A Thrift Shop Murder

by N. M. Howell

  “Whatever you say, dearie.” The old lady continued running her finger haphazardly along the surface of the counter. She looked bored and let out an extremely loud yawn.

  I moved over to a large purple velvet chair in the corner and plunked myself down. I tucked my knees up and sunk back into the pillows, trying my best to relax. I watched the three cats. The tabby stretched out in the sunlight, disinterested in what was going on, but the ginger cat and the black one watched us closely. The old woman stared at me, but I tried not to look her in the eye, diverting my gaze in any direction but hers. “This is all just my imagination.”

  “That’s fine, let’s play this your way,” the old lady said. “If this is your imagination, obviously it’s trying to tell you something, don’t you think?”

  I nodded slowly, agreeing. “That makes sense. Okay, what is my brain trying to tell me? What are you doing here? What do you want from me?”

  The woman positively beamed and skipped toward me looking mischievous. “Now that, girlie, is the right question.”

  “Great, well, what is it?” I pressed. “Why am I imagining an old lady and three talking cats, huh?”

  The cats perked up and sauntered over toward us, each taking a place near the chair as they looked up at me with their bright eyes. I did my best to ignore them and met the woman’s gaze.

  “First of all, you’re not imagining things, that’s plainly obvious.” The woman crossed her arms and tapped her foot as she looked down at me, her eyes filled with judgment. “The reason I’m here with you right now is because I need you to do something for me. But first, I need you to believe that I’m not just a figment of your imagination.”

  I gaped at her, realizing how ridiculous it would seem to anyone who might walk by and look through the window: a crazy girl talking to an equally batty old woman in the middle of a cluttered thrift shop. Or just a broken girl talking to a figment of her own fractured imagination. I wasn’t sure which scenario I preferred. “Fine. Go ahead. Convince me that I’m not imagining all this and that you’re Agatha Bentley and your three talking cats are real. Good luck.”

  “Well. Your name is Priscilla Jones, you come from Portland where you left your failed business and failed relationship behind.” The woman raised her eyebrow at me, as if challenging me to deny her words. I merely grunted and allowed her to carry on. “You moved to Salem to live in my basement apartment—you don’t want to, by the way, mine is much nicer—and to work for me in my thrift shop. We negotiated a three-month contract and you demanded an absolutely ridiculous pay rate of eighteen dollars an hour, but I’m only going to pay you thirteen.”

  I heaved a sigh. “Of course you know all that. Because I know all that and you’re just a figment of my imagination. Tell me something I don’t know.”

  The woman scrunched her wrinkled face as she pondered for a long moment. “Fine. How about this? My body was found here in the thrift shop after I choked, or apparently choked, on something. I’d been here for two days before anyone came to look for me. I was wearing this exact same outfit on the day of my death. I was found by a boy of the name Frankie, who often wears pants even tighter than those ridiculous ones you’re wearing right now.”

  I brought out my phone as she spoke. I hadn’t heard any of this before, but it could be just as easy for my brain to make up such a story. I bet myself $100 that if I searched these facts nothing would come up. That would prove that this is all in my head and I was just losing my mind a little bit. Nothing a super food smoothie and some meditation couldn’t fix. Scrolling through the online news reports, my mouth dropped open. After furiously reading through a few websites and blogs that outlined the occurrences of Agatha’s death, my skin grew cold. “It’s true,” I whispered.

  “Of course, it’s true, stupid girl. We’re talking about my own death here. Or, at least, what I’ve managed to figure out about it,” the old woman grumbled.

  I frowned at my cell phone. “Maybe I read this somewhere, and I just don’t remember.”

  Agatha proceeded to list out a number of other secret facts about herself that I would have no way of knowing, all of which I confirmed through quick internet searches. After about ten minutes of searching, there was no question that what she was saying was true. She wasn’t a figment of my imagination at all. But how the hell could that be true? I simply sat and stared at her. “So, you’re what, a ghost?” I finally asked.

  Agatha raised her hands above her head and shouted, “Hallelujah, the girl’s not an idiot after all!”

  I shook my head, running my hands through my hair nervously. “This is absurd. There is no such thing as ghosts. And absolutely no such thing as talking cats.”

