The Halloween Spell

by Morgana Best

  She must have forgotten that Constable Dawson was there. “Don’t you worry,” he said. “I’m sure those lovely detectives will bring the murderer to justice. You have nothing to worry about.” He went on, extolling the virtues of the detectives, while I served cupcakes automatically, my mind still on Alder.

  Chapter 8

  My stomach clenched as I drove to Clara Smith’s house. I hated to admit it, but I had been crying for much of the previous night. I looked over at Thyme, but I guessed she was still preoccupied with Constable Dawson. Her next words confirmed it.

  “I know you think he likes me, Amelia, but I’m sure it’s just the spell.”

  I disagreed. “He always acts like he was under a love spell when he’s around you, Thyme. Or have you forgotten?”

  Thyme smiled, so I was glad that one of us at least was happy and headed for a nice romantic love life. I had been trying to call Alder again and again, but it had gone to voicemail every time. What on earth was going on with him? My stomach clenched at the thought. Had he been affected by the spell? Or had he fallen for another woman before the spell? There was no way of knowing until I spoke to him, and that in itself, was not a consolation.

  “You missed the turn!” Thyme squealed, and I slammed my foot on the brakes. I swung the wheel so hard that my tires squealed, which was quite a feat given that we were on dirt. I turned the car between the row of elm trees and started the long drive toward the Smiths’ house.

  “What do we do if she throws us out?” Thyme asked me.

  “Not a clue,” I said. “But what else can we do? The only suspects I can think of are Clara Smith and her brother, Harrison. There was no love lost between him and Nick, from what he said. Besides, they both have motives. Clara avoids losing any of her money from the impending divorce.” I hesitated. “What exactly does she avoid losing, Thyme?”

  Thyme swung her arm in front of me. “All of this. Nick married a very wealthy woman. Several thousand acres of prime Merino country, a cold climate winery, and the house. I don’t know what the house itself is worth. If it was in Sydney, it would be worth several million, but out in the country, it would be worth just under a million if it was in the town itself. Yet the value’s in the land. The family is well known for their Merino sheep, and this farm would be worth an arm and a leg. It’s been in Clara’s family for generations.”

  I nodded, looking around at the green paddocks dotted with Merino sheep. “Merino sheep are the most ugly sheep there are,” I said, quickly followed by, “but I’m sure they have lovely personalities. Besides, every sheep is pretty in its own right.”

  “Amelia, you’re acting weird.”

  “No, I’m not.” I clutched the steering wheel and changed the subject. “Harrison, Clara’s brother, was in partnership with Nick, and even if he doesn’t inherit Nick’s share, I had the impression he was pleased to have Nick out of the company.”

  “We’ll find out soon enough,” Thyme said as I came to a stop in front of a massive blue brick residence, surrounded by wraparound porches and the most magnificent garden.

  The first thing that struck me when I got out of the car was the pungent fragrance of lavender and honeysuckle. The fragrance of the garden was something I missed in Bayberry Creek. In Sydney, gardens were fragrant most, if not all, months of the year, but given the cold mountain climate in Bayberry Creek, it was only in the spring months that gardens had their beautiful scent. That was why I filled my house with diffusers, so that beautiful essential oils could permeate my environment. It was much safer than using scented candles, given my predilection for starting fires. Besides, diffusers were safer than candles when one had curious cats.

  I was a little concerned to see that Thyme looked rather afraid. “Do you have your story straight, Amelia?”

  “Yes,” I said, far more confidently than I felt. “What’s the worst that can happen? She can’t forcibly make us swallow a bottle of poisoned antacid, so we should be quite safe.”

  We walked around to the back of the house, as was the custom in Australian country homes. I knocked on the door. No response. I could see recently muddied gumboots at the door, so I knew someone was inside. I knocked again, as Thyme and I exchanged anxious looks.

  “No need to knock the house down,” said an abrupt voice as the door flung open.

  Standing there was an obviously bad-tempered young man. He had long, unwashed black hair, and was dressed in tight black clothes.

