Hexes and Holly: A Paranormal Cozy Mystery Holiday Anthology

by Tegan Maher

  “Good grief,” Ellie looked horrified, and grabbed a teapot off her waitress, pouring Morgana a large cup. “Who was it?”

  “Some bloke with a holiday home on the headland. He bought a Christmas pudding off you. He also had a spat just before that with the old lady who was killed. I don’t know why he killed her, but it was definitely him.”

  Ellie furrowed her brow. “Big chap, reddish-brown hair?”

  “That’s the one,” Morgana sipped gratefully at the hot sweet tea in front of her.

  “But he can’t have. He was only there briefly. Rushed in to get one of my puddings before they were gone and left again immediately. He came to the bakery that morning and I told him he’d have to wait for the Fayre to get one, he knew there was only a limited amount and he was pretty determined, but that was all he did. I watched him go as soon as he’d bought it. What do you mean by him almost attacking you?” Ellie was confused.

  “Wait,” Morgana held up a hand, feeling slightly more in control again. “You watched his every movement from the moment you served him? Think carefully, Ellie, this is important.”

  “He bought a pudding, put it in a carrier bag, then walked straight back out the hall. Didn’t stop at a single other stall, didn’t speak to a single person on the way.” Ellie confirmed firmly.

  “Oh.” Morgana rubbed at her temples, unsure what that meant for her former conclusions. “What about when he came in?”

  “He came straight to me. He was only there for one thing. I was flattered, but I’m less so if he threatened you!”

  “He did a bit. He seemed to be coming on kind of strong.” Morgana was starting to wonder if she’d over-reacted, especially as she’d been convinced at the time that he was a killer.

  “Gross,” Ellie said, with feeling. “But you can manage a spell to keep him well away from you, can’t you?”

  “Yes, good idea.” Morgana sipped more tea and tried to work out what that meant in terms of him being her main suspect now. If Ellie was right, and she usually was, then he hadn’t had a chance to poison Gaye Trenton’s punch. Which rather ruled him out as a murderer.

  Not a murderer, just a creep, she decided. She would take Ellie’s advice and cast a spell. She couldn’t cast one on the man himself, as that would bring bad karma back on her, but she could put a barrier around herself that would repel him from coming near her.

  She mentally checked off ingredients she would need. Rosemary, lavender, salt, and a lot of pepper. No shortage of those in her store cupboards.

  She rose to her feet, feeling composed again. “Sorry for dripping all over your floor. I should get back to the shop. I’ve totally wasted my time today chasing non-existent leads.”

  “You really shouldn’t keep getting involved, Mog. It isn’t your job to solve every murder that happens around Portmage. Leave it to the police.” Ellie gave her a reprimanding look.

  “But I can help, I can see things they can’t. Don’t you ever feel like you should be using your talents for good?”

  Ellie handed Morgana her jacket. “I do use my talents for good. I make excellent cakes that make people happy. I add a tiny bit of joy to my baking and goodness knows the world needs that.”

  Morgana gave her sister a reluctant smile and left feeling rather low. Ellie didn’t understand. Morgana wasn’t just interfering where she had no business for the sake of it, she felt responsible. It had been her mistletoe that had killed the woman. What if she hadn’t cut any? Would Gaye Trenton still be alive?

  You can’t think like that, she told herself. A determined killer would have found another way.

  She went back to her shop, unlocked the door, and settled down with her newspaper, ready to get stuck into the crossword, or to stare into space in any case.

  She was jerked out of her slump by the telephone ringing on the counter beside her.

  “Hello, Merlin’s Attic,” she said, picking it up.

  “Morgana. Did you go and question one of our suspects this morning?” Tristan’s voice barked down the phone at her.

  “Why, Tristan, how lovely to hear from you,” she replied sweetly, wondering which suspect he was referring to. But the sound of his voice lifted her spirits like nothing else could. Even if he was annoyed with her, speaking to Tristan made her feel a flutter of excitement in her stomach like no one else ever had.

  “When I told you to keep your eyes and ears open, I meant the gossip that flows so freely through Portmage, or any insights you might have. Not to go putting everyone involved on their guard. My DI is going to have a fit if he hears you’ve gone and spoken to Ralph Ludlow, you know what he already thinks of you.”

