by Nancy Warren
“Poor Marlene,” the woman said, coming up to me. “And you found her?”
“Yeah.” Not something I’d ever forget.
“What an awful way to go.”
Yes again.
“But when she left, I thought she was going home.”
Seemed we all had. Why had Marlene changed her mind?
“Can you think of a reason why she’d go to Broomewode Hall? Or the gamekeeper’s cottage?” I asked.
They looked at each other, and both shook their heads. “She must have heard or seen something. Marlene wasn’t one to hold back if something was bothering her,” the woman said. “Perhaps she went to have another go at the earl. She was that cross with him.”
I nodded. “The police were asking if she had any enemies. Can you think of anyone that might have it in for Marlene?” Okay, the police hadn’t asked that, but I knew they would soon enough.
The couple looked embarrassed.
“The thing is,” the man began, clearing his throat before continuing, “Marlene had a good heart, but she rubbed people up the wrong way. And I mean a lot of people. Every hunting landowner in Somerset and anyone who had ever tried to take back public rights of way was her enemy.”
“There are even a few in our society who think that she went too far,” the woman added, glancing around to make sure no one could overhear. “Not us, though,” she said quickly.
I wanted to ask more questions, but Gaurav gestured towards the entrance, where Sgt. Lane was standing, scribbling something in his notebook.
Edward asked if he could buy the couple a drink and toast to Marlene, and the three of them went to the bar, where Darius was frantically trying to serve the Saturday night crowd and flirt with Florence at the same time.
“Let’s give our statements and then get ourselves to bed,” Hamish said to me and Susan. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
I sighed. He wasn’t wrong. And not just because we had to bake a showstopper.
Chapter 14
From my bedroom window, the moon was a gorgeous silver orb, casting the fields of Broomewode in a shimmering glow. A light breeze ruffled the red curtain, but otherwise all was still and quiet. No birds, no chatter from people idling outside, no traffic. No crack of a shotgun. It was as if the normal hustle and bustle of life had been suspended and in its place was a silent reverence for Marlene’s passing. The scene was so beautiful, it seemed cruel.
I was fairly certain her spirit had made it over to the other side, though I wasn’t always right. Sometimes it took a while for spirits to appear to me. Marlene was a prime case for some worldly lingering—she’d spent her life fighting for causes she believed in, and she’d been robbed of the opportunity to see them through. Would unfinished business keep her on this plane? She’d been a woman on a mission, that was for sure, determined and single-minded, and from what her fellow bird-watchers had said, she’d made quite a few enemies along the way. But all she wanted was to save wild birds and their habitat. She had respect for nature, and in turn, I respected Marlene.
As I stared out of the window, sleepless, I couldn’t bear the idea that her murderer was out there somewhere, walking free on the land she fought so hard to protect.
I knew I had a big day tomorrow, but I couldn’t settle. Sleep seemed like a distant idea—my thoughts were too entangled with the dead. They turned from Marlene to my birth dad, who I was pretty certain had been appearing to me as a ghost. I hadn’t really had time to process that realization. I’d been too caught up in deciphering his warning and trying to save the hawk that I felt was somehow linked to him to really wrap my head around his passing. Now I was filled with a gloomy, empty feeling. I’d never known my birth dad, had no clue as to his identity or whereabouts, no idea what he might look or sound like in real life. But now that he had appeared to me, it was like he was suddenly in reach for the first time. Except I’d seen enough ghosts to know that he was among them. It didn’t seem fair.
Gateau sensed my despair and raised her head. She’d been napping on her favorite chair, curled into a croissant-shaped ball on the soft red cushions, but now she leapt onto the windowsill and nuzzled against me. I scratched behind her ears and felt soothed by her gentle purrs of appreciation.
But questions still filled my head. What had happened to my dad? He must have been pretty young when he died. Katie Donegal had told me that my mom went to London on weekends, and for a while I’d considered that my dad might have lived there, that perhaps they’d been having a long-distance romance. But since seeing his ghost here in Broomewode, I’d rejected this idea. I could feel in my gut that my dad was a local.
