A Little Bit Witchy (A Riddler's Edge Cozy Mystery #1)

by A. A. Albright

  Relatives have been informed.

  I read it over again, then again. During my fourth reading, Malachy appeared, placing a cup of black coffee on Grace’s desk and then scurrying back down below.

  ‘Problem?’ Grace enquired, taking a sip from her cup.

  ‘I … no. Well, yes, actually. Did you speak with the coroner’s office? Did they confirm it was an allergic reaction already? I mean, Bathsheba and another guy on that train were totally covered up and wearing sunglasses while it was still dark, and there’s no way it was a fashion statement. And also, what about this treatment Bathsheba was getting up in Dublin? Shouldn’t we be looking into what medical conditions she might have had? Shouldn’t the coroner? Who, by the by, arrived far too fast for my liking. This is the back of beyond, and yet the emergency services arrive on the scene faster than they do at a gangland murder in Dublin? And what’s with having two editions? Per day? I just …’

  I paused to take a breath, and also to wonder: why was she smiling? She should be scowling, surely, after a tirade like that.

  She picked up the magnifying glass and looked at me once more. ‘Hmm,’ she said. Then she added a, ‘Huh,’ just for good measure. She lowered the magnifying glass and said, ‘People have quite the appetite for puzzles in this town. They buy both editions so they can do extra crosswords and the like. That’s why we have two editions per day.’

  ‘Right.’ I crossed my arms. ‘Arnold didn’t have a copy of the paper to hand when we spoke last Friday. I don’t suppose you could show me one right now? I’d love to see a copy of the evening edition.’

  She cleared her throat and looked off into the distance. ‘You know, we’re really into recycling here at the Daily Riddler. This evening’s edition is off at the printers. I’ll try to keep a copy back for you, but I can be quite forgetful.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be able to pick it up in the local shop, surely?’

  She was still staring off into that fascinating spot somewhere in the distance. ‘Oh, we do a very small run of the evening edition. I doubt you’ll find a copy.’

  I sat back and stared at her. ‘Huh.’

  ‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘Now, I’m pairing you up with Greg, our IT guy and photographer, for your trial. Tell him to take some photos and do his thing.’

  I could feel my eyes begin to bulge. She was actually giving me a story? ‘Photos of what, exactly? What are we working on?’

  She finally met my eyes. ‘The train will be doing a run to Dublin in an hour’s time. Get over to the station before it leaves, nose around. See if you can come up with anything more … interesting … than the allergy angle. Oh, and go and talk to the husband afterwards. It’s always good to get a … human … angle on these things. Bathsheba lived a long and interesting life. People will enjoy reading about it.’

  I was about to ask, oh, I don’t know, maybe a hundred more questions, when she stood up and pressed a button on her desk. The doors opened behind me, and she turned away, sauntered into her bedroom, and slammed the door.

  ≈

  Malachy told me that I would find Greg in the break room, so I made my way there. It was just as elegant as the rest of the place, with curved couches, an expensive-looking coffee machine and shelves filled with books.

  There was only one person in there. He had tight-cut blond hair, pale blue eyes, and was tall and wiry looking. He had a laptop open in front of him, and was wearing headphones with a mouthpiece. He was speaking quickly, typing and hitting his mouse like his life depended on it, frantically chewing a chocolate bar and slurping coffee at the same time.

  ‘Greg?’ I asked.

  He jumped, said, ‘Got to go,’ into his mouthpiece, and then stared at me. ‘Sorry. I was in the middle of fighting the War of the Enclaves.’

  I looked enviously at his empty coffee cup. Maybe that was what I needed. Another shot of caffeine. Or two. Perhaps then I’d catch up with whatever it was he’d just said. ‘The War of the Enclaves? That means nothing to me.’

  ‘It’s a game,’ he said, as though I ought to know. ‘Set in ancient times, back when the faeries and the witches were fighting for supremacy. I was playing the faerie side. Obviously.’

  ‘Obviously. So … I’m Ash. The latest reporter on trial here.’

  ‘Yeah.’ There was a tired tone to his voice. ‘I kind of figured that. Do you need me to set your computer up?’

