Witch Is Where Clowns Go To Die (A Witch P.I. Mystery Book 38)

by Adele Abbott

  No response. I wasn’t sure he’d even heard me because he was so intent on getting the package open.

  “Ta-da!” He held up four eye patches: those awful ones with the eye on the front. A red one, a blue one, a green one and a yellow one.

  “Those are absolutely horrible,” I said.

  “Rubbish. They look great. I think I’ll wear the yellow one today.”

  It was so weird seeing a two-eyed Winky, but before I had the time to dwell further on that, my phone rang.

  “Is that Jill?” The voice was familiar, but I couldn’t put a name to it.

  “Err, yes. Jill speaking.”

  “It’s Don Keigh. I don’t know if you remember me.”

  How could I ever forget him? Don Keigh (best name ever) was a committee member of NOCA, which stood for the National Organisation of Clown Acts. Some years ago, the then chairman of that organisation, a Mr Andrew Clowne, had hired me to investigate a case of extortion. It turned out that the extortion demand had in fact been fake. Andrew Clowne had been trying to cover up the fact that he’d been stealing money from NOCA for years. And to make matters much worse, he’d murdered a clown called Mr Bobo, in an attempt to give credence to the extortion demand.

  “Of course I remember you, Don. How are you?”

  “Very well. I’m the chairman of NOCA now.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. I find myself with a tricky situation on my hands, which I think would benefit from your help. I was hoping to come and talk to you about it.”

  I hesitated because I hated clowns. I always had. They’re evil—every last one of them. I didn’t particularly want to take on another clown-related case but earnings for the year were down, so I wasn’t in a position to turn cases away.

  “I guess so, Don. When did you have in mind?”

  “Would tomorrow be okay?”

  “Sure, but I’m busy in the morning. How about the afternoon? Say two-thirty?”

  “Okay, I’ll see you then.”

  A few minutes later, Mrs V came through to my office. “I have your two-thirty out there, Jill.”

  “My two-thirty?”

  “You sound surprised. Surely, you have a note of it in your diary.”

  I knew without checking that I didn’t because Phil Black’s appointment was the only one I’d entered for that day.

  “Of course I do, Mrs V.”

  “And you’ll have a note of the lady’s name?”

  That PA of mine could be such a smarty-pants sometimes.

  “Naturally, but you might as well tell me anyway. That way, I don’t have to waste time getting the diary out.”

  Mrs V gave me that unimpressed look of hers. “It’s a Ms Georgina Walpole.”

  “Ms Walpole. I remember. Send her through, would you?”

  Georgina Walpole reminded me a little of Rosemond Starr, with her sharp suit and no-nonsense hairstyle. I hoped she wasn’t about to quiz me on blue sky boxes.

  “Jill Maxwell, thank you for seeing me.” She marched over to my desk and gave me a firm handshake.

  “My pleasure. Would you care for a drink?”

  “Not for me, thanks. I’d like to get through this as quickly as possible.” She opened her briefcase, took out a couple of sheets of paper, put them on my desk, and then handed me a pen. “Sign this, would you?”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s nothing to be concerned about. Just a standard NDA.”

  “NDA?”

  “Non-disclosure agreement.”

  “Of course. And why do you need me to sign it?”

  “What I’m about to tell you, Jill, is commercially sensitive, so I need to be sure you won’t repeat anything you hear today to anyone.”

  “That’s the way I normally operate. PI/Client confidentiality, and all that.”

  “Still, just to put my mind at ease. If you wouldn’t mind signing it.”

  I didn’t see I had anything to lose, so I signed the form and handed it back to her.

  “So, Georgina—is it okay if I call you Georgina?”

  “Actually, everyone calls me Georgie.”

  “Right. How can I help you today, Georgie?”

  “I’m here on behalf of my client, Margaret Plant. You’ve probably heard of her.”

  “Is she that celebrity chef?”

  “No, she’s one of the world’s bestselling authors in the mystery genre.”

  “Right. I actually don’t read very much.” She looked appalled to hear that. “In the mystery genre, I mean.”

  “The reason I’m here is that Margaret’s latest manuscript has been stolen. I don’t need to tell you that this is an unmitigated disaster.”

  “Doesn’t she have a backup on her computer? Or on the cloud?”

  Did you notice the way I said cloud as though I actually knew what it was?

  “Unfortunately not. Margaret is rather old-fashioned. She still uses an electric typewriter, so it was the only copy she had.”

  “Oh dear. How was it stolen, exactly?”

  “There appears to have been a break-in. One of the windows was smashed. The strange thing is that nothing else was taken. It’s as though the thief was targeting the manuscript.”

  “Have you been to the police?”

  “Certainly not. We can’t afford the bad publicity. This book is already one year late. Margaret has a lot of very loyal readers, but this is beginning to test even their patience. If we were to announce that they were going to have to wait another year—maybe longer—I dread to think what the reaction would be. When the book is published, it’s expected to sell a hundred thousand copies straight out of the gate, so there’s a lot of money at stake.”

  “Can I ask why you chose to come to me?”

