A Witch On The High Seas
Merryweather Mysteries
Jenny Bankhead
Copyright © 2019 by Jenny Bankhead
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
All similarities to real-life people, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.
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 1
Lorna Merryweather sighed as she watched her best friend and neighbor, Betty Wardenshire, reach for a red checker piece.
“Oh bugger,” Lorna muttered as Betty bounced her red piece over Lorna’s black one. “I should have seen that coming.”
“Yes,” Betty agreed. She whisked the black piece from the board. “You should have. I believe that was your last piece, was it not?”
Lorna had no idea how her friend managed to keep such precise track of the checkers on the board. Though Betty was blind, she had an uncanny way of perceiving more than her fair share of the world around her.
“Yes,” Lorna said with a second drawn out exhale.
“You’ve been sighing so much you sound like a bike tire that’s sprouted a leak.” Betty reached for a digestive biscuit from the plate between them. She dunked the biscuit into her lukewarm cup of Earl Grey tea and let it soak. “What’s wrong? Are you tired of losing to your old neighbor? That’s three in a row now.”
It was true. Not only had Lorna just lost a third game of checkers, but before that, Betty had been dominating in backgammon. And prior to that, Betty had won a round of cribbage. They had been playing games since eleven that morning. It was now nearly three in the afternoon.
“No, that’s not it,” Lorna said. “There’s no one I’d rather lose to,” she added. That was also true. There was no one in the whole wide world that she’d rather spend time with than Betty. “It’s this rain. It’s making me glum.”
“Is that what’s gotten into you?” Betty asked. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. It was only a matter of time before your Floridian roots began to show.”
“Yes, I guess.” For the past six months, since inheriting the cottage from her aunt and moving to Tweed-upon-Slumber, Lorna had been doing her best to assimilate into British culture. She wanted to embrace it all; not only embrace it, but emulate it. She packed her pantry with Marmite, referred to her underwear as “knickers,” and enthusiastically enjoyed tea breaks at least four times a day.
But there was one thing that she simply couldn’t adapt to. “I don’t want to sound ungrateful,” she said. “I love it here…but this rain! Ugh.” She propped her elbow on the table and let her head rest wearily against it as she looked out the window. Water cascaded off Betty’s roof and onto the flowerbeds outside in an unrelenting liquid curtain.
“Oh, you’ll get used to it.” Betty waved her wrinkled, ring-studded hand in front of her face as if brushing away a fly. Besides the crystal bejeweled rings, Betty also wore a heavy quartz around her neck. The gypsy-inspired staples to Betty’s wardrobe went well with the turban—yes, turban—that Betty sometimes wore. “Give it time. In a few years, you’ll remember nothing else. You’ll get used to these stormy days. It’s always like this in March.”
“I don’t know if I want to get used to this,” Lorna lamented. “I was spoiled by Florida’s springtime, I think. This time of year is supposed to be sunny and warm… Back in Tallahassee, I usually was pulling my bathing suit and summer sandals out of the closet around now.”
Lorna thought back to the times before she started over. There had been the job she hated at the cereal factory, a less-than-wonderful man who she’d come this close to marrying, and an overwhelming sense of “there’s got to be more.”
But everything looks rose-colored in hindsight.
The truth was, she enjoyed her new life in Tweed-upon-Slumber much more than she’d ever enjoyed Florida; but at this moment it didn’t feel like that.
When she spoke again, her voice was wistful. “I used to drink piña coladas on my deck while soaking up the spring sunshine. Now here I am drinking hot tea to ward off the chill and wrapped in a wool scarf of all things!” She gave the cable-knit scarf wrapped around her neck a frustrated yank as if it was strangling her.
“What’s wrong with wool? You just have to adjust your expectations. Instead of sunshine, get used to chilly, gale-force winds and ferocious gray thunderstorms.”
“I guess I’ll have to try,” Lorna said reluctantly. “And I don’t really miss getting out my bathing suit… It was always no fun to put it on again after the holiday weight gain. But I do miss the sun.”
“We’ll have sun again—don’t worry,” Betty promised.
This perked Lorna up. “When?” she asked. “Soon, do you think?”
Contemplating the impending sunshine made her feel brighter. Finally, her spirits were revived enough that she felt her appetite return. It had been missing for an entire fifteen minutes. She reached for a digestive biscuit and soaked it in her tea while waiting for Betty’s response.
“Oh, sometime in June, most likely,” Betty said just as Lorna bit into her tea-marinated cookie.
“What?” Soggy crumbs flew from Lorna’s mouth. She wiped them away quickly, hoping that her blind friend didn’t perceive her lack of manners. She chewed and swallowed before continuing. “But Betty, that’s four months away!”
“And until then, we just have to hunker down. ‘In like a lion, out like a lamb’ —that’s what they say about spring around here. The lamb part doesn’t come ’til later. For now, we have to avoid being the lion’s prey.”
The wind outside howled, throwing raindrops onto the glass window pane with a drumming sound that reminded Lorna all too much of a lion growling.
