Witchy Worries

by Nic Saint

  I magnified the picture to favor the vodka and Lacey laughed. “Oh, I know that brand. It’s Ukrainian, isn’t it? Very strong stuff.”

  “How do you know?”

  She leveled a look at me. “Honey, I’ve been running this group for years. And I’m a recovering alcoholic myself. I think I know my brands of booze. Not to mention that this is a brand favored by one of my members. He once told me it reminds him of his hometown of Odessa.”

  “Would this member be Pyotr Mockford?”

  She pressed her lips firmly together. “You know I can’t discuss that.”

  “Even if it helps me solve a murder?”

  She hesitated, then nodded. “All right. Pyotr Mockford’s favorite brand is Smornov. It’s a brand that’s very hard to find here in the States.”

  “Has… has Pyotr Mockford been sober for a long time?”

  She eyed me curiously. “Now that you mention it, Pyotr has had a hard time adjusting to this country. Which is why he keeps stumbling. He told us at the meeting he’s been sober for two days.”

  I thanked Lacey and left. A sudden giddiness came over me, and I practically skipped down the steps. I was pretty sure I’d just cracked this case. Or at least made a serious dent in it.

  As I walked out of the civic center, I almost bumped into that old wino we’d met the other day. William. Only when I tried to sidestep him, he gave me a leery grin and started following me!

  Chapter 35

  As I sped up, so did the vagrant, and soon we were both racing along the street, me darting anxious glances over my shoulder, and the man trying to keep up with me, his eyes wild and dangerous. Finally, he called out, “Hey, Edie! Can you slow it down? It’s me, Glenn!”

  Only then did I turn and subject the man to a closer scrutiny. “Glenn? Is that really you?”

  “Yes, it is!” he said, resting his hands on his knees and panting deeply. “Christ, you’re fast. I just wanted to test my latest disguise.”

  “Well, I can tell you right now it’s working,” I said. He had covered his face in soot, his hair was a mess of tangled greasy strands, and his nose was pointy and crooked. His chin was covered in some kind of ratty growth that looked like what you expect to find underneath a flat stone—minus the creepy crawlies, though those seemed to house in his clothes, which were tattered and torn.

  He held out his hand. “Ta-dah.”

  “You look amazing. Nobody will recognize you, ever.” Not even Stien, the man’s biggest fan.

  He gave me a happy grin, displaying two rows of crumbling teeth. “Thanks. I spent the whole morning on this outfit, but it seems to do the trick. I already managed to collect fifty bucks, and I didn’t even hold up my hand!”

  “I would give you money,” I said. If I wasn’t running away from him, that was.

  “Look, I’m sorry I wasn’t a better date yesterday at the film festival,” he said. “My manager told me to mingle so I mingled. It’s all work for me, not pleasure. Did you have a good time?”

  “Oh, sure,” I said, deciding not to elaborate on Stien’s disappointment.

  “Great. I thought you looked stunning in those dresses, especially Ernestine. That blue dress was simply amazing. What designer dressed you?”

  “Oh, one of Gran’s friends owns a boutique downtown. She helped us out.”

  “You have to give me her address. I got several comments from female colleagues who were dying to know the name of your designer. They’d never seen anything like it.”

  I smiled. I could hardly tell him that our designer was Gran herself, with a little help from our own imagination. “You didn’t think it was too… Disney?”

  “Oh, dear God, no. It was simply stunning. The red carpet simply yearns for gowns like that.”

  Maybe Gran should get into fashion instead of flowers. There was probably a lot of money to be made. Then I remembered something. “Do you know if Johnson Junqueras ever was in Ukraine?”

  He frowned, knitting his bushy brows. “Ukraine?”

  “Yeah. It’s just a hunch I had.”

  He nodded slowly. “I think I once heard a story about a girlfriend he had who was from the Ukraine. She came to Hollywood to make it big, but then got involved with Johnson for some reason.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “I’m pretty sure she died.”

  “She died? How?”

