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

by Adele Abbott

  His little hands gripped onto the edge of the hole in the ceiling, through which the water was still dripping. Moments later, an identical creature appeared and began to climb down his colleague. This second sprite was also wearing dungarees, but his were lime green. The second sprite clung onto the feet of the first one, before whistling to the next one to join them. This continued for some time until there was a chain of sprites long enough to reach the tables. The next sprite to appear climbed down the chain, and then jumped onto the table. He took a list from his pocket and began to check each box; he was obviously looking for specific records. When he found the one he was looking for, he hurried back to the sprite chain, climbed it, and handed the record to a sprite who was in the gap between the ceiling and the roof. I watched him repeat this several times before making my move.

  “You lot are busted!” I stood up and started towards them.

  The sprite at the top of the chain was so shocked by my appearance that he lost his grip and fell, causing the others to plunge to the floor. They all began to run around in a blind panic, but before they could escape, I cast the ‘freeze’ spell on them all. The one who had been rifling through the boxes, still had a vinyl record in his hand.

  I grabbed my phone and called Daze.

  “Yes?” She sounded half-asleep.

  “Daze, it’s Jill.”

  “Jill? Jill who?”

  “Jill Maxwell.”

  “Oh? Sorry, Jill, I was asleep. What time is it?”

  “About half past one.”

  “Why are you calling me at this hour?”

  “I’ve caught your roof sprites.”

  “The roof sprites?” She suddenly sounded much more awake. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive. They were stealing records from Mad’s store. I caught them red-handed.”

  “Where is the store?”

  “Just off the marketplace. It’s called Vinyl Alley.”

  “Okay, we’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “There’s no rush. These guys aren’t going anywhere.”

  It took her closer to twenty minutes to get there. Blaze looked half asleep.

  “How did you know they’d be here, Jill?” Daze said.

  “When I visited the shop the first time, Mad’s husband mentioned they’d had several records stolen. Yesterday, I was in Candlefield Market with Aunt Lucy, and I saw a wizard selling vinyl records. I took a look through them, and a lot of the titles sounded familiar, so I checked with Brad, that’s Mad’s husband. He confirmed they were the records that had been stolen. They’d also been having trouble with a leaking roof which had obviously been caused by the sprites. I camped out here tonight on the off-chance the sprites would turn up, and lo and behold, they did.”

  Daze looked around at the sprites who were still frozen in place. “Blaze, round these guys up, will you?”

  “It’ll be my pleasure.” He walked around the shop, picking up the frozen sprites and putting them in a pile on the table. Once he had them all, he threw his net over them and took them back to Candlefield.

  “Thanks again,” Daze said. “We really owe you one. Is there anything I can do in return?”

  “There is, actually. How about you send me a photo of you in that dress?”

  Chapter 22

  The next morning, I took the opposite route out of the village because I needed to call at the petrol station on my way to work. I’d just paid for the fuel when another car pulled onto the forecourt. In the driver’s seat was the vicar; sitting next to him was one of the Stock sisters, but this time it was Cynthia. This was proof positive that what Barbara Babble had said was correct: The vicar appeared to be romantically involved with both Stock sisters. What a scandal! Not that I would ever lower myself to tittle-tattle about such things.

  Just wait until I got home and told Jack about it.

  ***

  My first port of call was Washbridge police station where I intended to drop off the envelope containing the Scrabble tiles.

  “These are for Detective McDonald.” I handed them to the desk sergeant.

  “And you are?”

  “Jill Maxwell.”

  “Jack’s wife?”

  “That’s right. I didn’t think there was anyone still working here who knew him.”

  “They haven’t got around to putting me out to pasture yet. I’m Tommy Gray.” He offered his hand. “Jack and I used to go bowling regularly. Is he still a bad loser?” He grinned.

  “The worst. You should give him a call sometime. He’s always looking for someone to lose to.”

  “I might just do that.”

  The previous day, Mrs V and I had had a discussion vis-à-vis the video recording situation. I’d made it clear I wasn’t happy about having to knock on the door every time I arrived at the office. Between the two of us, we’d come up with the idea of her tying one of her silk scarves to the door handle whenever she was recording a video. That way, if there was no scarf, I knew it was safe to go inside, as was the case that morning.

  Mrs V had company: Ramona was there again, and with her was a very handsome young man.

  “Good morning, Jill,” Mrs V said.

  “Morning, Mrs V. Hello again, Ramona.”

  “Hi, Jill. Did you see the video I did for Mrs V?”

  “I haven’t had the chance to look at it yet, but Mrs V tells me you’re a natural.”

  “I’m so excited,” she gushed. “Sorry, Jill, I should have introduced you to my boyfriend. This is Piers.”

  “Hi, Piers.” I offered my hand.

  Instead of shaking it, he gave me a little salute. This guy clearly thought he was too cool for school.

  “Are you here to do some modelling, too, Piers?” I asked.

  “Yes, but this isn’t my first rodeo. I have quite a lot of experience, don’t I, Ramona?”

  “Yes, Piers is a foot model.”

