. I have information.

  “Someone knows we’re looking,” Sinéad whispered.

  “Do you think we should meet them?” Heather asked, a little shiver running down her spine.

  She looked around the garden but couldn’t see anyone nearby. Whoever had thrown the note had done so discreetly.

  “What do you think?” Sinéad asked, turning to her. “Did you find out anything useful from the painting?”

  Heather’s eyes widened as she remembered her discovery. “The painting didn’t compel the murderer to stab the Earl. It compelled someone to put poison in his punch. Dragonshade, apparently.”

  Sinéad’s eyebrows drew together. “Dragonshade is very temperamental. If you don’t get the dosage just right, it only gives the appearance of death.” She shook her head. “And anyway, he wasn’t poisoned.”

  “Do we know that for sure?”

  They stared at each other.

  “It would be in the autopsy report,” Heather said slowly. “But we can’t access that.”

  Sinéad made a thoughtful noise at the back of her throat. “I might have a way.”

  Heather thought of the glazed expressions on Patricia and the chief’s faces. Perhaps she needed to start thinking outside the box.

  The wind picked up around them in an icy swirl of snow as they shared a look. Heather was starting to feel in well over her head, and it was clear that Sinéad was equally as alarmed at the new information.

  But then Sinéad shook her head and took a step back, sticking her hands into the pockets of her slim-cut, black coat and staring mutinously into the distance. H
eather felt some of her uncertainty melt away.

  “Why my painting?” Sinéad murmured, but she didn’t sound lost or forlorn. She sounded furious, like a sorcerer intent on justice.

  “I don’t know, but that’s what we’re going to find out,” Heather said, tucking her hands into her gloves and marching back down the drive.

  Chapter Four

  Heather wasn’t the only witch in Old Wetchhaven, although Sinéad was the first sorcerer it had seen in a long time. Tim ran the watch and clock repair shop down on the corner, and his magic wrapped around anything he fixed. He could make clocks that sang out the hour, tweak watches to remind you about a forgotten appointment in a gentle, tinny voice, and repair anything faintly mechanical so that it ran smoothly and quietly, just like magic.

  There used to be an artist who lived above the bakery, as well. She had carved the sirens into Patricia’s lintel so that her guests could be announced in style, but she had long since moved to London, where Heather had last heard she was selling conversation pieces at an exorbitant amount.

  Apart from the three of them, there had also been Heather’s parents, Greg and Edith Millington, who both worked their magic through their carpentry. Dining tables that set themselves, coffee tables that wouldn’t stain, chairs that rocked you straight to sleep—they made it all. It had been years since Heather had lost them both in a terrible boating accident. She tried not to dwell on memories of them, but every day, it seemed she lost them a little more. She’d forgotten the way they laughed, or the way they took their tea, and it hadn’t taken long for her to realise she was better off focusing on the memories that would never fade than clinging to the ones she couldn’t keep.

  Which was why when she entered the Shepherd’s Inn that evening, she was horrified to realise they had moved her parents’ chair from its place by the fire in order to make viewing space for the gigantic painting that now hung beside it.

  She stared at the painting for several moments, while the happy chatter of the inn continued around her. The painting was a mix of vibrant red and gold, swirling together to create the shape of a tiny cottage nestled amongst a forest. The trees were still full of orange leaves, but several were starting to fall, and the ground was already covered in a scattered layer of autumn colours. It made her feel content and safe, like she was standing outside her childhood home, just about to go inside to the rich smell of stew cooking and the sound of her parents bustling about.

  She looked over at her parents’ chair, relegated to a darkened corner of the room, far away from the fire, and the first stirrings of anger began to bubble in her stomach. It rose inside, making her chest and throat prickle with hot words she couldn’t express, and it wasn’t until she heard Sinéad’s bored voice that she managed to tear her eyes away from the painting.

  “I had that one sitting in my travel sketchbook,” Sinéad said, coming up to Heather and noticing where she was looking. “It’s a big sketchbook,” she added with a smirk. “You’re right—the innkeepers here are very nice, if a bit . . . nosy. How often do you get sorcerers coming through here, anyway? Everyone kept talking to me, wanting to know more about what I did, and in the end, it seemed the easiest way to shut them all up.” She nodded at the painting. “It has a homesickness spell on it. Makes you think of what you’re missing, what feels like home. Then it makes you feel like you’re standing right in front of it. Perfect for an inn, right?”

  Heather couldn’t speak. She noticed Sinéad frown, no doubt wondering what on earth was wrong with her, so she managed to shake herself out of it and smiled. It felt hollow.

  Sinéad gave her a strange look, but Heather had already swept past to the counter.

  “Hi, Jeremy,” she said. “You’ve done some redecorating.”

  “Do you like it?” Jeremy leaned on the counter and gazed at the painting. “It makes me think of Annie’s homemade fudge.”

  It makes me think of dead parents, which you would know if you bothered to think hard enough, Heather thought, her eyes narrowed. But in the end, she said nothing.

