Witchy Possessions (Witchy Fingers Book 3)

by Nic Saint

  He stared at the three witches, who now stood looking like children just having been castigated to the fullest extent of the grandmotherly law.

  “Well, they wanted to make a rock star die without making her dead,” he explained, “which is a lot harder than it sounds.”

  She nodded. “I know. But this is not the way to do it.” She stared at his brow. “What’s that number on your head?”

  He touched his forehead lightly. “Oh, Estrella put it there, just in case she was going to have me killed by a drone.”

  “Killed by a drone?” she asked, shaking her head. “Of all the stupid ideas…”

  “Well, it wasn’t their idea,” he said. “It was actually Petunia Hudson’s.”

  “Petunia Hudson. I know her. She used to be very big when I was young.” She smiled. “I think I still have some of her records in the attic.”

  “She wants to die but she doesn’t want to die,” he explained.

  “I see,” she said dubiously, Petunia’s ways not impressing her much.

  There were still clones popping, though now the last one was reached, and with a loud pop, that one, too, disappeared from view.

  “Phew,” he said, relieved that he was back to being the only Skip Brown.

  “Could you do me a favor, Skip?” Cassandra now asked.

  “Anything.”

  “I want you to babysit someone for a while. It’s actually the reason I came looking for you, and a good thing I did, or else you would all be dead now.”

  “Babysitting?” he asked, puzzled.

  “One of my charges is a woman possessed by a very nasty ghoul. She needs careful watching at all times, just to make sure she doesn’t harm herself or her baby. And I have some other stuff to deal with right now.” She cast a resolute look at her granddaughters.

  “Sure, I’ll do it,” he said. “But are you sure this ghoul won’t hurt me?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you,” she said with a reassuring smile.

  And then he was off at a rapid clip. So rapid, in fact, that before he knew what was going on, he found himself in the garden at Safflower House, where Cassie had apparently spirited him to, and when he looked up, instead of seeing the trees lining The Great Lawn, he found himself looking at a rather scared-looking woman, cradling a child in her arms.

  “Hi, there,” he said, by way of greeting. “I’m Skip. Cassie sent me.”

  She nodded gratefully. “Cassie told me she’d send for you.”

  His smile widened. Life was never boring when you associated yourself with the Flummox sisters, and never less than now, when he was being turned into a hundred clones one minute, and being summoned to babysit a ghoul-possessed woman the next.

  “So what’s happening?” he asked the woman as he joined her on the bench. In response, he got a cute little smile from her baby girl and a gurgle.

  “She likes you,” Valerie said as her baby cackled loudly.

  Then her eyes traveled to his forehead. “What’s that number?”

  “Oh, that,” he said. “Just a remnant of an experiment gone wrong.”

  “The sisters?” she asked.

  He nodded. “I take it you met them?”

  She smiled hesitantly. “I did.”

  No more was said as he took the baby from Valerie, and soon they were playing in the sun, while Valerie looked on, a wistful smile on her face. Skip might not be the world’s best assistant, but then he wasn’t working for the world’s best witches either, so all in all things evened themselves out.

  Well, at least until suddenly he heard a loud cry of anguish behind him, and when he looked up he saw that Valerie’s eyes had turned from pale blue to bright red, and then she was launching herself at him, her hands reaching for his neck, and her nails extended into huge and deadly-looking talons, and when she jumped him, the last thing he heard was, “Die! Just… die!”

  And then he did just that.

  Chapter 11

  Beatrix Yeast was a handsome woman in her late thirties with an abundance of frizzy blond hair and rather voluminous aspect, and when Sam and Pierre entered her living room it was obvious she was the polar opposite of Alex Knuckles in the way of cleanliness and homeliness.

  The small nook of the world she inhabited was cozy, her apartment spacious and neat, a relief after the dreariness of the Knuckles homestead.

  They’d gone in search of Valerie Gabby just so they could put an end to this pointless investigation. Which is how they’d discovered that Valerie now lived with her friend Beatrix. It was something of a disappointment when they found that Valerie wasn’t home, but at least they could have a chat with Beatrix, and find out what she thought of the couple’s troubles.