  “Is he? How—err—interesting.”

  Piers lifted one foot. “You can’t tell at the moment because I’m wearing boots, but my feet have perfect proportions, which is why they’re in such demand.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “My normal fees are quite high, but I’ve agreed to waive them as a favour to Ramona.”

  “That’s very generous of you. I assume you’ll be modelling Mrs V’s socks?”

  “They both will,” Mrs V chimed in. “I’m just trying to find matching pairs.”

  “Right, well I’ll leave the three of you to get on.”

  There was no sign of Winky in my office, but Bertie and Bobby were once again on the window ledge.

  “Jill,” Bertie beckoned me over. “We have some news.”

  “Have you found yourselves girlfriends on the Pigeon Love app?”

  “No, that thing was a total waste of time, but at least we’ve got our money back. That’s what we wanted to tell you.”

  “You have?” I said, acting suitably surprised.

  “Yeah, this morning, totally out of the blue, the money was refunded.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “Not a clue,” Bobby said. “But around the same time, the app disappeared altogether. It looks like it’s been closed down.”

  “That is strange, isn’t it? Still, it’s good news for you two.”

  “Yes and no.” Bertie sighed. “We’re no longer out of pocket, but we’re back to square one on the girlfriend front.”

  “Two handsome pigeons, such as yourselves, will find girlfriends eventually. You just need to have patience.”

  “I hope you’re right. Anyway, we can’t stay and chat. It’s breakfast time and there are good peckings to be had down there.” And with that, off they flew.

  I’d no sooner sat at my desk than Winky came in through the window.

  “Bobby and Bertie tell me they’ve had their money refunded.” I grinned. “That was very kind of you.”

  “Like I had a choice.”

  “Trust me, in the long run, you’ll feel much better about
yourself for having done it.”

  “I very much doubt that.” He jumped onto my desk. “So, are you ready?”

  “Am I ready for what?”

  “To compare our step counts. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

  “Of course not. The question is are you ready to hand over fifty pounds?”

  “In your dreams.” He laughed. “Let’s see how many steps you’ve clocked up.”

  I clicked the button on my Fitbit and brought up my step count since Monday. “I’ve done fifty-eight thousand, seven hundred and sixty-five steps.” I held out my wrist so he could see the display. “Read’em and weep. That’ll be fifty pounds, please.”

  “Not so fast.” He pressed the button on his FitCat. “Three-hundred and twenty-one thousand, seven-hundred and thirty-two.”

  “What?” I gasped. “That’s not possible. That’s over five times as many as I did.”

  “That’s what I’ve been telling you all along. Just because you only see me in the office, doesn’t mean I stay here all day. I’m out and about as much as you are, wandering the city far and wide.”

  “But I—err, but—”

  “That’s fifty pounds you owe me. Thank you very much.”

  How had that cat managed to record so many steps? Did he really spend hours wandering around the city when I wasn’t there? Jack was right: I should never have taken a bet from Winky because I always ended up losing.

  When I went through to the outer office, Ramona and Piers were both sitting, barefoot, on the desk. Mrs V was busy going through her box of socks, which she kept in the cupboard, presumably picking out the ones she wanted her models to wear for the video shoot.

  I had to admit that Piers did indeed have perfectly proportioned feet, even if his toenails were a little on the long side.

  “Mrs V.” I waited until she looked up from the cupboard. “I’m going to Margaret Plant’s house. I should be back later, but if I get delayed, I’ll give you a call.”

  “Alright, dear. When you come back, keep a lookout for the scarf on the door.”

  “Don’t worry, I will. Good luck with the video shoot.”

  ***

  Mrs Flattery greeted me at the door and took me through to the office where Margaret Plant was seated at her desk.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to see you yesterday, Jill, but I’ve had writer’s block for so long that when the inspiration does strike, I have to make the most of it.”

  “No problem.”

  “Take a seat.” She gestured to the sofa. “Mrs Flattery tells me you have something important you want to discuss with me. Do you have any leads on the manuscript?”

  “No, I don’t, but that’s hardly surprising seeing as the manuscript doesn’t exist and never has.”

  “What?” She sat back in her chair. “Of course it exists. It was stolen. That’s why I hired you to find it.”

  “That’s obviously what you’d like your publisher and agent to believe, but you and I know it’s not true, don’t we?”

  She was clearly becoming agitated. “Jill, if this case is beyond you, just say so.”

  “It’s time to stop the pretence, Margaret.” I walked over to her desk, pulled open the drawer, and pressed the play button on the tape recorder. The sound of typewriter keys began to echo around the room. “This is what I heard when I called yesterday, isn’t it?”

  “No, I was working in here when you came,” she insisted. “Although, I do sometimes play that recording when I don’t want Mrs Flattery to disturb me.”

  “You’re lying, Margaret. You weren’t even in the house when I called yesterday.”

  “How dare you!”

  “I came in through that door, and the office was empty.” I switched off the tape recorder.

  She hesitated for the longest moment. “Okay, you’re right. I wasn’t here when you called.”