  ‘No. Well, maybe later. Grace said we should go to the train station together? So you can take some photos. And then …’ I did my best to withhold a sigh. ‘And then we’re supposed to go speak with Bathsheba’s husband.’

  ‘Oh. Did she say I should do anything else, other than take photos?’

  I shrugged. ‘She said, “Tell Greg to take some photos and do his thing.”’

  ‘Ah.’ His eyes lit up. ‘I’ll get my equipment.’

  I followed him into a messy corner office, where he slung a camera around his neck. He picked up some other equipment too, but he turned his back to me while he did so, and by the time he’d turned back around I couldn’t see what he’d packed into his bag. ‘Come on then,’ he said, bounding out of his office. ‘No time like the present.’

  He moved so fast, and had a proper bounce to each step. I was glad I’d chosen my comfy old boots instead of the high heels, but even with flat soles I barely managed to keep up with him. By the time I joined him on the street, I was panting.

  ‘I have a van,’ he said, pointing to a deep purple Volkswagen parked across the road. ‘But the station’s only a short walk. You up for a stroll?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, catching sight of the ring on his finger. It looked exactly like the one Pru and her mother had been wearing. ‘I really like that ring,’ I told him. ‘Pru – she lives at the Vander Inn – has the exact same one. Hey, do you two know each other?’

  ‘Em … no?’ he said, sounding unsure. ‘Well, maybe a little bit. You … you’re from Dublin, right? Anywhere I’d have heard of? Luna Park, maybe?’

  I resisted the urge to gape at him. Luna Park was one of the place names on the list I’d been making in my special notebook.

  ‘No,’ I said, trying to sound casual. ‘Not Luna Park.’ I glanced at a strange-looking black gadget hanging off his belt. It looked exactly like the gadget Gretel had been waving about in the dining car. Greg hadn’t been wearing it in the break room, though. Maybe he put it on when he turned his back to me at his desk. Much as I wanted to ask about it, I decided to hold back for now. People weren’t answering any questions I asked today. Perhaps it was better to stop asking, and see what I could find out for myself.

  ≈

  As we stood on the apex of the bridge, I could see that things were wrapping up on board the Riddler’s Express. Staff members and passengers from the morning train were walking away, while those for the next journey were queuing at the doors, while a thin man in a garda uniform waved them slowly on.

  I marched towards the garda.

  ‘We’re from the Daily Riddler,’ I told him. ‘Is it all right if we go in and take a few pictures?’

  He shrugged. ‘The body’s gone, love, and dying from an allergic reaction to peanuts doesn’t seem all that newsworthy to me. But if you fancy photographing a perfectly normal train, then be my guest.’

  Just as the thin garda stood aside, I spotted Detective Quinn leaving the train. Beside him was the waiter who’d served Bathsheba and me earlier on in the dining carriage. The waiter was wearing cuffs, cuffs that had a kaleidoscope haze around them.

  I stepped back from the door and walked towards Detective Quinn.

  ‘You’re making an arrest?’

  He glowered at me. ‘What’s it to you?’

  Yes, it was official – I hated this man. I hated him more than my third foster-father (a tuba player who insisted that I, too, become a tuba player and join the family’s travelling band – it was the one time I asked to leave a family).

  ‘What’s it to me? I’m covering this story, Detective Qui
nn. And I find it a bit odd that you’re arresting someone, considering Bathsheba’s death was supposedly caused by an allergic reaction.’

  He shoved the waiter into a nearby car and locked the door behind him. Then he turned back to me, his lips curled into the most irritating smile I’d ever seen.

  ‘I don’t like the way you said supposedly there, Lois Lane. It was an allergic reaction, plain and simple. No supposedly about it. And as for Mr Lucien over there.’ He cast a sneer towards the car. ‘I’m arresting him on a different matter. A matter that’s none of your business.’

  I took a step towards him. I was no Amazonian, sure, but he couldn’t intimidate me with all of his handsome tallness. Wait – strike that from your memory. I’ll rephrase my previous utterings to something more like … he couldn’t intimidate me with his irritating everything.

  ‘I’m a journalist, Detective Quinn. Which means I go out of my way to make everything my business. I want to know more about this arrest.’ I pulled my notebook and pen from my front pocket. ‘The young man’s name is Gunnar Lucien, I know that much.’