  “Well, as far as I’m concerned, and you can quote me on that,” she said with a pointed look at Sam’s notebook, “Alex Knuckles is a monster and a brute and he should be the one who’s being investigated here, not Valerie.”

  She placed a tray with cups of coffee and a plate with cream bagels on the small coffee table of the salon where they were holding the interview. Pierre, who was a man with a sweet tooth—or rather a mouthful of sweet teeth—grunted appreciatively as he took his first bagel and took a big bite out of it.

  “Can you define ‘monster’ and ‘brute,’ ma’am?” Sam asked.

  “I mean the man is a violent beast, Detective Barkley.”

  “You can confirm that Knuckles was violent when dealing with his wife?”

  She nodded primly. “Yes, I can, officers. The man’s a real beast.”

  “So you’re a close friend of Valerie’s?”

  “I am. We’re colleagues at the flower store, which is why I offered her my spare bedroom, and I’m glad she accepted. She’s safe here, and so is Sofia.”

  “Where is she now?” he asked.

  Beatrix hesitated. “Valerie… is facing many demons, Detective,” Beatrix said rather vaguely. “So I advised her to seek help from a very dear friend of mine. And I’m very glad she took my advice to heart.”

  “So… where is she now, exactly?” he insisted.

  Beatrix lifted her chin. “Not that it’s any of your business, but she’s at Cassie Beadsmore’s now, who used to be my boss at the flower store.”

  Sam’s eyebrows rose precipitously, and so did Pierre’s, who’d been in the process of lifting a bagel to his mouth and now halted its progress in midair.

  “Valerie is… at Cassandra Beadsmore’s?”

  “Yes,” said Beatrix primly, her hands resting in her lap. “I used to work for Cassie, you see, back when she was the owner of Flor et Bloom. When she sold the stores to a national chain we kept in touch. Which is how I learned that her girls had recently started a private protection service.” She lifted her shoulders. “It is exactly what Valerie needs right now, some protection.”

  “But why do you think she needs their help, exactly?” asked Sam.

  “Well, obviously she needs protecting from her husband,” she said. “He wants to take her child away from her, you see. We have to stop him.”

  There was obviously something else going on here, Sam thought, but Beatrix wasn’t telling. “So Valerie is on Long Island right now?”

  Beatrix frowned. “Long Island? No, she’s at Cassie Beadsmore’s house.”

  “Which is on Long Island,” he pointed out.

  “No, Cassie lives in Brooklyn,” she corrected patiently. “Always has.”

  “But… that house was destroyed,” said Sam, sharing a quick look of concern with his partner.

  “No, it wasn’t,” Beatrix said, staring at him as if he was some kind of idiot. “At least Cassie made no mention of this when I called her this morning. We’d arranged the appointment for this afternoon, but Valerie had… another incident last night, so I felt we couldn’t afford to wait.”

  He felt exactly the same way, so he quickly rose. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Yeast.”

  “Miss Yeast. And you’re welcome,” she said, also getting
up. “I just want the best for Valerie, and right now Cassie Beadsmore is her best chance.”

  It didn’t take Sam and Pierre long to go from the Bronx, where Beatrix Yeast lived, to Brooklyn, where Safflower House used to be.

  “It’s impossible,” Sam said. “The house was gone. Razed to the ground.”

  “Perhaps they rebuilt it?” Pierre ventured as he expertly directed the squad car through traffic.

  “In just a few short weeks? They must have hired a great contractor. Besides, Edie would have told me if they had. Last I heard they were still in Happy Bays, living the good life in that castle Cassie bought for the girls.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” said Pierre, casting him a sideways glance. “Are you two still… you know… a thing?”

  “We were never a thing,” he said with a frown. He didn’t know what they were, but definitely not a ‘thing,’ whatever that was. They’d gone out on a date once, and then she moved to Long Island and he hadn’t seen her since.