  “It’s time you came clean with me, Margaret. How long have you been in a relationship with Mr Trotter?”

  “Stanley? I don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s an outrageous thing to suggest.”

  “I heard the two of you talking when I called at his house the other day. That’s why the door between your gardens was open.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong.”

  “I don’t think so. What I don’t understand is why you feel the need to hide your relationship.”

  “I—err—we—err—” Her words drifted away.

  “My guess is that the two of you have been seeing each other for some time now, and that your relationship has encroached upon your writing. So much so that you haven’t even started on your new book.”

  “Nonsense. It’s almost finished.”

  I reached into my bag and brought out her latest book, which I’d ‘borrowed’ from the library. “I assume you recognise this, Margaret.”

  “Of course I do. It’s the last book I published.”

  “It is indeed.” I flicked to the final page. “A rather dramatic final line: And so, he took his final breath.”

  “I know what it says. I wrote it.”

  “You did indeed, and if I’m not mistaken, you did so on this very typewriter.”

  “I’ve written all my books on Daisy.”

  “Excuse me.” I opened the front of the typewriter, removed the ribbon, and held it up to the light from the window. “Look at the last few words on the ribbon. And so, he took his final breath. That was the last time you did any work on this typewriter. You haven’t started your new book.”

  She said nothing for several minutes.

  Then. “You’re right, Jill. I’m sorry I tried to deceive you. Stanley and his wife, Marsha, lived on the other side of the wall for over twenty years. I was friends with both of them. When Marsha became ill, Stanley nursed her for six years. It wasn’t easy for him, and he’d sometimes come over here for a chat and a cup of tea—just to get away from the constant stress. During that time, we developed feelings for one another, but nothing happened, I swear. Not while Marsha was still alive. After she died, we continued to see one another and grew even closer.”

  “But why hide it? Neither of you has anything to be ashamed of.”

  “I know that, but Stanley feels it’s too early. He believes people will think badly of him.”

  “That’s nonsense. He has every right to get on with his life.”

  “I agree, but I felt I had to respect his wishes. The more time we spent together, the longer I put off working on the new book, which as you correctly deduced, I still haven’t started. The publisher was piling pressure on Georgie who in turn was pushing me. I kept breaking one promise after another until, in the end, I knew I had to do something radical. That’s when I came up with the idea of faking the break-in. I thought that would solve the problem, but of course I didn’t take you into account. I suppose you’ll have to tell Georgie.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Oh?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, you’re my client. If you don’t want me to tell her the truth, I won’t.”

  “What will you tell her?”

  “That I’ve exhausted my investigations and I’ve drawn a blank.”

  “You’d be prepared to do that?”

  “Sure, but it won’t help you unless you’re going to start work on the new book. If you don’t, you’ll just end up back in the same situation.”

  “I will. I promise. If you can convince Georgie that the manuscript is lost, that will give me some breathing space.”

  “What about Stanley? If you carry on seeing him as often as you have been doing, nothing’s going to change.”

  “We’ve already discussed this, and he’s agreed that I should spend more time on my writing.” She stood up from her desk. “Why don’t you come and meet him?”

  “He and I have already spoken.”

  “I know, but I’d like to introduce you properly.” She led the way out of the door, across the garden and through the door in the wall. When she reached Stanley
Trotter’s back door, she let herself in.

  “Stanley, darling, it’s Margaret.” He came hurrying out of the kitchen, but stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me. “It’s alright, Stanley, Jill knows everything.”

  “She does?”

  “Yes, she’s one smart young lady. She managed to see through our little ploy.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “It’s okay. She’s promised to tell Georgie that the manuscript can’t be found.”

  “It’s very nice to meet you formally, Stanley,” I said.

  “You too.” He offered his hand. “I’m sorry I lied to you the other day, but I’m sure Margaret has explained the circumstances.”

  “She has, and although it’s none of my business, I really think it’s time you brought your relationship into the open. I’ve just told Margaret the same thing. Neither of you has done anything wrong.”

  “It isn’t that easy.”

  “Wouldn’t Marsha want you to find happiness in your remaining years?”

  He nodded. “Yes, she would.”

  “There you are, then. No more subterfuge.”

  Chapter 23

  I was feeling pretty good about the ‘stolen’ manuscript case, even though I would have to pretend that I’d failed miserably when I spoke to Margaret’s agent, Georgie Walpole. Margaret and Stanley had decided to ‘come out’ and make their relationship public. When I left them, they’d both seemed pleased and relieved at their decision.

  I was on my way back to the car when my phone rang.

  “Is that Jill Maxwell?”

  “Speaking. Who’s this?”

  “Petunia Primrose. You had someone pass your card to me at the funeral.”

  “Hi, I wasn’t sure if I’d hear from you, especially not so soon.”

  “I believe you’re investigating the recent deaths at NOCA. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, it is. It’s more than likely just a tragic coincidence, but—”

  “I don’t think it is. There’s something not right about Freddie’s death. He was as fit as a fiddle. Would you like to come and talk to me?”