“How will I find my dad if he’s dead?” I asked aloud.
“There’d be a record somewhere,” a voice said behind me. Gateau arched her back and promptly stopped purring.
Gerry!
I turned to find my ghostly sidekick sitting cross-legged in the middle of my bed.
“But I don’t know his name or anything about him.”
Gerry looked at me like I was a couple of eggs short of a meringue. “How many young blokes die here in any year? That is, when you’re not around.”
So far, getting any information out of the Broomewode locals had been nearly impossible. When it came to the subject of the past, they either clammed up or had a selective memory. Katie Donegal, the cook at Broomewode Hall, had helped me, but she was definitely holding back. She obviously knew more than she was telling me about my birth mom. I was certain there were other older people in the area who might know my father, but I kept coming up empty-handed. Maybe Gerry was right. If I was ever going to get answers about my dad, I was going to have to conduct my own research into locals who’d died in the last twenty-five or so years.
Since most people who died tended to be older, there couldn’t be too many, could there?
The silence of the night was broken as Marlene’s birdwatching friends made their way out of the inn and around the side path. I watched as their silhouettes were swallowed up by the dark, two loving bodies walking slowly, arm in arm. Once upon a time, that exact image would have belonged to my parents, walking around Broomewode Village, bound by that inexplicable feeling that brings two strangers together, compels them to discover all they can about each other, to trust each other, to fall in love. Or had it not worked that way for them? Had their relationship been a secret, conducted behind closed doors? Were they always afraid of being caught? And if that was the case, then why?
Even now, there was so much distance between the watery visions my mom used to communicate with me and the appearances of my dad in the magic circle. Why did they never appear to me together? Had something, or someone, created a gulf between them? And if my mom was alive, then why all the cloak and daggers? She knew where I was—why not visit me in person? Surely it would be less distracting than using water as her conduit?
“Gerry, I think you might be right. I’ve been waiting for other people to give me information, and all I get is half-truths and cryptic warnings. Yes. It’s time I did some digging. Good work.”
“Thanks.” He flipped a few times, then settled himself again. “Not to mention that I saved your cake today.”
“You did. And I’m sorry I couldn’t thank you properly. There’ve always been people around.”
“And what’s this about a new ghost in town?” he asked, looking eager. “Is she young and hot?”
I was going to call him on wanting anyone young and hot to die just so he could have the company but stopped myself in time. The last thing I needed was a reminder that Gerry had also been young and hot (at least in his own mind). I said, “Of course you want company. But I don’t think you’d like Marlene. Anyway, I haven’t seen her since…”
“Since she died.” He put his hand in his chin. “Why haven’t I gone anywhere?”
“I don’t know.” I felt bad for him, stuck between worlds, and tried to cheer him up. “Maybe it’s because I need you.” Really, I was only being
nice, but it was true that Gerry had his uses. He could drift through walls and doors, eavesdrop without being detected, and even his new talent of moving objects might come in handy.
He didn’t look as gratified as I’d hoped. “Can’t keep me here for your own selfish ends, Pops.”
“I know. I’m sorry. While I’m researching my dad, I’ll see if I can figure out how to help you on your way.”
“Appreciate it.”
“In the meantime, spend as much time as you can in the pub. Everyone will be gossiping about Marlene’s murder by tomorrow. What are they saying? Everyone has secrets. What were Marlene’s?”
“When I was on the listen before, when she was talking about the gamekeeper’s old dad, I thought she sounded like she was fond of the old boy. Is there a secret there?”
