by Mona Marple
“Goodness,” Violet said. “And what do you do? You’re the mind reader, I think?”
“Fortune teller,” Glory appeared in no rush to get back to the line. “I don’t take part in the shows.”
“Hmm,” Violet considered the woman. She had a certain aura about her, that was clear. How on earth could Rufus not have realised the girl had powers. “And can you? Tell the future?”
Glory gave a sly smile. “I can convince enough people that I can, and that’s what matters in this game.”
“Is it really?”
“What about you?”
“What about me? Work, you mean? I’m an artist,” Violet had never got used to saying that. It sounded preposterous to her ears, arty-farty in a way that saying you were a bricklayer or a plumber wouldn’t. And yet she laid colours the way other people laid track. Nothing magical about it, really. A job was a job.
“I mean, can you tell the future?”
“Oh, no,” Violet shook her head. It was true. People imagined that witches could do everything, that there was no end to the magical powers they could call on. But magic was a huge area, and magical beings specialised. They had natural talent in one area or another, and they practiced one particular field, and they were encouraged to go into the family line… just as doctors bred doctors and lawyers bred lawyers. But she couldn’t have that conversation with Glory. At least not yet. If Rufus was to be believed, the woman had no idea of her powers.
“Thought not,” Glory said with a nod. “If you could, you wouldn’t have gone to his caravan yesterday.”
Violet swallowed. “You saw me?”
“It’s okay,” Glory let out a bitter little laugh. “I won’t snake you to the feds. I’ve got my own history with them.”
Snake you to the feds? Violet thought she knew what that meant but still… what a way to speak.
“I’m very sorry for your loss, Glory, really I am,” Violet said. She planned to continue and make some comment about what a good man her uncle had been, but found herself unwilling to lie. “And I wouldn’t expect you to lie for me. If the police ask if you saw anything, feel free to tell them.”
“You didn’t like him,” Glory lowered her lithe body and stooped at the side of Violet. “I heard you arguing.”
Violet let out a breath. “I’m sure he never mentioned my name, but the truth is, your uncle and I go back a long way.”
“You’re right, he didn’t mention you,” Glory said, not cruelly, just matter of fact. Violet liked that she had enough about her to speak the truth, not wrap it up in cotton wool. Even though she had hoped Glory would contradict her. “And I wasn’t too happy with him either. Before he was killed, I mean.”
“Glory!” Bert’s panicked voice came from the entrance to the Big Top. She turned and glanced at him, shook her head in Violet’s direction as if the two of them were conspirators in some fun plan that Bert had interrupted, and then trudged away.
Violet felt the absence of her as soon as she was out of sight. She was really a fascinating girl. Violet’s own niece! The thought was remarkable.
Violet watched the show with barely any interest. The acts were mediocre, if entertaining in a way, and the audience appeared to love every moment.
At the interval, Violet slipped out and past the crowds who had joined various lines for hot dogs, cotton candy and cheap plastic toys, and right into Dusty Windbanger. His top hat and tailcoat gleamed under the lights. He spoke into a cell phone and barely noticed Violet as she swerved around his bulky frame.
“A packed house tonight!” He roared into the phone, then let out a belly laugh. “Yes, yes. They say there’s no such thing as bad publicity! I guess they’re right. And it turns out that murder’s good for business!”
Violet stomped past the horrid man, recognizing him immediately as the man who had watched her leave Rufus’ caravan the day before. She knew that the police would want to speak to her, and when she explained what Rufus had done, they’d wonder how she’d managed not to kill him.
She shook her head and knocked on the caravan door. She knew it was the right one only because of the feeling in her gut.
Glory answered the door, her face swollen and mottled from crying.
Violet opened her arms and Glory crumbled into them. “Come on child, let’s get you comfortable. I think it’s time I got to know my niece.”
9
“You’re investigating without me?” Ellie asked as she sprinted across the frozen mud field after Violet.
Violet spun on her heels, her index finger outstretched towards Ellie, who covered her face. “Ellie Bean?”