  “He thinks I’m a nosy witch who pretends to be a psychic. Which I don’t, by the way, but I will confess to being nosy.”

  “I’ve personally vouched for you in the past, and this isn’t helpful.” Tristan’s words were clipped, and taut with annoyance.

  Morgana tutted at him, unfazed by his irritation. “He didn’t do it if that helps?”

  “How do you know, did you look at him with your third sight?” Tristan was still annoyed, but she could hear it dissipate slightly.

  “Third eye,” she corrected. “Or second sight. Not third sight.”

  “Morgana!”

  “No,” she conceded. “I can’t do that willy-nilly. It takes preparation and renders me temporarily blind, remember? Not to mention sapping all my energy. I only use it in a safe space.”

  “I remember.” His tone softened down now, both of them reflecting on the after-effects of when she’d used it in the past.

  “He just didn’t seem ragey enough to be the murderer. He was angry, but not to the degree that I felt at the Fayre.”

  “He could have calmed down since then, especially as she’s now dead.” Tristan pointed out.

  “Maybe,” she agreed cautiously. “But I still don’t think he did it. Neighbor disputes don’t usually result in death.”

  “You’d be surprised,” he said, with a mirthless laugh.

  “What about the granddaughter, is it true she inherits the house? Was there any money?”

  He sighed. “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

  “I can just ask Mrs Goodbody, I’m sure she’ll have that knowledge by now.”

  “Don’t you dare. Mrs Goodbody is officially a suspect too. She’s the one who served her the poisoned punch.” Tristan’s voice began to rise again and Morgana bit her lip not to laugh.

  “The granddaughter?” She prodded.

  “As I suppose you’ll find out anyway by tea-time,” he said, grudgingly. “Yes, she’s her only surviving family and sole heir. She’s also unemployed, up to her eyes in debt, and due to be evicted by her landlord. There isn’t a huge amount of money, but people have killed for less. The cottage, on the other hand, is worth about two hundred thousand, and would provide a place to live until she could sell it if she wanted.”

  “Which makes her your best suspect, I presume?”

  “Definitely. She didn’t see much of her grandmother, but she was right by her side when it happened. Which equals motive and opportunity.”

  “Have you arrested her?”

  “No, we have her in for questioning, but we don’t actually have any evidence. DI Lowen is trying to break her as we speak, we need a confession.”

  “Have you thought any more about my theory on Miss Beasley, Mrs Goodbody’s aunt?”

  “I spoke to the manager at the care home,” Tristan replied, clearly attempting to be patient with an idea he didn’t think was feasible. “Miss Beasley has severe Alzheimer’s, what’s known as mid to late-stage dementia. It can cause anxiety and mood swings, which alter personality, but she also doesn’t even know what day of the week it is and can’t count down from ten anymore. The nurse is convinced that the mental agility it would take to know that mistletoe is poisonous and to collect, crush and add the berries to the punch, is beyond what Miss Beasley is capable of now.”

  “Hmm.” Morgana sti
ll wasn’t convinced.

  “We’ll get the confession,” Tristan assured her. “Hannah Trenton just isn’t bright enough to keep up a lie.”

  “Unless she didn’t do it,” Morgana groused.

  “If she didn’t then she’ll be free to go, we don’t put innocent people in prison Morgana.”

  She cut off her retort before the words even left her brain. Proving people innocent was even more of a big deal to Tristan than finding the guilty person, and she knew he’d make absolutely sure of his facts before letting that happen.

  “So, you don’t have a problem with me visiting Miss Beasley?” She checked.

  “I don’t see why not. As I said, we don’t consider her a suspect. But no more wandering about on Boot Lane!”

  “Yes, Sir,” she teased, then hung up before he could chastise her further, and because she finally had a customer coming in the door. It was only later she reflected on the fact that she’d made no mention at all of her encounter with the creep, and was left wondering why she didn’t want Tristan to know how scared she’d been.