  “We need to avoid publicity at all costs, and I figured that no one would have heard of your little outfit.” A backhanded compliment if ever I’d heard one. “So, Jill, do you think you can help?”

  “I’m sure I can.”

  “Excellent. What else do you need from me?”

  “First, I’ll need to speak to the author herself.”

  “No problem. I’ve already primed Margaret. How about Wednesday? Would that work for you?”

  “Sure. What time?”

  “Why don’t I email you with Margaret’s address after I’ve had a chance to speak with her? We can arrange a time then.”

  “Okay, great. Thanks.”

  Not long after she’d left, Winky jumped onto my desk. “What’s it worth to keep quiet?”

  “About what?”

  “The missing manuscript of course. What’s it worth not to go to the press?”

  “You wouldn’t do that.”

  “What’s to stop me? I’m not the one who signed the NDA.”

  “What do you want?”

  “How about an extra bowl of salmon?”

  “Red?”

  “Obviously.”

  ***

  I was just about to call it a day when my phone rang; it was Aunt Lucy.

  “Jill, I’ve asked around and it seems that there’s now only one dog groomer in the whole of Candlefield. I’ve just got off the phone with them, and they don’t have a free appointment for over a week. Is there any chance you could check if that dog groomer down the corridor from you is able to fit Barry in any sooner?”

  “Sure. I was just on my way out, so I’ll pop into Bubbles and see what they say. I’ll call you back either way.”

  “Okay, Jill. Thanks.”

  “Did I hear you say you’re going to Bubbles?” Winky said.

  “You, sir, shouldn’t be eavesdropping on my phone calls.”

  “Why not? You eavesdrop on all of mine. Why are you going there?”

  “Barry managed to get rather dirty yesterday and could do with a shampoo, so I’m going to see if Bubbles can fit him in.”

  “I hope you’re not thinking of bringing him into this office.”

  “I might have no choice.”

 
“If he tears me apart, I hope you’ll be able to live with yourself.”

  “Barry? Tear you apart? He’s more likely to lick you to death. Anyway, I have to get going.”

  “I’m going to call it a day, Mrs V.”

  “Okay, Jill. I’ve got two-hundred and fifty-two likes now.”

  “That’s brilliant.” Yawn. “I’m going to call in at Bubbles, then I’ll shoot off home.”

  “Why are you going to Bubbles?”

  “I need to book an appointment to get my dog shampooed.”

  “I can’t wait to see that little Chihuahua of yours. You will bring him in to see me, won’t you?”

  “Err, yeah. Of course. Anyway, I must get going.”

  Delilah was behind the desk in Bubbles.

  “Hello again.” She beamed. “Thanks ever so much for not snitching on me the other day about the poodle.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “I’ve double and triple checked all the locks on the cages since then.”

  “That’s good. Is there any chance you have a free slot tomorrow for my Labradoodle? Just for a shampoo.”

  “Let me take a look.” She tapped away on the computer. “We could squeeze him in at eleven, would that be okay?”

  “That would be great. Thanks.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Barry.”

  “That’s a great name. I love Labradoodles.”

  As soon as I was out of Bubbles, I made a call to Aunt Lucy.

  “It’s me. Bubbles can do a shampoo tomorrow. I’ll pop over late morning to pick Barry up. She said it should only take an hour or so.”

  “That’s fantastic. Thanks very much, Jill. You’ll have to let me know how much I owe you.”

  “Don’t be silly. Barry is still my dog, remember.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  ***

  I’d just pulled up outside the old watermill, and I was about to head in when I heard someone shouting my name. Running towards me, very unsteadily, was my neighbour, Olga. The woman clearly had a penchant for high heels, but she didn’t have the first idea how to walk in them.

  “Jill, I’m so glad I’ve caught you. We’re having a barbecue on Saturday and we’d love for you all to join us.”

  “Saturday? I’m not sure if we can. I seem to think we might be doing something on that day.”

  “Do say you’ll try, at least. The weather looks like it’s going to be gorgeous.”

  “Okay. I’ll have to check with Jack. If we can make it, I’ll let you know.”

  As soon as I walked through the door, Florence threw herself at me.

  “Mummy, you’ll never guess what.”

  “Has Buddy stopped chasing the ball again?”

  “No, silly. Something much more exciting than that.”

  “Go on, then, you’ll have to tell me.”

  “Wendy said that she can turn herself into a wolf.”

  Oh bum!

  “Did she?”

  “Yes. I don’t think it’s true, though. People can’t turn themselves into wolves, can they, Mummy?”

  “I—err—I think I heard Buddy barking. Why don’t you go and see what he’s doing?”

  “Okay.”

  She ran through the house and out into the garden. I went in search of Jack who I found in the lounge.

  “What’s all this about Wendy, Jack?”

  “Apparently, Wendy told Florence she turns herself into a wolf whenever there’s a full moon. I don’t think Florence quite knows what to make of it. When I picked her up from school, she asked me if it was true. I didn’t know what to say, so I just stalled. What do you think we should do?”

  “I probably should tell her about werewolves because she’s going to find out sooner or later.”

  “Do you think I should be there when you talk to her about it?”