  “Whatever you need to tell yourself so you can sleep at night, beautiful,” the tabby cat purred.

  “This just doesn’t make sense,” I whispered. “How can it? There must be some logical explanation for this. I’ve lost my mind, surely.”

  “The only thing you’ve lost is too much weight, skinny girl,” Agatha snapped. She reached down and stroked the ginger cat’s ear. “I hope she’s not another disappointment, Muffin. We’ve had enough silly assistants to last us a lifetime, haven’t we?”

  “Your assistant?” I shook my head and was surprised something didn’t rattle inside my aching skull. “What are you talking about? I can’t assist you with anything, Agatha. You’re dead.” I swallowed hard. I would go upstairs, have a nice hot bath, get a proper night’s sleep, and tomorrow I would book a session with the local therapist. For now, I might as well appease whatever strange illusions my brain was presenting to me. “I don’t think dead people really need assistants.”

  “Of course they do, you foolish girl. I need an assistant now more than ever.” Agatha straightened herself and turned to look me square in the face. “I need you to solve my murder.”

  Chapter Five

  “Nope.” Agatha followed me through the thrift store, but I refused to glance in her direction. “Nope, nope, nopety-nope.”

  “You can’t nope me out of your life, girl. You signed a contract. You agreed to be my assistant.” Agatha frowned at her hands. “And your first duty is to discover who murdered me so I can get my magic back and gain access to my powers.”

  I paused with my handle on the shop door. “Your magic?” I raised my eyebrows. “Your powers?” The ghost nodded and I scrunched my face up. “Yeah, we’re done here.” I lifted my hand. “Ghosts? Kinda, maybe. Talking cats? Stretching it. But magical powers?” I twisted my key in the lock and yanked the door open. “I’m out.”

  I let the door slam behind me as I pounded up the stairs into the apartment, but when I slipped inside, Agatha was already waiting for me. I gritted my teeth as she followed me into the dining room and watched me haul my bags across the floor. “You know, you’re not the only one who’s disappointed with how this has turned out, young lady. You’ve got your panties all in a bunch because you’re hard done by, but think how I must feel. I’ve signed all my worldly possessions over to a cowardly custard who lets slimy, good-for-nothing men control her life and then runs off like a lamb when they tell her they’ve had enough of her. Quitter.”

  Her accusation struck me like a blade and I spun to face her. “You know nothing about me!” I clenched my fists. “And I’m not running anywhere. I’m staying here and I’m turning your store into a juice bar, and you can haunt it all day and all night for all I care. I’m not a quitter.”

  “That’s the spirit, Cilla.” The ghost clapped her hands and called to the cats, “We’ll make a fine witch out of her yet, boys.”

  “A witch?” I shouldered the door to the master bedroom open and flung my bags on the floor in an indignant pile. “Of course, how did I not see that coming? You’re a witch. A ghost witch. And you were murdered and now I need to be your witch apprentice and uncover the truth of the dastardly crime, am I right?” The old woman nodded and I gave a snort of disbelief. “Yeah, that’s not going to happen, lady. Sorry, the last
train to crazy town is ready to leave the station, but I’m not getting on it. You and the cats are going to have to make that little trip alone.”

  Agatha narrowed her eyes at me. “You’re lucky I don’t have my powers, girlie. I’d be very tempted to teach you some manners, wouldn’t I, boy?” In response to her question, the cats moved closer to Agatha’s feet. The ginger cat, Muffin, purred affectionately at the ghost while the tabby cat prowled in a full circle around me, pausing briefly to run his eyes over my body before returning to Agatha. The black cat just glared. Agatha sniffed, watching me out of the corner of her eye. “Who would have thought a young lady could be so cruel to a poor, defenceless murder victim?”

  I opened my mouth to tell the ghost she was the furthest thing from a defenceless victim I’d ever met, but my retort was cut short by the sound of rapping on the door downstairs. I glared at Agatha as the banging increased in volume. “This conversation isn’t over,” I insisted as I yanked the door of the apartment open and trampled down the narrow staircase. Through the frosted glass, I could make out two figures; one tall and narrow, the other short and rounded. I frowned and opened the door a crack. “Can I help you?”

