The Infiniti Investigates: Hattie Jenkins & the Infiniti Chronicles Books 1 to 5

by Pearl Goodfellow

  “Anyway, I had to walk myself home. Two miles. In heels! I have blisters the size of pancakes!” She pointed to her fuzzy, slippered feet.

  “You should try to apply a little witch hazel to those,” I suggested. “The tannins will help dry them right up.”

  The Chief threw me an annoyed glare. I shrugged.

  Once an apothecarian, always an apothecarian.

  Chief Trew flipped back a page or two in his little notebook. “Miss Mulberry, we have a witness who reported overhearing you threaten Miss Roach’s life. Care to explain that?”

  Violet froze with a momentary deer in headlights stare. For a fleeting second, I dared entertain the luck we’d already managed to solve the case, and I could get back home, retreat under the covers, and steal back some sorely missed sleep. Millie could handle running the shop.

  But, luck’s a witch, and then she flies.

  Violet threw her manicured hands in the air. “I – was – upset! I may have suggested that Gless Inlet would be better off without people like Spithilda Roach in it.”

  “And why is that?” the Chief asked.

  “She threatened to close my shop is why!”

  Everybody in town knew Spithilda held the land deeds to most of the town’s businesses. She may not have been the world’s greatest witch, but she was certainly a shrewd businesswoman. And, although she herself lived in near squalor, the woman was ridiculously wealthy. She was the Donald Trump of Gless Inlet – with better hair. And, no delusions of leading the country. Spithilda owned most of the property up and down Main Street, and on most Main Streets in most towns scattering Glessie Isle.

  “I’d say that was definitely a plausible motive for murder,” Chief commented. “Why did she threaten to close your shop? Were you behind on the payments?”

  “Of course not! I do a respectable amount of business here, Chief. I am (her hand did a gay little flourish) a coiffeuse!”

  I wasn’t satisfied my herbal assistant would have agreed with Violet on that point.

  Chief Trew made a concerted effort not to roll his eyes. Judging from the pained look on his face, I think he may have pulled something in the attempt. Violet took no notice. She rambled on.

  “I do, however, operate a small dog grooming business on the side. The way I see it, animals have a right to feel beautiful, too. I’m a huge supporter of animal rights. That’s why I was at the charity gala last night. Mutley Crew does so much for the orphaned dogs of the Islands, as I’ve said. Spithilda even adopted her dog, Remulus, through the organization. The two of them were supposed to be at the event. Lady Roach was actually scheduled to make some big announcement, but of course she never showed, no doubt because she was dead, and Farmer Groovymud hijacked the stage instead, to perform some bizarre dance with handkerchiefs, sticks and bells.” Violet finally came up for air, gulping for oxygen after her outpouring.

  “Announcement? What announcement?” Chief Trew asked.

  Violet shrugged. “I have no idea. But, that’s the reason she sent Amber to me with Remy for a groom. I guess the dog was going to be on stage with her too. It’s not my fault Spithilda couldn’t appreciate my artistic vision.” Violet crossed her arms in defense mode once more.

  The Chief raised an eyebrow. “Artistic vision?”

  Violet hitched her shoulders noncommittally. “Pink Bows.” She stated flatly.

  Pink bows?

  “Pink bows?” David mirrored my thought out loud. “How could she get mad at pink bows? Not exactly as if you changed the dog’s appearance.”

  “I didn’t tie the bows to Remy, Inspector,” Violet puffed out her chest indignantly. “The pink bows were made out of Remy’s own fur. A delightful neon pink from the ‘Florid Lights’ range was applied first, and then the bows were fashioned right from Remulus’ own coat. Did I not just tell you I am a coiffeuse?” Again, the flourish of the hand.

  “I even went through the trouble of delivering him all the way out to that miserable little wagon Spithilda calls home to deliver him. Do I get so much as a ‘thank you’? No. Not by a long shot. What I do get is a threat from Spithilda saying she is going to write a letter to the S.P.C.A. and tell them I’m using beauty products in my salon that have been tested on animals!”

  Spithilda had been writing something in my dream! Maybe she intended to make good on her threat to Violet after all.

  “Is there any basis in truth for her accusation?” the Chief questions dutifully.