  He was too busy chasing scumbags in New York, and she was apparently too busy cavorting in Hamptons scum, the fun and frothy kind, to call him.

  “I don’t think I’m her type,” he grumbled.

  “And I think you are.”

  “But then why hasn’t she called me?”

  “Why haven’t you called her?” Pierre shot back.

  “Because…” He gave this some thought. Actually he didn’t know why he hadn’t called her. He just figured that after their date—which consisted of little more than a meal at one of Greenwich Village’s fancier restaurants—she’d get in touch when and if she wanted to see more of him. So when she hadn’t… Pierre smiled and he looked over. “What’s so funny?”

  “You were waiting for her to call and she was waiting for you. Classic.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know what’s so funny about that,” he muttered. Frankly he didn’t care. Or maybe he did, but he tried not to let it get to him.

  “I think you should ask her out again, Sam. Edelie is not the kind of woman who’s used to dating a guy like you, or even any guy, for that matter. I’m sure she felt intimidated by the prospect you might be into her. Which is why she never called. She probably thought you weren’t interested.”

  “You think?” he asked with a frown. This was an angle he hadn’t considered.

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “She did seem a little nervous when we went out that time.”

  “Of course. You underestimate the impact you have on women, Sam.”

  “Nonsense. I’m just your average Joe Shmoe.”

  “Joe Shmoe doesn’t look like you, Sam. He looks like me.”

  “You’re a handsome fellow,” said Sam. “In an… understated sort of way.”

  “A nice way of putting it,” said Pierre, raising his eyebrows.

  They both laughed, and Pierre directed the car onto Nightingale Street, and when they reached Safflower House, they both gasped in shock. The house looked exactly like it had before it had been ripped to pieces.

  “That’s impossible,” said Sam.

  “Not impossible but definitely improbable,” Pierre agreed.

  He quickly parked the car and they both got out. The house had been destroyed last time they were there. Razed to the ground, nothing left but a pile of rubble and brick. And now… it looked as gorgeous as ever, the front garden a yellow riot of forsythias, the stained-glass windows of the parlor restored to their colorful splendor, and the porch leading up to the oak front door sturdy and welcoming.

  And that’s when an old lady came tottering up to them, and bleated, “Officers! Officers! I want a word with you!” And when Sam turned he saw that one of Cassie’s neighbors urgently wanted speech with them.

  “What seems to be the problem, ma’am?” he asked courteously.

  She pointed a shaking finger at Safflower House.

  “W-w-witches!” she stammered. “I saw them last night! Don’t think I didn’t see them! That demon brood rebuilt their house… with witchcraft! And then they dropped that big chandelier on me!”

  “A chandelier, ma’am?”

  “It just came out of nowhere. One minute there was nothing, then suddenly it crashed down from the ceiling, right in front of me. It was a warning, officer! A clear warning to mind my own business!”

  And he would have gladly shot the breeze with the overwrought woman, who seemed to have a lot on her mind, if not for the piercing scream that suddenly rent the air, and which seemed to come from inside Safflower House. The next moment he and Pierre were racing for the front door.

  Chapter 12

  We were still in Central Park, being thoroughly told off by Gran, when Edelie got the call. Something had happened at Safflower House, and Sam wanted us home ASAP. And that went for Gran as well. We stared at her, since she usually knew everything about everything and everyone, even if we didn’t want her to know, and it was obvious from the way she looked at us that she knew what was going on this time, too.

  “What happened?” I asked, but Gran kept a dignified silence, after having spoken rapidly and fluently for the past ten minutes, reminding us of our promise not to use magic in public and the dangers that went with the unbridled use of our crappy brand of witchcraft. That and the fact that we’d endangered the lives of everyone in Central Park with our stupid stunt.

  Now, however, as we hurried home, she didn’t say a word, nor did she allow us to travel home in the same speedy way she’d sent Skip on his way earlier. She had us take a cab home, which took much longer than it needed to be. So by the time we finally arrived at Safflower House, police were crawling all over the place, and I was starting to get a very bad feeling.