  He looked like he was chewing on his tongue, desperately trying to bite back some choice words. ‘He’s a thief, okay. It’s a petty crime, not worth writing about.’

  ‘Oh?’ I kept my gaze steady on his. Which was kind of difficult, seeing as his dark eyes were blazing. ‘What is he being accused of stealing? Do you intend to charge him or issue a warning? Does he have previous convictions? Have the stolen items been returned?’

  A low growl came from the detective’s throat. He turned to Greg, who had suddenly appeared beside me. ‘Tell the new girl I’ll submit my usual report to the newspaper when I’m good and ready.’

  The detective climbed into his car, slammed the door, and took off out of the carpark.

  For a moment I stood there, flabbergasted, staring after the car. It wasn’t until I heard Greg clear his throat and say, ‘I think we’d better get on with the photographs, maybe,’ that I remembered I wasn’t alone.

  I kept my gaze on the car. A car that was now speeding past the garda station. ‘Yeah, right. The photographs,’ I said absentmindedly, running up onto the bridge, standing on the apex again where I’d get a better view. ‘Oh, Greg,’ I said sweetly. ‘I don’t suppose you’d happen to know why Detective Quinn is driving the suspect out of town?’

  Greg stayed firmly planted on the platform. ‘I imagine he has a perfectly good reason. A reason that he’ll explain in his report to the newspaper later on. So why don’t we just get on the train and get these photos taken?’

  I grunted, still staring at the car. It had gone past the lighthouse now, and was speeding towards a hazy horizon. I narrowed my eyes. There it was, that area I’d spotted from my bedroom. It was still hazy, more than an hour later. The detective’s car took a left turn and disappeared from my view.

  ‘What’s over that way?’ I asked Greg, pointing to where I meant.

  He shrugged his shoulders and walked back towards the train. ‘Does it matter? Come on, Ash. We’ve got work to do.’

  Feeling like I had a wasp hive in my stomach, I followed him into the dining car. The place had been cleaned up since I’d last been inside. There wasn’t so much as a piece of crime-scene tape in sight. Greg began fiddling around with camera filters and taking photos.

  ‘Why so many filters?’ I asked as he stopped shooting and changed the filter yet again.

  ‘I’m artsy,’ he said.

  Artsy my behind. But I’d already concluded that no one was going to answer my questions, so I left Greg to it and looked around the dining car. A young woman was placing fresh flowers in the vases. I cast a quick glance at Greg to make sure he was still busy being artsy, and sidled towards the girl.

  ‘It’s awful, isn’t it?’ I said in a low voice. ‘About Bathsheba, I mean.’

  She nodded, swallowing, pulling a strand of her dark brown hair out of her eyes. ‘She was such a lovely woman. Always left me a big tip.’

  I sighed sympathetically, patting her back, keeping a side-eye on Greg. He’d stopped taking photos and was now waving that long black gadget around. A green light was blinking on the gadget, and Greg seemed exceptionally excited by the fact.

  ‘I just love people like Bathsheba,’ I said to the waitress. ‘I admire their bravery when faced with a condition like that. The way they can still manage to be decent, generous people, no matter what they’re going through.’

  ‘Exactly!’ she said with a sniffle. ‘Most people become so hopeless when they get the diagnosis, and I can’t say I blame them. I mean, look at Detective Quinn. He used to be such a lovely man, back when he was just our plain old Dylan. But now … I mean, Gunnar looks shady I know, what with the Vlad’s Boys tattoo and everything. But I hope he’s not really like that. He couldn’t be, could he? Not deep down. He’s probably just easily led. He would never have killed–’

  ‘Oh, there you are, Miriam!’ Greg called out loudly, interrupting us. ‘So sorry, I should have introduced you to Ash. Where are my manners? This is the new reporter on the Daily Riddler, Miriam. The very new reporter, working on the daily edition. The reporter who has just moved to town and has never lived anywhere like Riddler’s Edge before.’

  Miriam bit her bottom lip, her blue eyes widening.

  ‘Forgive my colleague’s rude interruption,’ I said pleasantly. ‘You were telling me you couldn’t believe Gunnar would have killed Bathsheba?’