  “Welcome to the neighborhood, dear.” I blinked as the aroma of spiced apples and warm pastry hit my nostrils and my eyes were immediately drawn to the golden crust on the apple pie being thrust through the gap between the door and my body. I took a step back as a plump figure pushed past me, pie first, and a pretty, round face beamed in my direction. “Dot Murphy, I own the bakery and coffee shop on the corner, Bewitching Bites.”

  Before I could respond, a second body slid through the half-opened doorway and stood beside Dot in the cramped base of the stairwell. The newcomer was as straight and sharp as her companion was warm and soft, and she caught my hand in a cool, firm handshake before I had even gathered my wits enough to greet the women. My gaze travelled from her hand all the way up her long slim arm until it settled on the steel gray eyes examining me from under a blunt white fringe. The woman was strikingly beautiful, despite the lines of age that wreathed her eyes and the corners of her lips. Or perhaps because of them; hers was a face that had lived a long life and emerged triumphant. Her mouth curved ever so slightly at the corners as the she addressed me. “Bianca D’Arcy. Welcome to Salem.”

  Bianca D’Arcy. Dot Murphy. The names stirred a memory in the corners of my mind and I realised with a start that these were the two ladies Agatha had been hurling abuse at during her memorial service the day before. Bianca and Dot, the silver socialites of Salem, according to Tracy, the friendly vet. I released Bianca’s hand and straightened my cardigan, the same one I’d been wearing the day before. “Hi, I’m Price Jones. Thanks for the welcome; I really didn’t expect anyone to visit. Thank you.”

  I reached for the apple pie, but Bianca nudged Dot, causing her to move onto the staircase before I could take it. Bianca smiled sweetly and gestured for Dot to continue walking. “Dot, go ahead and bring it upstairs. Put the coffee on, too, we won’t have Price making the refreshments on her first morning as a Salem resident.” My eyebrows peaked as I watched the two old ladies make their way toward the apartment as if it were their home instead of mine. Bianca glanced at me over shoulder. “Close the door, dear. This old building is draughty enough to freeze my bones.”

  Mouth slack, I eased the door shut and followed the ladies up the stairs and into the apartment. By the time I reached the kitchen, the smell of coffee brewing filled the air. The ginger cat padded softly across the linoleum floor and stared up at Dot with bright eyes as she bustled around the room, pulling out fine bone china from the presses and cutting the apple pie. The tabby cat pounced onto the windowsill and eyed the steaming dish, licking his lips, but the black cat remained unmoving in the doorway, his blue eyes narrowed and his back arched. I felt my own spine stiffen in solidarity with the surly feline; this was far more neighborly intervention than I liked before I’d made my morning smoothie. Dot smiled at me and waved toward the table, Agatha’s table—my table—as if it were her own. “Sit down, sweetheart. Coffee is nearly ready.”

  Like an obedient child, I slid into one of the hard-backed chairs and rested my hands on the table. Bianca made her way around the living area slowly, her gray eyes examining every inch of the apartment like twin laser beams. I shifted awkwardly as she paused beside the half-empty tub of oatmeal in the sink with a curl of distaste on her narrow lips. “I dropped my breakfast this morning,” I said, by way of explanation for the concealed mess. “The cats startled me.”

  “Those damn cats,” Bianca said. She rested her hip against the dresser and reached for the coffee Dot offered her—black, no sugar. “Disgusting creatures, I’ve no idea what Agatha saw in them. I told her a thousand times she needed to have them put down before they mauled her in her sleep. How could anyone trust cats that size? They’re bad enough when they’re tiny, but those three?” She jerked her head toward the living area where the cats had retreated, obviously as unimpressed with Bianca as she was with them, and spat, “They’re practically feral.”

  Dot giggled nervously as she poured me a cup of coffee. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I only drank decaffeinated, but I held my hand out before she could fill the cup with fresh cream from the tub she had pulled from her large, straw purse. “No cream, thank you,” I insisted. “I’m vegan.”