  “I think it might be best if I did this one alone. If that’s okay with you?”

  “Sure. I’d prefer you did. It’s not like I’d have much to contribute. Who was that woman I saw you talking to just now?”

  “That’s the next-door neighbour that I told you about. Olga. She’s invited us to a barbecue on Saturday.”

  “A barbecue? Great.”

  “No, Jack, it isn’t great. It’s the exact opposite of great.”

  “Why? I love a barbecue.”

  “We could have our own. We don’t need to spend time with the weird neighbours.”

  “What makes you think they’re weird?”

  “There’s her high heels for a start.”

  “High heels?”

  “She can’t walk in them.”

  “Right. I’m not sure that makes her weird. I find it always pays to be on friendly terms with your neighbours.”

  “You were certainly friendly with Megan, I seem to remember.”

  “Now you’re just being ridiculous. The barbecue could be fun.”

  “Like a visit to the dentist.”

  “Don’t mention the dentist.” Jack shuddered. “I have to get a filling next week.”

  “I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss. Getting a filling is nothing.”

  “That’s not what you said the last time you had to have one.”

  “Rubbish. Anyway, I’m starving. Is it steak and kidney pie like you promised?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Aw, I’ve been looking forward to that all day.”

  “Sorry, I hadn’t realised we were out of them. I did pop over to the village store, but of course they didn’t have any. Did you know that they have everything on the shelves in alphabetical order now?”

  Chapter 3

  Overnight, Jack and I had discussed the situation regarding Wendy, and we’d reached the conclusion that I needed to have a talk with Florence before she went to school. If I didn’t, there was the possibility that Wendy might raise the subject again and that would have left Florence even more confused.

  We had decided that it would be best for me to speak to her alone because, as Jack rightly pointed out, there wasn’t a great deal he could contribute on the subject. He went for a walk around the village and I called her in from the garden.

  “Florence, can you come in please?”

  “Is it time for school already?”

  “Not yet, but Mummy would like to talk to you for a minute.”

  “I found a spider. Do you want to see him?”

  “Err—maybe later, after we’ve had our little chat.”

  “But he might have gone by then.”

  “There’ll be plenty of others to see. Come on in, darling.”

  “Okay.” She skipped into the house.

  Why is it only young children skip? It always looks so much fun and yet for some unfathomable reason, you never see anyone over the age of six doing it. What happens? Does the ‘skip gene’ disappear as soon as you reach your sixth birthday? I should start skipping. Later, after I’d parked the car in Washbridge, maybe I’d skip all the way to the office.

  “Take a seat at the kitchen table, Florence, so I can talk to you.”

  “Is it about the pillow, Mummy?”

  “Err, no. What about the pillow?”

  “I spilled some juice on it last night.” She lowered her gaze. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about that. It’ll wash out. I want to talk to you about Wendy.”

  “Is she coming to my house to play? You said she could.”

  “And she can, but I don’t know when. We’ll need to talk to her mummy first. I want to chat about what she said to you yesterday.”

  “About being a wolf?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I think she was telling a big fib, wasn’t she?”

  “No, I don’t think she was.”

  Florence looked very puzzled by my response. “But little girls can’t turn into wolves, Mummy.”

  “Do you remember when we talked about sups?”

  “Yes. You’re a sup. And me. But not Dad
dy.”

  “That’s right. Daddy’s a human. And do you remember what sups are?”

  “They’re witches and wizards who can do magic like we can.”

  “That’s right, but there are other types of sups too.”

  “What are they?”

  “There are lots of different types, but I just want to talk to you about one particular type today. They’re called werewolves.”

  “Are they like wolves?”

  “Kind of, yes. Werewolves are half human and half wolf.”

  “Which half is the human? Is it their head or their bottom?”

  “I don’t mean half and half like that. I mean that sometimes they’re a human and sometimes they’re a wolf.”

  “Is Wendy a werewolf?”

  “Yes, she is. So are her mummy and daddy. And her sister.”

  “I don’t think I’d like to be a werewolf. I don’t want to turn into a wolf. Do you think Wendy likes it?”

  “I’m sure she does.”

  “Will she turn into a wolf for me?”

  “No, and you mustn’t ask her to. Werewolves who live here in the human world have to be very careful not to turn into wolves because they mustn’t let anyone see them.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they have to keep it secret.”

  “Like we have to keep it a secret that we can do magic?”

  “That’s right. Do you understand everything I’ve said?”

  “Yes. I’m glad Wendy wasn’t telling lies because that’s not a nice thing to do to your friend, is it?”

  “No, she wasn’t telling lies, but you have to keep her secret.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  After we’d finished our little chat, Florence went back out into the garden to look for her spider. Jack arrived home a few minutes later.

  “How did it go, Jill?”

  “Okay, I think.”

  “It didn’t scare her, did it?”

  “Far from it. Florence wanted to know if Wendy could turn herself into a wolf for her to see. I told her that she wasn’t allowed to do that in the human world.”

  “Right, I’m glad that’s all sorted.”

  “Jack, when you take Florence to school today, if you see Donna, why don’t you ask her if Wendy can come over to play? Maybe this Sunday?”