Considering I had to write a human-safe version of every story these days, it sounded like exactly the sort of conference that I should have attended. And I would have, too, had it not been organised by Arnold Albright. Arnold was the owner of many newspapers, including the Daily Riddler.
The man had hired me under false pretences. He told me he wanted a reporter. He didn’t tell me it was in a semi-supernatural town, and he definitely didn’t tell me he was looking for someone who was more than just a journalist. Because when Arnold hired me, he had no interest in my skills. All he cared about was whether or not I was his long-lost granddaughter.
We’d never proved the case either way, because I refused to take his final test – touching the Albright coven grimoire. Only an Albright could open the book, and I had no interest in being an Albright.
You might think that a person who grew up in the system, being shuffled from one strange foster-family to another, would relish the opportunity to find out if they had real relatives out there. And I might have, too, if that possible-relative didn’t happen to be Arnold Albright.
His daughter, the woman he believed was my mother, hadn’t left him behind just because she was having a temper tantrum. She had run away from him, and hidden her child, for a reason. He had destroyed her relationship with her lover. And I had the feeling that he’d achieved it by horrific means. Arnold had been the sole reason his daughter ran from Riddler’s Edge, never to return. And every time I was near him, I felt sure she had done the right thing.
Weeks had passed since I refused to open the Albright grimoire, and for most of those weeks, he had let me be. But over the past fortnight or so, he had begun to make some moves.
He was visiting the newspaper every other day with flimsy excuses. He had called around to the Vander Inn only three days before, on the pretext of wanting ‘to catch up with Nollaig.’ But he and my host were hardly bosom buddies. He’d been hanging around Riddler’s Edge far more often than usual, and I knew it was only a matter of time before he approached me directly.
I had no doubt that today’s conference was yet another feeble ploy, which was why Grace – the paper’s editor – had gone alone. Now that I hadn’t taken this latest bit of bait, I couldn’t help but wonder what tactics Arnold might come up with next.
‘Hey, Ash, can I have a quick chat?’
I turned at the sound of Greg’s voice, shooting him a relieved smile. Right now, I would take any excuse to get out of my head. Heck, if all he wanted was to tell me that the break room had run out of coffee, it would have been better than continuing down my road of Arnold-related thoughts.
But I doubted he was really about to talk to me about coffee. He had his tense-face on as he stood at the door of his office, holding it open for me. As I rushed towards him, he said, ‘The pictures are ready.’
‘That was super quick,’ I told him as I walked in and took a seat.
‘Most things are quicker with a wizard. Wait … that’s not always a good thing. Um … the things you would want to be quick are quick and the things that you’d want to be slow are slow.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘I get it, gorgeous. So did you find anything?’
He pulled a stick of liquorice from behind his ear (why – where do you keep yours?) and started to chew. ‘Not a sausage I’m afraid. But take a look for yourself.’
He had his computer turned on, with all of the digital photos of the bell tower arranged on the screen. The physical photos were laid out on top of his desk. I looked through them all about half a dozen times before I admitted defeat. ‘I guess it really was just the light then.’
Greg chewed some more of his liquorice and shrugged. ‘It sure looks that way, unfortunately. But I have come up with a match on those symbols.’ He opened up another tab on his computer and typed. A moment later, I found myself looking at digitised pages from an ancient tome.
I swallowed, unable to believe what I was seeing. There was a woman sprawled on the ground, all of her limbs stretched in uncomfortable directions. Beneath her dead body there was a circle, with the exact same symbols we had seen in the bell tower.
He clicked through more pictures. There were some of women hanging, some of them burning, some of them drowning. In each picture, there were similar symbols on the page.
‘This nice little bedtime book is called “Pictures to Inspire Thee in Thy Hunting”,’ Greg said with a dark expression on his face. ‘It’s a picture book from the fifteenth century. There were a lot of such inspirations around back then. I’d like to tell you this is the worst book I’ve matched the symbols to, but I’d be lying.’ He ran a hand over his close-cut blonde hair. ‘They’re all from the Inquisition. The one in the human world. Y’know – the good old days when lots of women who weren’t actually witches were killed for some imaginary sins.’