“Were you going to put a spell on me?” Ellie gasped.
“Well, of course I was! My self-defence isn’t as good as it used to be,” Violet chortled to herself. “I almost turned you into a toad!”
Ellie’s eyes bulged. “You’re joking?”
“Nope,” Violet continued to laugh. “Must have done it four or five times before.”
“You can’t just turn people into toads, Violet,” Ellie fell into step with the older witch. “I thought you liked to keep your mad magic skills on the down low, anyway?”
Violet groaned. “What does that even mean? Why do you young folk insist on making up your own language? We have a perfectly good one!”
“It means you’re not the most public witch,” Ellie explained. “You know, you like to keep your magic quiet.”
“I don’t like to keep my magic quiet,” Violet corrected. “I save it for emergencies. And being accosted by a stranger is an emergency.”
“So you’ve been, what? Attacked by four or five people and turned them into toads?”
“Yes,” Violet said, then paused. “Well, one of them was a door to door salesman actually. Wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
She let out a laugh.
“When do they turn back?” Ellie asked. They’d left the site of the circus and turned, together, in the direction of town.
“Oh, I don’t worry about that,” Violet said with a wink. “They’re probably better off as toads. Grimy little people they were. One of them was a girl with a belly button piercing.”
“Oh,” Ellie said, unsure of what else to say.
“What are you doing jumping out at me, anyway?”
“I followed you,” Ellie admitted. “Did you have your fortune told?”
Violet glanced at her. “Yes.”
“Took a long time,” Ellie said.
“I guess I have a lot of future left. Thankfully.”
“I thought maybe you were investigating,” Ellie said.
“Investigating what?”
Ellie narrowed her eyes. Surely Violet had heard. Everyone in town had heard. Dusty Windbanger had been out before dawn drumming up interest in guided tours of the murder scene, even though the caravan itself had been sealed off with police tape. “There’s been a murder. You haven’t heard?”
Violet let out a long, somewhat shaky breath. It was a frigid cold night and she was somewhat underdressed.
“Do you want my coat?” Ellie offered.
“No, no,” Violet swatted the offer away with her hand. “The fortune teller girl mentioned something. I thought she was trying to add to the mystery.”
“No,” Ellie was stunned. How could the whole town have heard about the murder but Violet know nothing? “It was a circus guy. Rufus, his name was. I think he owned it with that Windbanger guy.”
Violet nodded her head slightly. “I see. Why would I be investigating that?”
Ellie pulled a face. “Because of what happened at Winifred’s, Violet. What we did.”
“Oh,” Violet swatted in her direction again. “Forget about that, Ellie! We were trapped with no police around. Now we’re home and we have a perfectly good Sheriff.”
“Aren’t you curious, though?” Ellie asked. When she thought back to what she and Violet had done at their magick school reunion, she felt a little lightheaded with disbelief. She’d never felt so unlike herself in
her life, and yet more and more she wondered if she was being her true self for the first time.
“Not at all,” Violet said. They’d reached her waterfront house and she offered a wave while avoiding Ellie’s gaze.
“Can I come in?” Ellie asked.
“Whatever for?” Violet asked. The question was fair. The two of them weren’t close. They’d been thrown together in an impossible situation that one time, but other than that, they were just two almost strangers. Violet ordered coffee and Ellie made it. They were both witches, there was that, but they both had a complicated relationship with their powers. Violet sighed. “Come on, then.”
Violet led them into the kitchen and flicked on the kettle, pulled out two mugs from a cupboard and dumped a tea bag into each. Ellie would have preferred a glass of water, but didn’t say anything.
“How’s that cat of yours?” Violet asked, her back to Ellie.
“Talking to me,” Ellie said. The words sounded ridiculous. The words were ridiculous!
“Good,” Violet murmured.
“Good? Did you hear me properly? I said I think Godiva’s talking to me.”
Violet nodded. “It means you’re starting to trust your powers more.”
“It does?” Ellie asked.