  “Why, of course not! The‘ Florid Lights’ range is certified 100% cruelty-free! All of my products are! But, the accusation alone could ruin me. If a formal complaint were filed, the S.P.C.A. would require me to suspend business while they conducted an investigation. I close, even for just one day, and I would be devastated!”

  The Chief slowly closed his notebook. “Thank you for your time, Violet. I think we’ve got enough information for now, but don’t make any immediate travel plans to the Mainland anytime soon.”

  Violet huffed, and she fluffed, turned on a fuzzy heel, and stalked back into her salon.

  Chief Trew sighed heavily. He rubbed the furrow creasing his brow. “Violet certainly had a motive, if Spithilda did actually threaten to close her shop. But, I can’t imagine threatening someone’s livelihood over something as petty as pink bows. Fur bows or not. I mean, who would get so bent out of shape over something like that?”

  Eyes askance, I muttered. “Did you ever meet Spithilda?”

  He dismissed my rhetorical query with a wave of his hand. “At any rate, Violet had a motive. But, we still have to establish opportunity and means. We need to corroborate her alibi. What time is it?”

  “Just past five,” I replied.

  “Happy hour at The Fingernail Moon. Let’s go see if Mr. Silverback is thirsty after all that running away he did from Violet.”

  “You know, if you’re extra sweet, I might even let you buy me dinner.” He held out an extended arm for me to hold.

  My heart fluttered just like the butterflies Eclipse loved to chase in Portia Fearwyn’s overrun garden. The insects loved the purple-pink flowers that blossomed on the unkempt foliage. I grinned wryly. Butterflies. One of the only beautiful things that could be found near Portia’s dismal estate in the Gorthland Swamps. Portia herself was a sallow, beady-eyed, beak-nosed practitioner of the Gloomy Arts. I made regular deliveries to her doorstep; supplies of all kinds of baneful herbs. But, Portia’s bulk orders of some of the nastier herbs I carried kept the apothecary afloat. If it weren’t for that little gem of a fact, and the butterflies, I would likely never venture there. Not that I was scared of her like most others were. But, the Swamps were an unnerving place to be, whatever the reason or time of day. Gaunt Manor was hardly a relaxing, welcoming homestead. My stomach got all flip-floppy again realizing whose arm I was holding onto. I batted my eyelashes exaggeratedly.

  “Why, Chief Trew! Is this a date?”

  “Nope,” he stated matter-of-factly. Like it was a fact in the case. “Just dinner.”

  I’m not going to lie. I pouted a little on that one.

  Throw a girl a bone, Chief.

  “And afterward, we’ll go visit Maude at the morgue. I suspect we’ll want to be done with Mr. Silverback by the time the moon rises. We also need to find out exactly how Spithilda was dispatched.”

  I had to admit; the Chief was right. About paying Maude a visit and about the case. Maude Dulgrey did keep odd hours. Well, for a one time Mainland coroner anyway. But, Gless Inlet operated in its own little time zone, and that suited us just fine.

  The Chief was right, too, in that we needed to determine just how Spithilda met her untimely demise. Hopefully, the after-hours coroner would be able to shed a little light on the subject. My vague unease for the shriveled hermit aside, not even Spithilda deserved to have her life cut short by someone else’s dastardly plan; be it Violet’s or some other as yet unknown party lurking in the shadows.

  As I walked down Main Street, arm in arm with the Chief, neit
her of us noticed we had a shadow of our own. He peeled himself from the shade of a nearby alley and followed us at a discreet distance as we strolled toward The Fingernail Moon and, hopefully, closer to some answers to fill in the growing list of blanks.

  Near the eastern edge of town, through an alley of ghostly white oaks, The Fingernail Moon nestled in the crook of a winding lane. The location exuded a distinct sense of history and place, transporting passersby to an era of bygone days. It was no wonder. A tavern of one sort or another had sat on the very spot for nearly two centuries since the first inhabitants of Glessie Isle had set buckled boots down on her shores. A bit of the character from each incarnation had soaked into the spot, recalling a time when hooded highwaymen held clandestine meetings by flickering candlelight, and drunken sailors clinked pewter tankards spilling dark, heady brews. If you listened hard enough, you could almost hear the raucous cheering as yet another bare-knuckled brawl tossed about on the wood-chip scattered floor.