  “Suicide. I don’t recall the details, but I seem to remember she contracted AIDS through Johnson, and was so distraught with shame and embarrassment she jumped off a bridge. It was a terrible tragedy, though par for the course for the kind of devastation Johnson left in his wake just before he disappeared.”

  “Do you…” I swallowed, a sudden rush of excitement making my heart practically beat out of my chest. “Do you remember the name of this woman?”

  “Um… Now let me think. I remember she was very beautiful, and that she reminded me of Rome, for some reason.” Then his face cleared and he snapped his fingers. “Romella. I’m pretty sure that was her name.”

  I couldn’t help myself. I gave him a hug and a big kiss on the lips—which I instantly regretted as he tasted like charcoal and smelled like something that had been floating in the East River for a year. “Thank you, Glenn! You just solved the case!”

  Chapter 36

  I met my sisters outside Moriah Mockford’s house. “Edie!” Stien cried. “You know Gran hates it when we close the store!”

  “And how Tisha Lockyer loves it,” Strel added.

  “Well, it can’t be helped,” I said. “I know who killed Johnson Junqueras and why!”

  Their eyes went wide. “You do? But how?” asked Stien.

  “And why?” asked Strel.

  “Well, I don’t know exactly who killed him.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Stien. “You just said you know who killed him.”

  “Well, I know one of the Mockfords did,” I explained, “but I don’t know who pulled the trigger, exactly. Although…” I brought a finger to my lips, then smiled. “No, I think I know exactly who did it!”

  “So? Don’t keep us in suspense,” said Stien. “Who did it?”

  “And why?” added Strel.

  “They all did!”

  “Who all did?” asked Strel.

  “The Mockfords. They all killed him.”

  My sisters stared at me as if I’d gone mad, and I couldn’t blame them. If they’d told me this yesterday I’d be doubting their mental health, too. “Look, there was a girl called Romella Makarenko—”

  “Is this going to be a long story?” asked Strel. “Cause I promised Dunny I’d call him.”

  “Dunny can wait. This is important, Strel.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  “So. Romella Makarenko…”

  “Wait. I thought you said the Mockfords did it?” asked Stien.

  “Yes, they did.”

  “But you’re talking about a Makarenko.”

  “That’s the Mockfords’ real name. See, I did some research online and—”

  “Be careful what you read on the internet, Edie,” said Stien. “A lot of that stuff is just bogus. Fake news. Or not even news. Just fake, not even news. So fake non-news.”

  “Well this is very real. Johnson Junqueras dated a girl named Romella Makarenko—”

  Strel took out her phone. “Can I just text him? He gets awfully nervous if he doesn’t hear from me every hour—on the hour.”

  “No, you cannot text him!” I cried. “Will you just listen? I solved this case! I want to tell you about it!”

  “Oh, all right,” she muttered. “Go on then.”

  “Yeah, tell us who did it, honey,” said Stien.

  “And why.”

  I suppressed an exasperated groan. “Johnson Junqueras dated a woman called—duck!”

  “A woman called Duck?” asked Strel. “That’s a weird name.”

  “Duck! I think I just saw one of the Mockfords looking through the window!”

  So w
e ducked behind the hedge. If anyone saw us like this, they’d probably alert the neighborhood watch on us. Except we were the neighborhood watch, so that would just be awkward.

  “Look—I know where the body is buried,” I said.

  Strel giggled. “I always wanted to say that.”

  “And the gun,” I added, ignoring her. “So why don’t we get that first, and—”

  “Wait. You want to get the body? What body?” asked Stien.

  “Not the body—the gun! We need the gun to prove that they did it!”

  “So what about this body? Whose body is it and why is it buried?” asked Strel.

  I resisted a strong urge to strangle her, then said, “Just follow me. I’m going to explain everything—if you just let me.” I snuck along the hedge, my sisters behind me. It must have been a weird sight, for a neighbor who was walking her dog frowned at us, then shook her head in dismay.