  Sam Barkley was a homicide detective, which meant that if he was here, and wanted us here, too… something terrible had happened to Valerie.

  We hurried into the house, temporarily waylaid by an officer who wanted to know who we were. It took us a moment to explain that this was our house and we had every right to be here. When finally we waltzed in, we saw Pierre, busily inspecting our kitchen, and more specifically a big bulky bag of Brown’s Bakery goodies. He’d just selected a croissant for closer inspection, to go along with the cup of coffee he’d poured himself, when he caught sight of us and smiled.

  “Ah, there you are. We thought you’d never show.”

  “What—what happened?” I asked a little breathlessly.

  His face fell. “Didn’t Sam tell you? A terrible thing happened. A young man was attacked and killed in your garden. Perhaps you know him?” He pointed at the bag of bakery goodies, and more specifically at the name on the bag: Brown’s.

  My heart skipped a beat. “Not… Skip!” I cried.

  He nodded slowly. “Afraid so, Ernestine. Did you know him?”

  I nodded, chewing my bottom lip. “He was with us at the park just now.”

  “Well, he was attacked by a lady answering to the name Valerie Gabby, and died on the spot. I’m happy to say he didn’t suffer very much.”

  “But how? What happened?” I asked, darting anxious glances at the garden, where a flutter of police activity indicated where it had taken pace.

  “As far as we could ascertain—and mind you, the woman is still refusing to talk—she attacked him with her bare hands, and strangled him. She must have used a lot of force.” He shook his head, still seeming surprised. “And she looked like such a nice woman, too. Just goes to show you never can tell.”

  “Valerie killed Skip?” Edelie asked, her lip quaking dangerously.

  Pierre nodded. Nothing seemed to disturb that man’s equanimity, it seemed, as he sat there devouring his croissant after dunking it into his cup of coffee. “Appears so. She still had her hands wrapped around his throat when we arrived. Unfortunately we were too late to save the poor kid.”

  “Where is she now?” asked Estrella.

  “And where is the baby?” I added.

  “Sofia is fine. Social services are going to take care of her for the time
being. And Valerie is in custody, as you might expect after what she did. No doubt about her culpability. She’s going to need a good lawyer after this.”

  I plunked down on a chair. This wasn’t happening. Skip dead and Valerie in custody? We just lost both our first client and our first assistant. And Gran had sent Skip home! Why? Hadn’t she foreseen this would happen? That the ghoul that lived inside Valerie would do a terrible thing like this?

  “I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you all a few questions,” Pierre said now. “Ah, there is the man now. Sam, they’re finally here,” he announced.

  I looked up when Detective Sam Barkley entered from the garden. He’s a big and powerfully built man, with one of those faces hewn from the living rock and eyes that freeze you to the spot when he casts one look at you.

  “Come,” Sam grunted, and led us into the same parlor where we’d had our interview with Valerie. We were like lambs led to the slaughter as we followed the detective into the parlor, Pierre closing the door behind us.

  Sam invited us to take a seat, and momentarily fixed Edelie with a curious gaze, then looked away again. She looked like I probably did: white as a sheet after receiving the news that Skip was dead and Valerie a murderer.

  “So… I want you to tell me how you knew the victim, Skip Brown,” Sam began, flipping open his notebook. “And Valerie Gabby. Start with Skip.”

  “Well, Skip worked for us,” I explained. “He was part of our company, Flummox, Inc.”

  “You hired him over the summer, is that correct?”

  “We did,” Edelie confirmed softly, refusing to look Sam in the eye.

  He stared at her for a moment, then tore his eyes away again. “So what was he doing here alone in the house with Valerie Gabby?”

  “Babysitting,” Estrella said, her voice lacking its usual pep.

  “Babysitting?” asked Sam. “Was that part of his job description?”

  “Valerie was a client. She was going through a rough patch,” I explained, “and her friend had sent her to us to… to help her cope with her issues.”

  “What issues?”