“Of course it does,” Violet poured, left each mug for a minute, then added a dash of milk. She left the tea bags right in there, which made Ellie’s eye twitch a little. “That cat’s always been talking to you. You just haven’t heard it before.”
“It’s weird,” Ellie admitted. “When it first happened, I didn’t believe it. It’s like a rite of passage for every witch, I guess?”
“Not every witch,” Violet said. “I’ve never had a familiar. Never wanted one.”
“You could have adopted one of the toads,” Ellie joked. Violet gave a reluctant smile. “I know you weren’t really getting your fortune told.”
Violet raised an eyebrow. “Oh, do you?”
And it was that easy for Ellie to doubt herself. “Well, I don’t think you were.”
Violet sighed. “Fine, I wasn’t. But I’m not investigating the murder, I can promise you that.”
“Well then what…”
“The fortune teller is my niece,” Violet said. The words sounded odd, but not unpleasant, as they left her mouth. She would need to practice saying it, although she wouldn’t refer to her as the fortune teller, of course. “Glory… Glory is my niece.”
“I… but you didn’t seem to know her in the coffee shop that day?”
“A surprise addition to the family,” Violet raised her mug then took a long sip. Ellie gazed down at her own drink.
“I think we should investigate together,” she found the courage to say what she wanted to. “Me and you. We’re a good team, don’t you think?”
“You don’t need me,” Violet said. Her expression softened. “Look, dear, I’m awfully flattered that you’d want an old bat like me helping you. But I’ve got more than enough on at the moment. Paintings and the like. Getting to know my niece. Glory.”
Ellie sighed and reached into the front pocket of her bag. She’d placed the ring in a ziplock bag, a fresh one, from the store cupboard, and sealed it tight. The wisdom of that decision was unclear to her, surely all she was doing was locking her own DNA in there with it. But it seemed like a good thing for an amateur sleuth to do.
“What is that?” Violet asked as Ellie placed the transparent bag on the counter. The ring glinted inside.
“I found it, in Rufus’ van,” Ellie admitted.
Violet shrunk away from the item as if it had burned her. “Get it out of here! What are you thinking? You’ve interfered with evidence!”
“Violet, calm down. I picked it up without thinking so if it points towards anyone, it’s me. Don’t you see? I need to solve the case.”
“Throw it in the springs,” Violet moved across the room quickly, grabbed her coat. “We’ll go now. The whole town will still be at the dreadful circus show, we can do it without being spotted.”
“No,” Ellie said. She remained at the counter. “I don’t want to take the easy way out anymore. I’m sick of being scared of everything. I think I’m meant to solve this case. Why else would this be the first time I’ve heard Godiva speak? Why would I find this ring unless I was meant to?”
“Because you were snooping around the scene of a murder!”
“Well, yes,” Ellie had to accept that remark. “But I was only there because of Godiva, and as you said yourself, that means I’m trusting myself.”
Violet groaned and returned to the kitchen counter, her coat still on. “Your argument makes sense,” she admitted wearily.
“The ring is a clue,” Ellie said. “It is, isn’t it?”
Violet allowed herself to glance at the object. “It may be.”
“I think whoever killed Rufus was wearing the ring. There was a tussle and the ring came off,” Ellie said.
“You’re guessing,” Violet scolded. “You don’t have an ounce of evidence to support that theory. It’s just as likely - more likely - that Rufus owned the ring, dropped it months ago and thought the cursed thing was lost.”
Ellie’s shoulders drooped. “You see why I need your help?”
“Oh, no!” Violet let out a laugh. “Very clever, Ms Bean. But your dumb detective routine won’t lure me into getting involved. I want no part of this. Understand?”
“Fine,” Ellie decided to try a different tactic. She pulled a reporter’s notebook and pen out of her bag. “Then you’re my first suspect.”
“Phooey!” Violet exclaimed. Her eyes narrowed and she wriggled her way out of the coat. “I think you’ve just about overstayed your welcome.”