We sat there for quite some time, going through more and more witch-hunting manuals. The more I saw, the worse I felt. When I couldn’t take any more, I shivered, pulling my cardigan close around me. ‘Greg … can you just answer me one question? Do any of those pictures look like they’re glowing to you?’
He blinked rapidly, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. ‘Ash, all the pictures we’ve looked at are dark ink drawings on paper. Some of them are dark ink on vellum. But not a single one of them is coloured.’ He swallowed down the last of his liquorice stick. ‘But … I’m guessing you’re seeing things a little bit differently than I am.’
I’m not a nervous Nellie – well, not usually. But just then, I was feeling like bolting from that office and never coming back. ‘Y’know what, I haven’t been sleeping all that well,’ I said, standing up. ‘And I’ve always had issues with my eyesight. So … yeah.’ I edged my way to the door, but Greg jumped up from his chair, catching me by the arm.
‘Ash, you look pale. Are you all right?’
‘Fine,’ I lied. ‘Just dandy.’
He let out a snort of air through his nostrils. ‘Yeah, sure. I’m beginning to think that’s the safe word you use when you want to let someone know you’re not dandy. Look, me and Roarke are off to the Fisherman’s Friend for lunch in a sec. I know you don’t like to eat big in the middle of the day, but maybe you should. Eat big. Laugh big. Just take a nice long lunchbreak and relax.’
That did sound nice. Very nice. But nice wasn’t going to cut it right now.
‘Thanks but no thanks. I need a walk to clear my head. See you later, Greg.’
≈
I was full of it today, but whatever it was, I doubted Greg was buying. He knew just as well as I did that I’d never had a problem with my eyesight. Sure, I thought I had an issue for many years, because I kept seeing a kaleidoscope haze in the most unlikely places. But that turned out to be less to do with my eyesight and more to do with the fact that I could see supernatural enclaves when few other humans could.
But maybe, in this case, the simplest solution really was the solution. Maybe I was having problems with my eyes. Or perhaps I was tired. Or stressed. Greg was a wizard, after all. If he couldn’t find any sign of the green glow, then it had to be in my head. Didn’t it?
No, I decided. It didn’t have to be in my head. And it wasn’t in my head. I wasn’t imagining all of this, not one little bit. I was going to go and get myself something to eat, and then I was going to march into that garda station and tell Detective Quinn that, whatever this death was, it was not a straightforward suicide. Sure, I didn’t have the proof I wanted to throw in his face. But my insistence should be proof enough. And if it wasn’t … well, I could argue with that bridge if I came to it.
Normally when I’ve come to a decision, I feel instantly better about things. But just then, I was feeling even more uneasy than before. Because as I made my way towards Norman’s Shop to grab some food, I had the unsettling certainty that I was being followed.
It began with feeling like there was someone behind me. I heard no footsteps, but you don’t need to hear footsteps to know when there’s someone the
re. You just know. But every time I stopped to look, there was no one in sight.
Arnold could have gotten a vampire to follow me in their vaporized form, I supposed. Or maybe some witch minion of his, using an invisibility spell. That was the problem with supernaturals. If they wanted to keep themselves hidden, they had countless ways to do it. And for someone like me, who hadn’t even got a handle over what power I had – never mind how to use it – there wasn’t an awful lot I could do to retaliate.
Well, I might not be able to stop him having me followed, but I sure as heck could find a way to make whoever was dogging my steps very, very bored.
There were a few members of the choir outside the shop, and I said a brief hello to them before I wandered inside and took my sweet time deciding on a sandwich.
‘I’m not sure whether I want the egg and cress or the cheese and pickle,’ I told Norman for the fourth time in a row, glancing over my shoulder as I tried to catch sight of anyone lurking close by. ‘Could you tell me again what’s in each?’