  Deflating a little, she agreed that it was very pretty and ordered the special and a glass of water, before waiting to the side while Sinéad looked over the menu.

  The inn was filling up with the dinner crowd, most of whom Heather knew well. She sold tisanes infused with warming spells to the ladies in the corner, who came to the inn for a weekly roast, and had spent several years babysitting for a couple by the fire. The Shepherd’s Inn was always popular around mealtimes, and she wondered—not for the first time—who their mysterious tip-off was that they would risk such a crowded place for their secret conversation.

  Sinéad snapped the menu closed and ordered the fish, accepted her glass of white wine, and led Heather over to a table by the window. The snow had stopped, leaving behind a stillness that was broken only by the faint glimmer of the Christmas lights along the roofline, reflecting down onto the ground below. Heather noticed that Sinéad was glaring out the window, the glass in her hand forgotten, as if she planned on spotting their mystery informant the second they approached.

  Heather cleared her throat.

  “It could be anyone,” she said when she had Sinéad’s attention.

  Sinéad’s brows drew together in irritation. “Yes, well . . .” She trailed off.

  Her restlessness wasn’t surprising, but Heather still found it a little strange. “Do you have to leave town soon?”

  “What?” Sinéad blinked. “No, I can stay indefinitely.”

  “Then why is this case bothering you so much?” Heather asked. “I get that you were set up, and that rankles, so you want to see this person brought to justice, but I’m starting to re-think the likelihood of us being able to solve this. Maybe we should just turn over what we know to the police and let them handle it. It’s getting complicated.”

  “Gee, a murder investigation is complicated,” Sinéad said, one eyebrow raised. “Who would have predicted that?”

  Heather rolled her eyes. To her surprise, instead of making another quip, Sinéad put her glass down and gave Heather her full attention.

  “You’re right, though; it’s getting strange. I went by the morgue just before, when you ducked home after visiting the manor,” she said, dropping her voice, “and I snuck a peek at the autopsy report. He was poisoned, but the knife killed him before the poison could take effect.”

  “How did you get your hands on the report?”

  Sinéad smirked. “It didn’t take much—a little distraction, a little persuasion.”

  She snapped open her purse and showed Heather the contents. Inside were several more of the business cards in different colours. Heather felt a little dizzy at the thought of so much deception.

  “And this case bothers me because it doesn’t make sense,” Sinéad continued, closing her purse and putting it away. “Why use both poison and a weapon? Were they really that eager to make sure he was dead? The poison they used isn’t even a guaranteed kill. And I know that they cleared me for the painting connection, but there are other reasons they might bring me in as a suspect.”

  Heather’s eyebrows rose.

  “I knew Jacob quite well,” Sinéad admitted. “And it’s no secret that we didn’t get along. Honestly, I don’t know that he really got along with anyone. He commissioned me about a year ago and refused to pay. Every time I’d try to confront him about it, his secretary would block me and make up some lie about him being out of town. So, I destroyed the painting and walked out on him.” She winced as she said it, and Heather wondered how it would feel to destroy your own magic.

  “You think the police are going to bring you in again,” Heather realised, thinking out loud.

  Sinéad nodded. “They know that the spell isn’t mine, but until we get a better lead, there’s no guarantee they won’t find another reason to suspect me. Whoever stabbed him managed to do so without anyone noticing, which means they were either right next to Jacob and still no one suspected them, or they used eve
n more magic to get away with it. Either way, they’re going to be hard to track.”

  Heather frowned, a thought occurring to her. “Do the police even know that the spell was related to the poison, not the stabbing?”

  “I’ve no idea. I can’t say I have a huge amount of faith in their abilities, though.”

  “Should we tell them what we know?”

  Sinéad shrugged. “You can if you like. I’d rather wait until we know a little more. I don’t want the evidence twisted and used against me.”

  Heather blinked at her. “You’re a very sceptical woman. Did you know that?”

  Sinéad snorted, the sound at odds with her meticulous appearance. “Trust me to buddy up with the one person who could face a murder investigation with a sense of optimism.”

  Their meals arrived at five minutes to seven, and Heather was forced to admit Sinéad wasn’t the only one who was shifting in her seat with a sense of restless unease. Their mysterious confidante had shown no sign of appearing, and the inn was filling fast. She’d already been pulled into conversations with several people, each keen to meet the new sorcerer and ask Heather how they had met.

  The wide-eyed innocence on their faces as they asked the question told Heather they were well acquainted with the article detailing their arrest, but she went along with the pretence anyway. It wasn’t anything new. Growing up, she had often made the local paper for minor magical mishaps, including the time she accidentally turned all the local strays blue by feeding them homemade liver treats.

  She’d always wished she had been more like Tim, who only made the paper that one time when he had climbed up Town Hall and rigged the clock to sing “Spice Up Your Life” whenever it struck six. She supposed that, at least this time, the paper hadn’t mentioned magic at all, which was a nice change.