  “Vegan?” Dot echoed as she pushed the cup of black coffee in my direction. She glanced at Bianca. “Isn’t that wonderful, Bianca? This young lady is vegan.” Dot plonked herself into the chair at the far end of the table and spooned enough sugar to make a dentist cry into her coffee, topping it off with as much whipped cream as the cup could hold. “You must be so healthy, dear, all those vegetables and pulses. I wish I could eat a little more healthily, but I have such a sweet tooth.” She gestured to the wedge of pie and cream on her plate with a rueful smile. “Occupational hazard.”

  “I understand, it smells delicious,” I said. “If I could find good vegan pastries, I’d never stop eating them, either.”

  Dot’s face fell as she stared at the pie. She lowered her fork onto the table. “Oh, my goodness. You can’t eat the pie, there’s butter in the crust. I’m so sorry.” She pressed a plump hand to her cheek. “What kind of ninny brings a welcome gift that a person can’t eat?”

  “Don’t be silly, it was a lovely gesture, you couldn’t have known I was vegan,” I reassured Dot.

  “I should have brought something else as well. I should have checked first.” Dot turned to Bianca with a frown. “I told you we should have sent a calling card first, but you wouldn’t even leave it for a day. You had to get in here and poke your—”

  “Dot.” Bianca’s voice had a warning edge as she interrupted her friend and I dropped my gaze to stare into my cup. “You can bring Priscilla some vegan bread tomorrow, okay? Don’t lose your head over pie.”

  I glanced at the taller woman in surprise. “You know my name?”

  Dot’s cheeks colored and she shovelled a heaped forkful of pie and cream into her mouth, chewing rapidly. Bianca didn’t bat an eyelid. “It’s a small neighborhood, dear; you’ll find everyone on the street knows your name.” She stepped away from the dresser and perched herself elegantly on the edge of a chair. “We’re all quite curious about Agatha’s mysterious beneficiary.”

  “You knew Agatha?” I asked, trying to avoid Bianca’s probing stare. The black cat edged closer to the table and I wondered whether the ghost would make an appearance or whether she was sulking about the old ladies presence. She hadn’t seemed to be particularly fond of them at her funeral service.

  “Yes, Agatha, Dot, and I go way back…” Dot cut another generous slice of pie for herself as Bianca began to speak, smothering it in cream and sprinkling extra sugar over the top. “We met the summer after high school ended. Dot’s pop worked at Thomas Kay’s woollen mill and he got us work there. Agatha had just moved to Salem to live with her aunt and she started on the line the same day
as we did.”

  “She was smart,” Dot said, her fork hovering halfway to her lips. The ghost of a smile passed over her pretty, plump face. “Not book smart like Bianca, but funny and clever. Even Josh Riggins was afraid to say anything in front of her in case she’d make a fool out of him.” She glanced at Bianca. “He never called me butterball again after that first day when Agatha knocked him into the creek.”

  Bianca chuckled and the cats lifted their heads in surprise at the rich, warm swell of laughter. “Josh Riggins,” she murmured. “I’d forgotten all about that little booger. She got him good.”

  “So you were friends since then? That’s so nice, I don’t really see any of my old friends anymore,” I said. “Agatha was very lucky to have both of you in her life. You must have been a regular trio.” My lips curved as I imagined the three old women sitting together, bickering and laughing.

  Like a clam, Dot’s lips sealed around her fork and she stared at the table. Bianca folded her arms and stiffened in the chair. “We had some good times, but life changed for all of us after that summer. We all left Salem to follow our paths and it wasn’t until about fifteen years ago that we all ended up back in Salem again.”

  “And you reconnected then?” I prompted.

  Dot reached for a third helping of pie, but Bianca blocked her hand and shot her a silent reprimand. The plump lady relinquished her hold on the pie and glanced at me with flushed cheeks. “Doll making,” she said. I raised my brow. “We started a little doll making club, just the three of us. We used to meet at the café after hours. I didn’t own the shop when we first started the club, I just worked in the kitchen, but Mr. Percy decided to sell up shop unexpectedly and I bought it from him then. It was Agatha who helped me come up with the name, you know? Bewitching Bites. Everybody loved it.”