Betty smiled, as if pleased that the weather had cooperated in driving home her point. “And while we avoid being chewed up and spit out, how about another game?” she asked.
Lorna simply couldn’t imagine sitting still for another hour-long checker game. Her friend’s weather forecast was disheartening, but it was also a dose of reality that Lorna needed to hear. If this weather was going to stick around, she was going to have to try to go on with life despite it.
“No,” Lorna said, placing her half-eaten cookie back on the plate and then brushing crumbs from her lap as she stood. When did my thighs become so…padded? she thought as she worked. I really do need some exercise.
Her chair squeaked against the floor as she backed away from the table. “I think I should be going. I have to get to the post office this afternoon, and it’s already three. Seeing as it doesn’t sound like this rain is going to be clearing up anytime soon…”
“’Soon’ is relative,” Betty said lightly. “For an old woman like me, four months is ‘soon.’ Perhaps for a spring chicken like yourself, it seems like a lifetime.”
“Oh please… You’re not old—not even twenty years my senior. And I’m no spring chicken. I’ll be forty-seven soon. That’s almost fifty.” Lorna picked up her purse and made her way towards the door. She visited Betty’s so often that the
woman’s cottage sometimes felt like an extension of her own home.
Lorna pushed her feet into her rain boots, pulled on her rain slicker, and reached for her umbrella. Before opening the door, she turned to her friend. “Would you like me to check your box for mail? I can bring it by on my way home.”
“That would be wonderful,” Betty said.
With that, Lorna pulled open the door and stepped out into the downpour. Though she held her umbrella out like a shield over and in front of her, raindrops still managed to spatter against her face. She had to squint against the wind and driving rain as she made her way down the winding dirt road.
As she crossed the bridge into town, she noted that the river below was looking nothing like the name that it had been given. The Slumber was tearing along, looking very much awake. Due to all of the recent rain, frothy white-capped waves lapped at the river banks looking like they would be happy to carry away anything that they could sweep up. No one was picnicking along the grassy banks, that much was certain.
Once in town, Lorna strode with determination towards the post office. It felt good to get her blood pumping as she began climbing the High Street hill.
I wonder if the new temp worker will be at the counter, Lorna thought with some concern as she pumped her arms and legs, determined to turn her walk into a workout. Hopefully, he’s gotten better at the job in the last week.
The one hundred and fifty citizens of Tweed-upon-Slumber had been suffering through a long string of under-trained temp workers sent to fill in the postman position. The workers seemed to bungle up every transaction, confuse which package went to whom, and in general do a poor job of handling the mail. It had been an ongoing issue since the town’s regular postman, John Larkin, had been gruesomely murdered six months before.
Hopefully, we’ll get someone permanently into the position soon, thought Lorna as she spotted the red post office sign. She was tired of always having to track down her missing Better Homes and Gardens and Good Housekeeping magazines.
Thinking of the bloody murder made her pull her scarf up around her neck, towards her ears, as if that might protect her from the chill of the frightening memory. She was about to cross the street when a sight up ahead made her stop in her tracks and give a small shriek.
“Ah!” she cried, nearly dropping her umbrella as her shoulders jolted upwards.
There, sprawled out on a cement bench in front of the Golden Bough, was a man’s body. The bench was flush to the bar’s Tudor facade, and the body was covered in a long slate-gray trench coat. A fedora hat was propped over the body’s face, and a bright red puddle was splattered on the sidewalk next to him.
Lorna looked left and right, trying to find someone that she could call for help. Seeing no one, she rushed forward. Maybe it’s not too late, she thought as she approached.
When she reached the body, she grabbed hold of a shoulder and gave it a violent shake.
“Hello?” she cried. “Hello?” It wasn’t the most logical thing to say, but she was in so much shock that it was all she could get out.
Instantly, the body began to move. The man’s hand flew up to his hat, and he pulled the fedora away from his face as he sprung up to a seated position.
Lorna jumped backward, her hand on her chest. “Oh, my goodness!” she cried.
“Lorna?” the man asked. She could see now that it was Bill Bumblethorn, the village’s police chief—and only officer.
“Oh my!” gasped Lorna, still trying to catch her breath. “I thought you were dead! I saw you lying here…with blood on the sidewalk, and I thought—”
“Blood?” Bumblethorn interrupted her, frowning as he looked to the ground. He reached down and lifted a ketchup bottle that lay on its side near the bench legs. “It’s not blood, Lorna. It’s ketchup! I had it on my fish ’n’ chips right here. The bottle must have blown over with this wind.”
Lorna shook her head with relief. “Oh, Bill. I am so sorry to wake you like that. But you gave me such a fright! I really don’t know what’s gotten into me. I was climbing the hill and thinking about John Larkin.”
Bumblethorn nodded with understanding. He flipped his hat in his hands thoughtfully a few times before placing it squarely on his head. “Not to worry,” he said. “I know how it is. We’ve all been on edge since that happened. Sorry to give you a fright.”