  “Whaddya want?” he asked rudely.

  “Who is it, Chris?” came a strident voice behind him.

  “Two old chicks,” the teenager said.

  I glared at him. The woman pushed him aside and stepped in front of him. He stormed out of the room. “You!” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m helping Alder Vervain look into the murder of your husband,” I lied, hoping Alder would forgive me, but if he indeed was having an affair, then he would not dare so much as comment. I shook my head and forced myself to focus on the situation ahead. “I don’t think we have been introduced. I’m Amelia Spelled, and this is my colleague, Thyme. Would you mind if we ask you a few questions?”

  To my relief, Clara appeared to have forgotten that we had been in the cupcake store when she’d had the argument with Selena. She wasn’t a regular customer, at any rate.

  “We suspect Selena Simpson,” I said, “and we’re looking for any information to tie her to your husband’s murder.” Of course, that was another lie, but it was the only way I thought I could get her on side.

  It seemed to work. “Please come in.” She stood aside, and Thyme and I walked into a vast kitchen. It looked like an ultra-modern, commercial kitchen, but still had period features such as the high ceilings, deep decorative crown molding, a large open hearth framed by a timber mantel. Along one wall was a floor-to-ceiling dresser, the upper mullion doors displaying a massive collection of scalloped-edged fine china in tones of orange, rust and red.

  Clara must have caught my eye. “That’s a collection of Spode Indian Tree ivory-ground bone china, of course.”

  “Of course,” I said, but I didn’t have a clue, to be honest.

  She led us through the kitchen, and then through a warren of corridors, into a sitting room that overlooked the front section of the garden. There was not much natural light, given the wide brick verandah.

  I turned my attention to the vast sitting room, an opulent but gloomy room.

  It was absolutely crammed full of Edwardian furniture. I’m not a fan of Edwardian furniture at the best of times, and this would equal any Edwardian furniture museum in the country, if indeed there were any. The bright floral wallpaper imposed upon the mishmash of Edwardian furniture around the room, creating a frenetic confusion of early twentieth century styles, from a Hepplewhite couch jammed between two overstuffed chintz couches and flanked by large velvet upholstered wingback chairs, to a delicate display cabinet perched between a heavy oak Arts and Crafts sideboard and a whimsical Art Nouveau writing desk. Adding to the clutter were bamboo side tables and upholstered bamboo chairs, all examples of the different Edwardian era movements. Large arrangements of plastic pastel colored flowers and floral-patterned vases were dotted over the room.

  Massive late Victorian heavy wooden photograph frames hung from the picture rails, and each one contained a faded sepia photograph of what I assumed was an ancestor. The people looked grim, and unhappy, but I supposed that was in keeping with the period.

  “Tea?” Clara said tersely. Thyme and I said we would like tea, and then Clara reached for a silver bell which she tinkled for a full minute. Thyme and I exchanged glances and I fought the urge to giggle. I had never been in the presence of someone who actually rang for tea.

  A man walked into the room. He was in butler attire. I was surprised to see a butler in the house, but I was even more surprised at the appearance of said butler. He was the image of Australian actor, Chris Hemsworth. I did a double take.

  “Madam, you called?
”

  I darted a look at Thyme. Her eyebrows had shot up so far that I thought they’d leave her face.

  “Tea or coffee?” Clara asked us.

  “Coffee for me, please,” I said, still staring at the butler.

  Thyme didn’t speak, and when I looked at her, she was sitting there with her jaw dropped open. She shortly recovered, and said, “Coffee, please.”

  Clara waved a hand at the butler. “You heard the ladies. I will have my usual English Breakfast tea.”

  The butler bowed ever so slightly and left the room. I wondered why he was a butler and not an actor or a model. I assumed the pay must be excellent. And judging by the way Clara watched him leave the room, I’m sure she paid him at a high rate.

  “Now, you wanted to ask me some questions about my late husband?” Clara did not seem the least bit sad, although I suppose that everybody handles grief differently.