  One such historical altercation had tipped over a burning oil lamp, sending fast, hungry flames to devour the thatched roof and wooden Tudor beams in a conflagration that consumed both the tavern and any number of lost souls. But the Glessie Isle population was tenacious, if not thirsty, and another bar was quickly erected on the same site.

  The inn, whether it was called The Rose & Crown, The Green Dragon, or even The Slaughtered Lamb, was the axis of the community. It was a place where locals gathered to wind down from a day’s hard tasking; to drink readily from the bar’s excellent selection of carefully crafted ales and assorted bitters (my personal favorite was a non alcoholic beverage called “Griffin’s Beak.) Or, to savor a bite of gastric bliss from the freshly prepared menu, and to chat convivially in a place where the news of the day was imparted through human conversation.

  It was also a place where an astute investigator could glean some extraordinarily useful information. The trick was to separate fact from fancy.

  That was exactly what Chief Trew and I hoped to accomplish as we walked through the thick, oaken door of Horace Mangler’s friendly watering hole.

  “Hattie Jenkins! An’ Chief Trew! Two of me fav’rite people!” I was fairly sure Horace greeted every patron who crossed the threshold of the Moon in a like manner. The great bear of a man broadened his arms wide, exposing the huge spread of his ample girth, then stroked his long whiskers. His fists were like meaty hocks of ham, yet still, they managed to get lost in the wiry, black nest that spilled over his belly.

  “What brings ya two into me fine ‘stablishment?” he asked in a slurry, accented baritone.

  “Good friends and good food, Horace,” the Chief answered smoothly. No need to draw attention to our more official purpose, I supposed.

  Horace clapped two strong arms around both our shoulders and steered us toward a small, intimate table in the corner near the stained-glass window.

  “Well, your’n luck!” Horace bellowed. “‘Cause we’ve plenty o’ both here at The Fingernail Moon. Here. Sit.”

  We obliged the big man as he scraped an empty chair across the planked floor and joined us. He leaned in conspiratorially. “So, what’s this I ‘ear ‘bout Spithilda Roach being murdered?”

  “I really can’t comment on an open investigation, Horace. You should know that ” Chief Trew admonished. Horace waved his ham hands in mock surrender.

  “A’right, a’right. You cannae blame a fella for tryin’. ‘Tis just a bit o’ a hot topic, right now. Spithilda t’werent on a lot o’ people’s Christmas list, ya know. ‘Tis any number o’ folks who t’aint sheddin’ a single tear o’er her passing. Take the debonair Mr. Silverback o’er there, fer instance.”

  Both the Chief and I started at the mention of the very man we’d come to the Moon hoping to find. Horace gestured toward a crisply suited, older gentleman seated across the room. He was mature, yet still carried an air of animal magnetism about him. His lips parted in genial laughter at a neighbor’s comment, exposing a line of perfect, straight white teeth. His flawlessly coiffed hair bore a single streak of regal silver over the left temple. And his eyes sparkled with a youthful vigor that belied his real age. I could certainly see why my assistant found him so “dreamy.”

  “Rumor has it tha’ Spithilda took a fancy to our dashin’ Mr. Silverback when they met as youngsters. When he did nae return her ‘fections in kind? Well let’s jes say she worked a l’il o’ that gloomy magic of hers, and that’s why t’ings get, ahem, a l’il hairy for Mr. Silverback once o’ month. If ‘n he don’ take a special elixir when the gibbous moon waxes full, things get, how can I say, ‘ruff.'”

  Horace clapped his thigh in a great slap. His enormous belly jiggled like a gelatin mold as waves of laughter rolled through him. I’m not sure whose eyes rolled harder at Horace’s terrible joke, mine or the Chief’s. Horace pushed back from the table and stood.

  “Well, then. I’ve work ta do, and it sounds like you do, too. I’ll sen’ Mary ‘round wit a coupl’a menus. Always a pleasure, Hattie. Chief.”

  Horace gave a jaunty little salute and excused himself from the table. As soon as he was out of earshot, I leaned in close to the Chief. He smelled like fresh soap and woodsy pine. I was hard-pressed to remember what I intended to say.

  “Did you hear that?” I finally managed. “Violet’s alibi might be just as much a suspect as she is.”

  David nodded. “I suppose when you’re dealing with someone as bitter and unpleasant as Spithilda was, we were bound to come up with a host of likely suspects. That’s why we need to assemble all the facts and gather the evidence. So we can determine the most likely guilty party and prove they did it.”