  “So who did it again?” asked Stien when we’d rounded the corner. “This Romella Duck woman?”

  “Yeah, and why did she do it?” asked Strel. “I feel that that is very important.”

  I clamped my mouth shut and pretended I hadn’t heard them. I quickly stuck my head up, saw that the coast was clear, and entered the Mockford garden through a hole in the hedge. Like a Green Beret—without the green beret—I crossed the distance between the hedge and the small statue dedicated to Moriah Mockford’s dog while crouched low, and ducked down behind it, waiting for Strel and Stien to join me. When I saw them staring back at me from the hole in the hedge, I hissed, “Well, come on!”

  “You’re trespassing!” Stien hissed back. “It’s a criminal offense!”

  “We’re catching a killer!” I whispered. “Now get over here! Now!”

  Reluctantly, they joined me, and soon we were hiding behind the small monument, making sure nobody from inside the house could see us. And then I started digging into the earth with my hands.

  “I should have brought one of Gran’s hand shovels,” I muttered.

  “Why are you digging a hole?” asked Stien, after watching me for a while.

  “Because I’m looking for the murder weapon!”

  “Is the murder weapon Moriah’s dead dog?” asked Strel. “Because this is where Moriah’s dead dog is buried. He was a very nice dog. Very sweet. And I think he deserves his eternal peace.”

  “There is no dog! Romella is the name of Moriah’s sister. The girl who jumped off a bridge when Johnson infected her with HIV!”

  “Wow,” said Stien. “I’m not following this story, Edie. Start from the top.”

  I stopped digging and plunked down with my back against the monument. “Moriah’s sister came to the States to be a movie star. Unfortunately she met Johnson Junqueras. She got AIDS and was so humiliated and horrified she jumped off a bridge. When her family found out, they must have decided to avenge her death. I don’t know how they found Johnson but they did… and killed him.”

  “You got all this from a monument to a dog?” asked Stien. “That’s amazing!”

  “No, I got all this from a vodka bottle. Pyotr Mockford’s favorite brand is Smornov. Remember there was a vodka bottle in the picture of the crime scene and when we arrived it was gone? Johnson didn’t drink vodka. Pyotr must have left it the night they killed Johnson. He probably needed it to go through with the murder. Moriah must have realized her dad had left the bottle and returned to remove it before we arrived.”

  “But… their name is Mockford, not Makarenko—or Duck,” said Strel.

  “They must have changed their name when they moved here from the Ukraine. They didn’t want to be associated with Romella—except for this monument.”

  “So… nobody is buried here?” asked Stien.

  “No—but I’m guessing they buried the murder weapon here—as a tribute to Romella.”

  “You are very clever, Miss Flummox,” a voice suddenly sounded behind us. When I spun around, I saw that the entire Mockford clan was watching us intently, and Moriah was pointing a gun at us. “No sudden movements. This is the end of the line for you and that ridiculous neighborhood watch,” she said, cocking the hammer.

  Chapter 37

  “How did you find out Johnson had moved to Brooklyn?” I asked.

  “Edie! How can you ask questions at a time like this?!” Strel cried. “Can’t you see they’re going to kill us and bury us next to their dog!”

  “I told you, there is no dog!”

  “She’s right, you know,” said Moriah. “There is no dog. There never was.” She glanced down at the small stone monument. “Only my beloved sister.”

  “Whose name was… Duck,” Strel said, dubious. “Weird name for a person.”

  “Her name was Romella,” I snapped. “Try to keep up.”

  “We found sleazebag through private detective agency,” said Pyotr. “It took us long time to find him, but when we did, it was game over for monster. We like to kill him with bare hands. Or gun.”

  “You changed your name, moved here to be close to him, and started working out your plan,” I said.

  “That’s right,” said Moriah, who seemed to be the official spokesperson for the family. “My dad volunteered to join the AA chapter where Johnson was a member and try to find out more about him, and when we knew nobody would be mourning his death, I became his cleaning lady to check out his house. It was a real dump.” She shook her head disdainfully. “I think we did the man a favor by killing him. When we explained to him why we were there, he seemed almost relieved.”