  The following morning, Morgana took her time getting up and showered. It was Monday, and Monday meant a day off. Catering mainly to the tourist trade meant that Morgana had to open her store on both Saturday and Sundays, but Monday was invariably the quietest day of the week and, although she hired help during the busy summer months, she worked alone during winter and needed at least one day a week to recharge and run errands. Today, however, she planned to keep poking her nose where it didn’t belong.

  “It’s freezing brass monkeys,” she commented to Lancelot as he stuck his nose out the back door, “I shouldn’t be surprised if it snows later.”

  He decided not to follow her as she went out into the garden, and watched from the doorway as she began to cut fragrant branches of white winter jasmine. She added some eucalyptus leaves because they looked pretty, and finished the bouquet with papery pale dried honesty petals. She didn’t know if the care home in Wadebridge would provide a vase, so she found a clean jam jar and pushed the stems inside.

  Her battered old Land Rover ate up the ten miles to Wadebridge and she was soon standing at the reception desk of the Dovecote Care Home for the Elderly.

  “I’ve come to visit Miss Beasley,” she told the girl behind the desk pleasantly. “Her niece, Lillian Goodbody, said it would be alright?”

  “Oh bless, that’s nice,” the girl said, pushing a leather-bound book toward her to sign. “She won’t recognize you, I expect, but it cheers them up to have any visitors. Shall I take those flowers and put them in her room?”

  “They’ll need water,” Morgana said, passing the jam jar over. “Which way do I go?”

  “She’ll be in the Residents Lounge, straight down the corridor. Did you want tea or coffee at all?”

  “No thanks. I’ll go find her.” Morgana was keen not to be interrupted by the staff while she saw Miss Beasley.

  She entered the Residents Lounge and looked around. It was a depressing place to her eyes. Dusty looking tinsel hung from the ceiling, and a plastic Christmas tree graced one corner. Other than that, the room was filled with large armchairs, most of which faced a television, and filled with people who stared at the screen with empty eyes, while Santa Claus sped through the sky to some musical number. Miss Beasley wasn’t one of them and Morgana soon spotted her at the far end of the room, vacant expression fixed on the window outside.

  Morgana didn’t speak as she took the chair opposite Miss Beasley and regarded her for several minutes of silence.

  Then she made a decision, cast a quick look around her, and closed her eyes.

  Opening her third eye didn’t take long, but it did take effort. She concentrated on letting the world slide away from her, sight and sound becoming blurred as she shifted her focus to seeing with her mind and channeling her magical ability to aid her. When she opened her eyes again the color was gone from the room. Shapes shifted in shades of grey and black. Outside the window, a small burst of white light went past and she sluggishly identified it as a bird. Only animals looked that pure, people were always more complex. She turned her head and looked upon Miss Beasley.

  What she expected, or hoped to see, was the deep-rooted emotion that only emanated from someone with the will to commit murder. Rage burned deep in the soul of such a person, a blackish-red that was present in even the most cold-blooded of killers. Even a total psychopath had deep-buried rage. A rage similar to the one she’d felt at the Fayre.

  But it wasn’t there.

  In fact, there was almost nothing there. Miss Beasley was almost as grey as the chair she sat upon. A human whose soul had mostly left her body now, just waiting for the last glimmer of life to join up with the rest of it.

  Morgana tipped her head back and fought to regain her normal sight. She was suddenly exhausted. The energy that magic required had to come from somewhere, and she’d drawn on her own physical reserves to use it. Which meant that she was now tired. Tired and half-blind.

  She didn’t move, just rested until the white square tiles in the ceiling above her came back into focus and the room regained some elements of color around her.

  Her brain moved sluggishly as she thought about the fact Tristan had been right after all. Her endeavors to help had done nothing at all. It had to be the granddaughter. And why not? She was the obvious suspect, she’d needed money quickly and now she would inherit some. Sure, she’d have to wait for probate to go through, but the banks would be more lenient if they knew the cash was coming.

  “Do I know you?” The voice was thin and thready but close by.

  Morgana lifted her head and gave Miss Beasley a tired smile. “I’m Morgana Emrys. I live in Portmage.”

  “I live in Portmage too,” Miss Beasley looked pleased to see her and Morgana felt terribly guilty.