“You’re right. Maybe she had a crush on him. And I’d be killing two birds with one stone—which Marlene definitely wouldn’t approve of! I wonder if Mitty remembers anything about Valerie and my father? He’s in a care home after having a stroke.” I knew that people who’d had a stroke often struggled with their memory recall. But perhaps he’d remember more about the past than the recent present, the same way it worked with dementia. With a little sleuthing, I could find out where he was—and ask him about Marlene, the many enemies she gathered over the years, and also about any local young men who’d died in the last twenty-five years. Surely there couldn’t be that many? If my mom was alive, he might also know of her whereabouts. I didn’t even notice Gerry float toward the window until Gateau screeched.
“Can you please stop that thing from hissing at me,” Gerry muttered, settling himself in Gateau’s favorite chair.
“If you stop tormenting her,” I retorted, trying to calm my wriggling familiar. But she leapt from my arms and out through the window. Her little tail was the last thing to disappear as she hopped along the drain gutter and down to the ground floor.
I turned back to Gerry, who was back relaxing on my bed, now stretched out, legs crossed at the ankle. “Just because you’re a spirit doesn’t mean you can put your shoes on my bed,” I chastised.
Gerry laughed and floated over to the window. We stood like that for a moment, both looking into the distance. For once, Gerry seemed to be lost in thought rather than interested in goofing around. I took in his red spiky hair, the shirt pattered with cars and trucks. No doubt he’d have made some different choices if he’d known he’d be wearing that shirt in the afterlife. “I promise that as soon as this competition is over, I’m going to help you find a way to the other side,” I said quietly.
Gerry stayed silent but nodded. “It’s not like I don’t have my fun here—the trick with that twerp’s shotgun earlier was a blast, ha ha, but that can’t be all there is, can it?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know what the other side holds, but I’m hopeful that it’s peaceful.” The image of my dad came back to me. For his sake, I hoped it was more than peaceful—I hoped it was blissful. I turned to Gerry and told him about my dad’s appearance. “Have you seen him around?”
“No. As far as I can tell, I’m the only ghost between here and the tent.” He sighed. “And once that tent comes down, I’ll have even less fun than I do now.”
“We’ll figure this out. I’m sure we will.”
Gerry smiled. “You should get some rest. Big day tomorrow. I need you to make it back here next week, remember?”
He wished me good night and floated through the door. Gerry was right. I needed a good sleep if I was going to bake a showstopper worthy of the name tomorrow. But I was also going to get up early. Before filming started, I had a call to make. Katie Donegal was going to receive a visitor in the Broomewode Hall kitchen. This time I’d find a way to make her talk.
Chapter 15
I hugged my cardigan to my ribs as I climbed the path to Broomewode Hall. I’d left Gateau sleeping at the foot of my bed (she’d obviously had a big night doing cat things) and had only crawled back through the window as I was leaving. It was like sharing a room with a teenager.
I’d delayed breakfast, too, afraid of catching any early risers who might question (rightly) where I was off to so early on a Sunday morning before filming. My stomach growled angrily, but as soon as I’d spoken with Katie Donegal, then I’d fill it with some scrambled eggs and bacon. This is what it’d come to—I was bartering with my own appetite.
By now, my feet found their own way to Broomewode Hall, and I walked on autopilot, my mind focused on the best way to get Katie Donegal to open up to me. There was something she was afraid of, but I couldn’t put my finger on what. Had something tragic happened in her past? Was she afraid of the earl? I shivered as I pictured Lord Frome aiming his shotgun at the hawk—the look of intense concentration, his focus on killing. Had DI Hembly and Sgt. Lane gotten anywhere with their inquiries last night?
I was itching to know if the earl had been involved in Marlene’s death—after all, I was about to knock on his back door. But even if there was personal drama at the manor house, I was determined to get some answers in my personal drama. In her honor, I was taking a leaf out of Marlene’s book and would stand my ground stubbornly until I got what I wanted.
But as the old manor house came into view, some of my resolve weakened. Even after all these weeks, the big stone hall still managed to impress and intimidate me, especially in the morning when it glowed gold. The flowerbeds were spilling over, abundant with blooms, and the lawns had that military precision I’d come to expect from Edward and the other gardeners.