  “And then you shot him, taking turns,” I said. “Seven people—seven bullets.”

  Moriah nodded. “We all had our reasons to kill him, obviously. As Romella’s father, my dad fired the first shot. It went wide.”

  “Too much Smornov,” Pyotr muttered. “It cannot be helped.”

  “Luckily my mother’s aim was better,” said Moriah. “She’s actually the one who killed him.”

  Moriah’s mother crossed herself. “I’m happy! Happy I kill monster who kill my Romella!”

  “I was next,” said Moriah. “And then Romella’s husband.” She gestured at Borys Meyer, who nodded. “Romella’s best friend Tetyana was next. And finally my grandpa Leonid and grandma Anastasiya. Seven people. Seven shots. You were right, Miss Flummox. You are very clever.”

  “What’s going to happen now?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. Grandma Anastasiya wasn’t going to teach me how to bake pumpkin spice cookies. She was going to shoot me.

  “Now we’re going back to Ukraine,” said Moriah. “We did what we came here to do. We have no further business here. Except remove three nosy girls from our lives. Lie down on the grass. Now.”

  “Are you going to kill us?” asked Strel.

  “You leave us no choice,” said Moriah.

  Borys Meyer tapped her shoulder and said something in Russian that I didn’t understand. The others all chimed in, and soon a lively discussion began. It sounded as if they were disagreeing about something, voices being raised and wild gestures made, but I had no way of knowing.

  “Why don’t we make a run for it?” Stien suggested when the Mockfords seemed distracted.

  “And have her shoot us in the back?” Strel asked. “No way! I say we attack her. If the three of us jump her, we still stand a chance.”

  She was right. If the three of us rushed her now, we might gain the upper hand. Then again, there were seven of them against the three of us. I did not like those odds!

  Just then, one of the Mockford kids came running out of the house, and the bickering stopped. “My son,” said Borys in a very thick Russian accent. “And Romella’s. He will never know his mother.”

  “I’m truly sorry for your loss,” I said. “But murdering people is not the answer. Johnson Junqueras was a sad excuse for a human being, but he didn’t deserve to be shot.”

  “He did deserve to be shot!” the man growled. “He was animal! He had to be put down! Just like dog!” He said some more stu
ff in Russian, and the shouting in their native language resumed.

  Finally, they seemed to make up their minds, for Moriah asked, “Will you let this go?”

  We stared at her. “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Will you drop this investigation and forget about us?” she insisted.

  I wavered for a moment, then shook my head. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  Strel gave me a nudge. “Edie! Maybe she’s right. If we forget this ever happened, we’re fine!”

  “Strel, they murdered a man!”

  “A very bad man. In China—”

  “Oh, God. Not with this China nonsense!”

  “I don’t think they let go,” said Pyotr. “Shoot them, Moriah. They protect murderer. They die.”

  Moriah nodded, grandma and grandpa closed their eyes, Borys held his hands over the eyes of his son, and Moriah took careful aim.

  Then, just when I expected the gunshot, Sam yelled, “NYPD! Drop your weapon!”

  Chapter 38

  “Sam!” I cried, once the Mockfords were all in custody. “How did you know?”

  “And, more importantly,” Strel added. “Why?”

  “We got a report,” said Sam. “One of the neighbors complained that three burglars were active in the neighborhood, skulking around. It didn’t dawn on me that it would be you and your sisters.”

  “Thank God for nosy neighbors,” I said, “or next time you saw me would have been the morgue!”

  Sam hugged me and soon was covering my face with kisses, which probably is not standard operating procedure for a cop to behave with a victim he just saved. Luckily there were no neighbors around to complain, and Sam’s colleagues turned a blind eye, and tried to keep down the snickering.

  “That reminds me,” said Strel. “I have to call Dunny.”

  “And I have to call…” Stien frowned. “Nobody.”