  “Such a pretty cottage I have, and Percival my little doggie. I can’t think where he’s got to.” Miss Beasley looked around her feet as though to spot him.

  “I have a cat called Lancelot. We both named our pets after Knights of the Round Table.”

  Miss Beasley chuckled. “I’m sure a lot of people in Portmage do. Where is that naughty dog? Here, I have a photo.” She pushed a photograph album from her lap into Morgana’s hands.

  Morgana took it and dutifully started at the beginning. She was delighted to see old black and white pictures that were clearly taken in Portmage many years earlier.

  “Is this you?” She held up the album on a page that showed three teenagers, in old fashioned swimwear, sitting on the beach.

  Miss Beasley peered at the picture and her eyes seemed to clear slightly as she pointed a thin finger. “That’s me, and that’s Malcolm beside me. We were engaged to be married.” She smiled fondly at the picture of the young man sitting between her and another girl.

  “What happened to him?” Morgana didn’t want to ask, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “He died. Accident on the cliff. Portmage cliffs can be very dangerous.” Grief flickered in the old woman’s eyes.

  “I’m so sorry.” Morgana saw a flicker of color flash around Miss Beasley, and realized that her pain had created an aura where that had previously been none. “Who is the other girl?”

  “Gaye Hargrove. She’s dead too now.”

  Morgana stared wide-eyed at Miss Beasley. Her aura was becoming increasingly visible. A green flecked through with spikes of red. Green meant secrets or lies, red meant anger. Morgana suddenly knew that if she opened her sight again that Miss Beasley wouldn’t be grey anymore. She remembered Mrs Goodbody telling her that her aunt had moments of clarity through her dementia, and Morgana was convinced that she was now witnessing one of those moments.

  “Gaye Hargrove became Gaye Trenton, didn’t she?” Morgana leaned closer to Miss Beasley. “Why did you put the mistletoe berries in her cup?”

  Miss Beasley raised her head from the photo and looked Morgana dead in the eye. There was no confusion there now, no vacant expre
ssion, just rage.

  “She only came back because she thought I wouldn’t remember now. She wasn’t on her guard you see, and it took only a moment. A simple grab, squeeze and drop.” Miss Beasley smiled with something that looked very like malicious pride.

  “What did she do to you?” Morgana asked, keeping judgment out of her voice.

  “She pushed him. She wanted my Malcolm and he didn’t want her. I saw it, but I arrived too late to save him. She shouted at him and pushed him and he went over the edge. The police didn’t believe me, it was declared a tragic accident. But I knew, and she knew I’d seen. She left Portmage a week later and I never saw her again.”

  “Until yesterday,” Morgana said quietly.

  “Yesterday? Were you here yesterday?” Miss Beasley suddenly sounded confused, and Morgana saw the rage had died completely from her eyes. The animation behind them was gone as swiftly as it had come. Miss Beasley turned away and began to stare out the window again. Morgana waited for a long while, but Miss Beasley’s aura was blank. She knew she’d get nothing more. Eventually, she bid the lady an unresponsive goodbye and left the room keeping her head bowed in thought.

  “Had a nice visit?” The receptionist asked cheerfully when she reached the lobby

  Morgana resisted the urge to say no and paused at the desk to sign back out. “Does Miss Beasley have many moments of clarity?” she asked.

  The girl shook her head. “Not many. They come occasionally, and she’s ever such a nice lady to talk to when she’s in her right mind, but they get less frequent as we get toward the end.”

  “Does she have long?”

  “I’m afraid the doctor says it’s weeks at best, but I’ve seen it many times. It will be any day now.” She gave Morgana a regretful look.

  “Has she ever spoken to you about a man called Malcolm?”

  The girl nodded. “So sad, isn’t it? She really loved him. She never married, holding on to his memory. Still, at least they will be together again soon if you believe that kind of thing?”

  Morgana gave her a sad smile and didn’t answer. She now knew the truth but had no idea what to do with it. She walked back to her car and got in, but she didn’t drive away. Instead, she got out her phone and thought about ringing Tristan. Or rather, she thought about ringing Detective Sergeant Tristan Treherne. He needed to know what she knew.