Keep focused, Pops, I commanded myself. You’ve got a job to do here.
I headed towards the northwest side of the house and the staff entrance by the kitchen. For a split second I hesitated, unsure if I was about to encounter the wrath of the whole household for telling the police Marlene and the earl had argued yesterday, but I calmed myself down.
Everyone on the set had seen Marlene and her cronies breaking the quiet and interrupting filming. And I suspected half the village knew about Marlene and the earl’s mutual dislike. Besides, the Champneys wouldn’t be caught dead in the kitchen with the staff. They’d never know I’d even been there.
I swallowed, took a deep breath and then rang the bell and waited for someone to let me in.
“One moment, please,” a voice called from the hallway. I didn’t recognize who it belonged to, and my heart began to thump.
But when the door swung open, it was the cook I’d seen at the magic circles. She had shiny black hair tied in a bun at the nape of her neck, dark, lively eyes, and a broad smile. She was probably not that much older than me, twenty-eight or twenty-nine, and her olive skin looked soft to the touch, like velvet, with a smattering of freckles across her nose.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, slipping an arm around my shoulders and ushering me inside. I felt that familiar zing of connection, but the current wasn’t as strong as with Susan, Eve or Elspeth. I wondered if age or experience affected the current in your body. “I’ve been waiting for a chance to talk to you,” she continued. “Somehow you’ve managed to capture the attention of the great Elspeth Peach. You are a lucky thing,” she said good-naturedly.
I didn’t know how to respond, so I mumbled something about how much I admired Elspeth.
“I haven’t even introduced myself yet, and here I am blabbing on. I’m Belinda.”
“Poppy,” I replied.
We entered the kitchen. There was no one else there. It was strange to see the room devoid of hustle and bustle, nothing bubbling away on the stove. Belinda noticed me looking and said, “There’s only two of us on this morning. There are no events or company this weekend, only the three of them to cook for, so she gave most of the kitchen staff the day off. Sit, sit.” She pointed at a stool by the table. “Have a cup of tea.”
Belinda had one of those voices that was as welcoming and warm as it was commanding. I sat down and wondered how quickly I could ask about Katie Donegal without seeming rude. Had she gone off ag
ain right when I wanted to talk to her? As nice as this was, I hadn’t dragged myself out of bed to have a cozy chat. I was here for the facts.
A kettle whistled, and Belinda poured boiling water into a pretty teapot patterned with red poppies. She brought the pot and three matching teacups over to the table. “Katie will be down in a minute, so we don’t have much time to talk.” She leaned forward, her dark eyes warm and smiling, and lowered her voice. “I’ve so many questions for you, Poppy.” She clasped her hands in her lap, her pristine white apron rippling. “Like, have you just found out that you’re a witch? Have you discovered your powers yet? Which element are you? I’m earth.”
I laughed, my mood lifted now that I knew Katie Donegal was on her way. And there was something about Belinda I instantly warmed to.
“I’ll answer in order,” I said, still laughing. “I found out I was a witch about a month ago. I’m water. And I’m just starting to discover my powers.”
“Oooh, that’s the best bit,” she whispered excitedly. “You’re at the beginning of an amazing journey.”
She took my hands, and I felt the charge course through my fingertips. I was about to ask about Belinda about her own journey when the sound of singing sent shivers down my spine. The voice was lilting and gentle, the melody so familiar, it was as if I’d written it myself.
I know where I’m going,
And I know who’s going with me.
I know who I love,
And the dear knows who I’ll marry.
“That’s Katie. She’s always singing or humming,” Belinda said. “Makes the work easier, she says. We’ll have to talk later.”
I could only nod in response. My whole body went cold. This was the song Valerie was singing in my second vision by the lake last week. I knew the words. Every line. For so long, the lyrics had been buried inside me somewhere, long forgotten. But I’d found that I knew every word.