“Oh, come on!” Ellie objected. “I was teasing.”
“I’ll see you out,” Violet said. Instead of moving towards the door, however, she picked up both mugs and tipped the dregs into the sink, then tossed the tea bags into the bin. Ellie watched and hoped her temper would reduce. She knew that Violet had a temper, a complete inability to suffer fools anywhere near gladly, but she’d always thought the old woman had a sense of humour. A tingle of worry buzzed behind her ear. Had her accusation troubled Violet because it was true? No. Ellie banished the thought. Violet was eccentric but no murderer. Although her reaction to the ring was interesting. Why had it caused such a strong reaction?
“Violet…” Ellie began. She reached a hand out for the ring, but Violet must have had the same thought. She spun around and a bolt of magic shot from her fingertip to the counter. Ellie watched in horror as the ziplock bag lifted up from the counter and towards Violet. Ellie reached out for the object, but an invisible forcefield prevented her from touching it. She made contact with the field of energy and gasped at the electric shock that she suffered. “What are you doing? I need that!”
“It isn’t yours,” Violet snapped. “You’ve got no business with it. Why can’t you see? You having a key piece of evidence is stupid! Just stupid!”
Ellie watched her face and realised that Violet wasn’t angry. “You’re scared.”
“Of course I am! You’ve brought this evidence into my home! I’ll get rid of it. You just go home, Ellie. You’ve done enough.”
“No,” Ellie said. She had spent a lifetime leaving when people asked her to, minding her own business when people suggested she should, and accepting limits that other people placed on her. No more. “You’re scared, Violet, and I know why. This ring - you’ve seen it before.”
The bag reached Violet and she grabbed it, glared across the counter at Ellie. “Of course not.”
“You have,” Ellie said. “You recognised it as soon as I got it out. I don’t know what that means yet, but I’ll figure it out.”
“And even if you do,” Violet said. “What happens then? You take this ring, with your fingerprints all over it, to the police and tell them it isn’t yours? You think they’ll believe you?”
“I don’t know,” Ellie admitted. She hadn’t got q
uite that far yet in her plan. “But I do know that I’m involved in this for a reason.”
“Sometimes,” Violet suddenly sounded very tired. “A bad person is killed, and that’s the end of the story. Maybe you’re too young to have figured that out. Some people aren’t worth saving.”
“Could you have saved him, Violet?” Ellie could barely believe what she was saying. “Did you choose not to?”
10
Frances Hampton gave Zoey two cans of cat food, but the Shih Tzu remained furious with her. Frances couldn’t blame her. She’d up and abandoned the dog for hours without warning, and when she’d returned to the caravan, she’d been in such a state of shock that she’d almost forgotten she even owned a dog.
The interview had been tiring and Frances had slept for hours after being released. It wasn’t the end of it, Sheriff Morton had made that clear, but he didn’t have enough evidence to keep her in custody.
Well of course you don’t, Frances had wanted to say, because I didn’t do it.
What she’d actually done was thank the Sheriff, as if he was doing her some kind of pleasure allowing her to return to her freedom. Wild thoughts of going on the run had popped into her head as she’d walked across town (she’d refused the Sheriff’s offer of a lift home), but Frances was no Bonnie or Clyde. She wanted a good night’s sleep and a cold glass of Dr Pepper, and then she’d come up with a plan the next day.
She dreamed of her last meal. Not the last meal she had eaten, but the last meal she would order if she was about to be executed. She figured it would have to be a meal she had eaten many times before. Frances thought it would be just about her luck if she ordered a brand new meal and it turned out to be the best thing she’d ever tasted. That sounded about right. No, she’d order wings or potato skins, a thick shake, casserole the way her grandmother had made it. Not that Frances could imagine a person having an appetite in a situation like that, although her stomach had rumbled all the way through the interview.
When she’d got back to her caravan she’d been too exhausted to cook something up, and in the morning she looked around the cozy space and found it claustrophobic. Bigger than her cell would be. That was her thought. What a thought to have!