  “Hm,” I mused, tapping a thoughtful finger alongside my cheek. “I always knew Rad was a werewolf. I just had no idea Spithilda was responsible. I assumed it was a hereditary trait.”

  We had more than one were-beast running around Gless Inlet. Most were born into their particular affliction. Other than tiffs with the vampires, they caused very little trouble, choosing to live in sort of pack communities at the far reaches of the Isle. Rad was an exception, a lone wolf. In pack mentality, a lone wolf was generally an older wolf, driven from the pack by a younger, alpha wolf.

  You might be tempted to feel sorry for Rad, but if you’d seen him flirting with the pretty young waitress at his table, it was quite evident he relished being the sole predator in the room. He flashed the innocent girl a bright, sharp smile and let his well-placed hand slide a bit too far south of proper on the backside of her red skirt.

  Hey there, Little Red Riding Hood.

  The warning lyrics of Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs echoed in my head. I watched the old sly dog carefully. Chief Trew kept a wary eye as well.

  “I wonder where he gets his special elixir,” the Chief pondered. “Have you ever heard of any type of were-suppressant at the shop?”

  “Depends on the lore,” I admitted. “There are some who believe that aconite, or wolfsbane as some call it, can help control the effects of the lunar cycle for those afflicted with the were-curse. But, it’s deadly poisonous. Even exposure to the seeds is toxic. They excrete an alkaloid that, if you’re not careful, can cause dizziness, blurry vision, and make you foam at the mouth like a rabid...well, dog.”

  “That does not sound pleasant in the least,” the Chief winced.

  “It’s not,” I agreed. “And that’s just the pre-show. After that, you can slip into a coma, and then…” My voice trails.

  “And then?” the Chief pressed.

  “Death.”

  A moment of silence hung heavy in the air between us. It was suddenly shattered by the crashing smash of pottery.

  “Oh, for tha love o’ St. George, Mary!” Horace bellowed from the bar. Rad’s waitress had dropped her tray, demolishing a half-eaten plate of lamb in the process. She immediately bent over to clean the mess, while the hint of a lecherous smile tugged at the corners of Rad’s mouth.

  “I think it’s time we had a little chat with Mr. Si
lverback, don’t you?” the Chief growled. He stood abruptly and strode towards Rad’s table. He moved so quickly; I scrambled to follow in an awkward jumble of legs and elbows.

  “Well, well, well. If it isn’t our esteemed Chief of Police, David Trew. How are you? And, Miss Jenkins. I do hope the kitties are doing well,” Rad oozed politely.

  I felt the sudden need for a shower and an eternal debt of gratitude to Violet Mulberry for keeping this rake away from my dear, sweet Millie. But, Grammy Chimera raised me to be a polite, if reluctant witch.

  “They are quite well, as am I,” I respond. “Thank you for asking.”

  “Mr. Silverback,” Chief Trew began. “I understand you were escort to Miss. Mulberry at the Mutley Crew Charity Gala last evening.”

  Rad smiled slyly. “I enjoyed some time with Miss. Mulberry, yes. We reveled in the festivities then, afterward, a delightful stroll on the sand.”

  “Is that so?” the Chief needled.

  “Miss Mulberry seemed a little upset that you deserted her on the beach. In fact,” the Chief looked at me for corroboration. “She seemed downright blistered over it.”

  I stifled a snicker. The veneer on Rad’s thousand-dollar smile faded just a smidgen. He wormed uncomfortably in his seat. He didn’t seem to mind that a romantic interest had been talking about him as much as seemed to mind receiving anything less than a five-star rating.

  “Yes, ahem,” he cleared his throat. “I may have had to curtail our evening rather abruptly, but that is not entirely my fault.”

  Rad wasn’t the only one in the room with a keen nose. The Chief’s interest piqued at that last. It had the scent of confession.

  “Oh? Really? And who’s fault might it have been?” he posited.

  “I - I,” Rad stammered. “I may have had some recent trouble obtaining the...medicine required for my particular problem. My usual supplier was, how shall I put this? Unavailable. So, when the clouds decided to clear last night, I found an immediate and pressing need to depart. I regret being unable to explain the situation to Miss Mulberry. She really is quite lovely. And she does such remarkable things with hair. She is, as you know, a coiffeuse.”