Norman took my indecision in his stride. But then, he was a man who had lived in Riddler’s Edge for almost fifty years and never once realised he was surrounded by supernaturals. If he could let all of that oddness wash over him, then he could certainly cope with me being a little bit strange. ‘Well, in the cheese and pickle I’ve put some cheese,’ he told me with the patience of an angel. ‘And some pickle. And in the egg and cress I’ve put some egg. And some cress.’
‘Hmm.’ I tapped my fingers on the counter. ‘And what would you say is the ratio exactly – of the cress to the egg?’
‘I’m not sure. Maybe … ninety percent egg to eleven percent cress.’
‘That really doesn’t work out though, does it?’ I pointed out, picking up an apple and examining it carefully. ‘I mean, mathematics-wise.’
‘Doesn’t it?’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s eleven percent cress to ninety percent egg, then.’
‘Maybe.’ I glanced over my shoulder again. I could still feel that same lurking presence. Just how boring was I going to have to be before I shook it off? ‘I’ll have that then, I suppose. We live in uncertain times, so I might as well have an uncertainly proportioned sandwich.’
6. Sign M for Murder?
The choir were still outside when I left with my lunch. Most of them were gathered on the green outside the bell tower, but a few were congregated on benches close to the shop.
‘You can sit with us, love,’ said Margaret, patting a free space next to her. I sat down, and gave a quick wave to the woman on the other side. She was the one whose name I couldn’t remember, the one I’d often seen with Heather and Margaret. They were both quite a bit older than Heather. The dead woman had been in her late thirties, but these two were closer to fifty.
‘This is Rachel,’ Margaret told me. ‘She was Heather’s other best friend.’
Rachel was dressed all in black, but I knew that it wasn’t her mourning garb. Every time I’d seen her she was dressed that way. Maybe she thought it would add to the whole witch-vibe she had going on. Or maybe she was just sensible like me, and had decided that it was much easier to match your clothes when everything you owned was the same colour.
She wiped a watery eye and looked down at the melting ice cream in her hands. ‘You’re Aisling Smith, aren’t you? You work with Roarke. How does he come up with all of those puzzles, each and every day? At least some of them must be bought in, mustn’t they?’
I shook my head. ‘They’re all Roarke’s, each and every one. He’s a genius.’
‘A good-looking genius at that,’ Rachel went on, seeming to cheer up the longer she spoke. ‘I mean, how do you contain yourself, working with someone like him every day? If I was your age …’
Somehow, it was worse that she’d left her sentence hanging in the air rather than finishing it off. Now my mind was filled with the horrors of what she might like to do to Roarke. And sure, he was cute in a chubby, nerdy way. I certainly liked his glasses. ‘I guess it’s easy to contain yourself when you just see a person as a friend,’ I said.
Rachel took a brief lick of her ice cream. ‘I’ve never really believed men and women could be friends.’ Her face saddened a little. ‘But then I suppose I don’t know nearly as much as I thought I did. I still can’t believe what Heather wrote in that note.’
I had a brief moment of shock. But then I remembered what Detective Quinn told me – half of the town and the fire brigade had seen the body before he had. Of course they’d seen the suicide note too.
‘She never would have tried to perform a resurrection spell,’ Rachel went on. ‘We’re white witches, not weirdos, aren’t we Margaret?’
Margaret nodded slowly. ‘We believe that death is the natural course of things. All three of us.’
Now that I knew for sure that all three women had identified as white witches, I wanted to ask them a hundred questions about their beliefs. I also wanted to run back to the Daily Riddler and borrow one of Grace’s Aurameters, just to be sure they weren’t what they believed they were. But right now, I knew that the best thing I could do was eat my lunch and let them talk.
And talk they did. They told me how Heather was like a light in their life. They told me she cured their ailments with her potions, and that she always had a smile on her face.
‘She was so beautiful,’ said Rachel. ‘That golden hair of hers. I sometimes thought that every man in town was in love with her.’ She cleared her throat and patted Margaret’s hand. ‘Not that they actually were. You’re just as pretty as Heather was.’