  “Yes,” I said. “Forgive me for bringing up such a delicate matter, but this is a murder investigation, after all.” I paused, wondering if I had gone too far with that remark, but her face remained impassive. “Selena Simpson was having an affair with your husband, I believe.”

  Clara’s expression came alive. “Yes, she was! Mind you, I’m sure she wasn’t the only one, but she was certainly the most persistent one.”

  “Why would she have a motive for murder?” I asked her. “She said he was leaving you for her.”

  I expected my comment to make Clara angry, but instead she threw back her head and laughed. “I wish I had a dollar for every woman who thought my husband would leave me for them. My husband wasn’t in love with me, but he was in love with my money. There was no way he was going to leave me for any woman unless she was wealthier than I am.” She narrowed her eyes.

  “So do you think that Selena found out he wouldn’t leave you, and murdered him?” I was trying to draw her out, to see if she would give away any information and incriminate herself.

  Clara shrugged. She was certainly a cool customer. “Who knows? But if I were the police, she’d be the one I’d be looking at closely.”

  Just then, I became aware of a muttering sound from the corner of the room. I looked over to see the angst-ridden teenager. “That’s my son, Chris Blackwell,” Clara said.

  “I’m sorry about your father,” Thyme said, but Chris cut her off.

  “Father? He was my step father. He was a silly old...”

  “Chris!” Clara preempted what I suspected would have been a verbal tirade. “Watch your language.”

  Chris emerged from his gloomy corner. “Nick was a fool and only married you for your money, but don’t play the innocent one, Mom! You’re having an affair, too!”

  Clara leaped to her feet. “How dare you!”

  “You’re having an affair, too! You’re having an affair, too!” he said even more loudly, and then ran from the room slamming the door so hard I thought it would fall off its hinges. I could hear every door slam as he made his way through the house.

  Clara’s cheeks flushed red. “Please forgive my son’s outburst. He didn’t get on well with Nick, but it seems the death has upset him.”

  I made a mental note that the son didn’t have a good relationship with his stepfather. I would have to add him to my suspects list.

  The butler promptly returned with coffee. Mine was cold and weak and tasted like dishwashing liquid. I saw Thyme grimace when she tasted hers, so I assumed hers was the same. It was clear why Clara had the butler around.

  “That will be all, thank you, Gilbert,” Clara said in a monotone.

  The butler left the room. “Do you have any more questions?” Clara asked us.

  I looked at Thyme, but she shook her head.

  “Not at the moment,” I said. “Thank you so much for your time.” I stood up, hoping it wouldn’t be rude to leave a full coffee cup.

  “I’m sure it was her,” Thyme said, as soon as we were back in the car.

  “Given that their marriage was very bad,” I said, “why didn’t she just divorce him if she didn’t like him?”

  Thyme shrugged. “Because of the property settlement. He’d get half the place in the divorce.”

  I tapped my head. “Duh! Silly me! Yes, of course he would. We have to find out who Clara’s having an affair with, because the two of them might have been in it together. That certainly makes sense. It’s quite clear that they had a very bad marriage, and if Nick was going to leave her for Selena, then Clara would lose a lot in the divorce. That makes sense.”

  Thyme agreed. “The police would see that for themselves if they weren’t so nice at the moment.” She must have caught my expression, because she continued, “Don’t feel bad, honestly, Amelia. You didn’t have a choice. There’s a yearly obligation to do a spell for Nama’s descendants. Even I knew about that. And that’s saying something, because your Aunt Angelica was very cagey about a lot of things. She must have known where Thelma’s Book of Shadows was buried, but she never dug it up, and she didn’t tell any of us what the obligation was. You said Selena told you.”

  I nodded. “That’s right. She said that her grandmother, Nama, did a favor for my grandmother, Thelma.” I swerved to miss a kangaroo, and then slowed down in anticipation of its friends likely following it.

  “That was close!” Thyme said. “Anyway, you’re right. We have to find out who Clara was having an affair with. How will we do that?”