  Miriam blinked, staring at Greg, opening and closing her mouth. ‘I …’ she said eventually. ‘I …’

  A crazy smile took over Greg’s face. ‘What? Killed? Wow, Ash, you must be in need of a bit of rest, what with getting the early morning train and all.’

  I kept my expression even. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Oh, hey, I bet you were wondering about this thing,’ Greg said, pointing to the black gadget he’d been waving about a moment earlier. He had since placed it back on his belt-loop, and the green light was still blinking. ‘Well, it’s a pager,’ he went on. ‘I like old-school tech. I could probably get you one, if you wanted. Oh, and I could do some amazing stuff to your computer when I’m setting it up, too. Why don’t we go back to the office and get started on that now?’

  I narrowed my eyes. That thing was not a pager. No way, no how. Greg was trying to distract me, and he was doing a pretty bad job. ‘Yeah, I’d love a pager,’ I said. ‘Y’know, for when I take my time travelling machine back to the nineties. Hey, why don’t you just run off and call whoever was paging you, then? While I keep talking to Miriam here about why the detective thinks Gunnar killed Bathsheba.’

  Greg swallowed, the crazed smile still on his face. ‘Miriam never would have said Gunnar killed Bathsheba. Why would she? He stole some money from the cash register. How could he kill a woman who died from an allergic reaction to peanuts?’ He rolled his eyes. ‘The things you come out with. I can tell you’re going to be an absolute hoot to work with.’

  Miriam wore a smile mad enough to rival Greg’s. ‘Yeah, that’s hilarious, Ash. I never said Gunnar was a killer. I said he was a tiller. It’s … it’s slang around here for people who steal from cash registers.’

  ‘Right.’ I nodded. ‘That’s what you said. Of course that’s what you said.’ I cast a tense smile at Greg and held up my notebook. ‘I guess I’ll have to correct these notes, then. It’s a pity I never went modern, isn’t it? I wouldn’t have to make half as many corrections to my mistakes if I only used a recording device.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Greg. ‘But y’know – maybe the old ways are the best. You should definitely stick to the notebook.’

  ‘Like you and your pager. You still haven’t responded to the message you got there a minute ago. In fact, I think you must still be getting messages, because that green light is flashing a lot.’

  He pulled his jacket across his so-called pager. ‘Oh. Yeah. Yeah – that’s just my mother. I’ll call her as soon as I can. Listen, why don’t we head on over to the Vander Inn? Ge
t an interview with Bathsheba’s husband. Grace said she wanted the human interest angle, right?’

  I smiled sweetly. ‘Sure, Greg. Whatever you say.’

  7. Undying Love

  When we arrived at the Vander Inn, Donald was sitting out on a stunning deck, watching the sea. He was wearing sunglasses, I noted. At least he was wearing them by day instead of by night. He was also wearing the same ring as Pru and Greg.

  I pictured Bathsheba’s body in my mind, and my heart began to drum. I’d been so focused on trying to figure out how she died that I hadn’t taken it in at the time, but one of her gloveless fingers had definitely sported one of those green-stoned rings.

  ‘Hello again, Donald,’ I said softly. ‘Do you remember meeting me this morning? I’m Aisling Smith, the new reporter from the Daily Riddler.’

  He looked up at me, smiling sadly. ‘Of course. It’s the daily edition you’re working on, isn’t it?’

  I kept my smile in place, nodding. There it was again – all the proof I needed that, should I ever get through this week-long trial, I’d be discovering a whole different newspaper.

  ‘You’ll have heard about my wife, I suppose,’ Donald went on. ‘You’ll be wanting to ask me some questions too, I imagine. So the fine folks who live in Riddler’s Edge can put their curious little minds at rest and stop wondering why there was such a hive of activity at the train station.’

  I nodded again, sitting down across from him with my notebook in my hands. ‘This is my least favourite part of being a reporter,’ I admitted. ‘It makes me feel like a vulture, preying on people’s raw feelings, right after they’ve lost someone. All so I can write a few words in some paper that’ll – most likely – be used to wrap up Christmas decorations or light the fire.’

  He looked at me with interest. ‘Funny, that’s what I’ve always thought about newspapers myself.’

  I laughed. ‘That’s what most people think, Donald. Especially when a loss is raw.’