For some reason, Margaret snorted at that, but instead of replying to Rachel, she waved at Dean Danger. The choirmaster was on a bench a little way down the road, singing songs with some of the others.
‘Now there is a decent man,’ she said with a touch of bitterness to her tone. ‘If only we had a few more like him in Riddler’s Edge.’
‘Oh? Why do you say that?’ I questioned.
Margaret shook her head. ‘Oh, nothing. Just silly musings. It’s just that he’s the best thing to happen around here for a while, I suppose. You wouldn’t catch him philandering like most men. They’re led by their nethers, the lot of them.’
I did my best not to spit my egg and cress out. ‘I hope they’re not all as bad as you think,’ I said eventually. ‘Although I guess it can seem that way sometimes. I’m a bit on the fence about one of the men in my own life, right now.’
‘That’ll be the handsome Jared Montague, I suppose,’ said Rachel with a wink. ‘I’ve seen him sniffing around you.’
‘Have you?’ Who knew that when I was noticing people, they were noticing me too?
‘Oh, yes.’ Margaret gave me a wink as well. ‘We’ve all seen him following you about, bringing you little presents at work. But then again, we’ve also seen him do precisely the same with every attractive young woman who arrives in Riddler’s Edge. You mark my words – that one can’t be trusted. None of them can.’
My eyes went to the wedding band on Margaret’s hand. She sensed my glance, put on her gloves, and stood up. ‘Well, we have to get going now,’ she said, pulling Rachel up along with her. ‘But take our advice – you can do much better than a man like Jared Montague.’
As they rushed away, Rachel pulled her hand from Margaret’s and turned to me. ‘There’s a choir practice tonight at quarter to six in the church hall. The gardaí should have cleared off by then. You should think of coming along.’
Before I could reply, Margaret had resumed her hold on her friend and dragged her up the street.
Choir practice, I mused. It wasn’t a bad idea. I’d have plenty of time before my date with Jared. Maybe some of the other members could tell me a little bit more about Heather. There was one slight problem though, and that was the fact that I really couldn’t sing. Fuzz’s yowling sounded pleasanter than my attempts to hold a tune.
≈
With some food in my belly, I was feeling more than fortified enough to seek the detect
ive out. But just as I was about to stand up and head towards the garda station, I saw his car drive by. I turned my head and watched as he pulled up outside Heather’s cottage. Placing my rubbish in the bin, I took a deep breath and headed in his direction.
As I walked along, I glanced over my shoulder. But by the time I reached Heather’s cottage, I had the happy sense that whoever was following me had finally buzzed off.
I’d admired Heather’s garden from afar since I moved to Riddler’s Edge, but as the season warmed up, her garden was becoming more beautiful by the day. It saddened me that she’d never get to see it in full summer bloom again.
Of course the scene would have seemed a lot nicer were it not for the fact that the detective was arguing into his phone. His pale face even had some colour in it, so whoever he was talking to was really getting his blood up. And unfortunately he had his car window rolled down, so I could hear every word he spoke.
‘I’m not meeting you again!’ he cried. ‘I only agreed to it the last time because I thought I could make you see sense!’
He paused while the person on the other end ranted right back. I couldn’t hear the words, but sometimes the volume says it all.
I could make my presence known, I supposed. But seeing as I was already standing in his full view and he hadn’t noticed me, I figured it was his own fault if I happened to hear a little bit more. While he carried on arguing, I stood at Heather’s gate, pulled out my mobile and began to snap some pictures. I’d already written a quick piece on her death, but it might be nice to run something more involved in a few days’ time.
‘I don’t care how many more men you’re planning on making me jealous with!’ he barked into his phone. ‘That doesn’t work anymore. I want you to stop calling me. I want you to stop everything!’
Hmm. Maybe I should clear my throat, I thought. He clearly wasn’t arguing with a colleague.
‘Ahem,’ I said, loudly.
Witchy See, Witchy Do (A Riddler's Edge Cozy Mystery #2) Page 3