  Chapter 9

  I ducked down in the car as a farmer drove past. “I don’t think this was such a good idea, Thyme,” I said, peeking out the window. The car was parked under a tall eucalyptus, which provided scant cover. “What do you expect will happen? That we’ll catch them in the act? Besides, everybody knows that if people are, err, having affairs out on a farm, it’s always in the shearing shed or the barn.”

  “Oh what nonsense,” Thyme said. “You’re from Sydney. You’ve just been watching too much TV. Clara is a very wealthy woman, so she’ll be having an affair with someone in town.”

  “What if she’s having an affair with someone in Melbourne, or Sydney or Brisbane for that matter?” I asked her. “We can hardly follow her there. What do you suggest we do, sneak on a plane to follow her?”

  Thyme snorted rudely. “If she’s having an affair, it will be with someone within reach, of course. Don’t you know anything about affairs, Amelia?”

  “Clearly not, but I’m wondering how you know so much about them.”

  Thyme burst into laughter, which was only interrupted when we both had to duck down as another farmer drove past. Thyme had made me disguise the car as a local farm car by throwing dust and mud, as well as chicken feathers all over it.

  “Stop peeking out the window so much,” Thyme said in a frustrated tone. “If anyone sees you, they’ll think we’re broken down and you know what country folk are like. They’ll insist on repairing the car themselves and then taking us home for lunch.”

  “That sounds good to me,” I said hopefully, but Thyme silenced me with a withering glare.

  “Ruprecht and Mint are minding the store, and Camino’s on coffee duty, so you have no excuse not to be out here.”

  I yawned and stretched. “All right then, but it’s going to be pretty boring if Clara stays in the house all day.”

  Thyme shook her head. “Wealthy women like that don’t stay in the house all day and stare at the sheep out the window. She will get her nails done, or her hair done, or meet with her friends. She wasn’t wearing all that make-up just to stay in the house.”

  “What if she doesn’t meet her lover today?” I asked her.

  “It doesn’t matter. If we follow her, we’ll get more information on her, no matter what she’s up to. And now that her husband’s gone, she’ll have the opportunity to spend time with her lover. She obviously can’t meet him at the house, what with her son there, and her brother visiting as well. Come to think of it, it’s a bit suspicious that Harrison was in town right when Nick was murdered.”

&nbs
p; Just then, Thyme squeezed my arm and pulled me down.

  “Ouch!”

  “I can see her car coming in the distance,” she said. “I don’t know if she’s in it, but it’s that dark green BMW we saw at her house. Duck!”

  Thyme pulled me down just in time, because the BMW was breaking all speed limits.

  I pulled my car out behind the BMW, taking care to stay back at a safe distance. The BMW headed into town, which was no great surprise. I parked across the road when Clara went into the post office and emerged about five minutes later, and then followed her to the main street. This time, instead of parking where all the other cars were parked, she drove into a vacant lot. Thyme pinched my arm. “Quick, park over here.”

  I rubbed my arm. “I was going to!” I parked with the other cars, and then turned to Thyme. “Now what?”

  “Look! She’s heading for that apartment behind the pottery store.”

  I saw Clara walking briskly to a building. “What do we do now? We can hardly sneak down there and peer through the windows. We haven’t really thought this through.”

  Thyme was silent for a moment. “You know, I bet she keeps her lover there. She’s probably bought that apartment for him, or at least she rents it for him. All we have to do is go into that pottery store and ask who owns the apartment.”

  It seemed like a good idea to me, but for one thing. “What if they ask us why we want to know? We can’t just walk up and ask them outright.”

  “It’ll be fine,” Thyme said dismissively. “We’ll just bring it up in conversation.”

  “Okay, I’ll leave the speaking to you, and I’ll back you up.”

  Thyme narrowed her eyes, but did not respond.

  “Should one of us get coffee and the other one stay on lookout?”

  Thyme agreed. I went to get the coffee, and when I returned, she was looking awfully bored. “Nothing’s happening. No one’s come out of that apartment yet.”

  I handed her the coffee. “Clara could have an innocent reason for being there. For all you know, she might be visiting a friend.”