He stood. “Where are you off to? Most folks are staying inside because of the weather. I thought I could get my nap in unnoticed.”
Lorna laughed politely. “I guess I caught you! Don’t worry. I won’t tell a soul.” The truth was, the whole village was used to Bill Bumblethorn’s afternoon siestas. He was the only one who still thought he was getting away with something when he snuck them in.
She motioned across the street. “I’m just going to duck into the post office. Do you think the latest temp worker’s getting a handle on things? The last time I went in the place was a disaster.”
Bumblethorn shook his head. “I don’t think there’s been much of a change. It’s the sad truth that no one can do the job quite as well as Larkin could. He had so much valuable experience. That’s the thing these young chaps are missing these days—experience!”
Lorna had a feeling that Bumblethorn was giving himself a compliment with the statement. After all, Bumblethorn did have years of valuable experience. At sixty-four, he could boast of more than forty years of duty.
The two crossed the street, not even bothering to check for cars. The street was deserted.
It took almost half an hour for Lorna to complete the simple task of sending off a birthday card to her cousin back in the States. Once that was done, she checked her own and Betty’s mailboxes. Both were empty except for one piece of junk mail for Betty. This made Lorna suspect that the temp worker had amassed a pile of undelivered mail in the back room.
She contemplated trying to track down her expected magazines but thought better of it. I’ll get them eventually, and until then, I have plenty at home to keep me occupied, she thought.
In fact, she had enough interior decorating magazines at home that the stacks were beginning to resemble works of art in themselves: rectangular, multicolored floor-to-ceiling statues. She didn’t need them anymore as Betty had decorated for her months ago. And done a perfect job of it—not a single change was needed. Looking at the magazines was more of a hobby now. Well, possibly an addiction, depending on how many hours a hobby takes of one’s time. Lorna spent the walk home thinking about how she might rearrange the magazines. Where could she display them, so that they might be out of the way, but still accessible? She hadn’t solved the puzzle by the time she reached her cobblestone walkway.
Though she wanted to go straight in and warm up by a nice crackling fire, the sight of Betty’s cottage just beyond hers made her think better of it. I’ll just deliver this unwelcome junk mail, and then I’ll be able to really get cozy for the night, thought Lorna, dreaming of her favorite fleece jammies and the cream of onion soup recipe she’d been wanting to try.
Before Lorna could knock, Betty pulled the door open.
“How did you—” Lorna began, but then she stopped short. She knew better than to question her friend’s inexplicable insights. Lorna herself was all too familiar with inexplicable powers, though lately, she used her gifts very rarely.
“I have news!” Betty said, beckoning Lorna in.
Lorna hesitated. She really wanted to get home. A warm fire, some music on the radio, and a good evening of chopping and sautéing lay ahead. “Lord Nottingham is waiting on me,” she protested while still standing on the front stoop. This was not a lie. She was sure that her black cat was waiting eagerly for her return. She’d lowered her umbrella to her side to knock, and rain dripped off of her head and shoulders.
“Oh, just come in,” Betty insisted. “You’re going to like what I have to share.”
Lorna stepped in, pulled her raincoat hood off, and gave her auburn curls a little shake. “What is it?”
“I just got a call from my friend Barbara, from Whitley!” Betty exclaimed.
“Oh.” Lorna felt her shoulders droop. If that was Betty’s good news, Lorna failed to see what was so “good” about it.
Luckily, Betty continued. There was more to the story. “She’s very wealthy…inheritance money and all that. She has horse stables and an indoor pool and everything… We’ll have to pay her a visit one of these days. Anyhow, you wouldn’t believe what she just told me!”
Betty was usually not one to gush so effusively. Lorna had no doubt now that this indeed was going to be something good. “What?” she asked.
“Barbara and her husband take a vacation every year on a luxury cruise ship. This year, they can’t go because one of the horses is ill. Barbara can’t stand to leave it with a caretaker. She offered the spots to me...two tickets!”
A luxury cruise ship. The words sounded divine. Lorna had a feeling about where the conversation was headed. “Two tickets! Why Betty, that’s wonderful. Who are you planning on inviting along?” She was already smiling with anticipation.
“Flo from the Super,” said Betty with a deadpan expression.
Lorna’s smile fell.
“I’m only kidding,” Betty said with a laugh. “You! Who else would I invite?”
Lorna leaned in and hugged her friend. “Thank you, thank you!”
“Don’t thank me, thank Barbara.” Betty winked one of her sightless, sparkling blue eyes.
When Lorna returned to her cottage, she felt filled with excitement. As she bustled around the kitchen, gathering ingredients for the recipe she’d found in an old Good Housekeeping, she hummed to herself. Occasionally, she interspersed her humming with outbursts of lyrics. “Key Largo, Montego, baby why don’t we go…”
Lord Nottingham, attracted by the fragrance of sautéing onions, joined her in the kitchen and began weaving between her legs as she worked.
A Witch On The High Seas: Merryweather Mysteries Page 1
