The Violet Countercharm: A Paranormal Cozy Mystery (Hattie Jenkins & The Infiniti Chronicles Book 2)

by Pearl Goodfellow

  Swamps, like the one Portia lived in, were typically shallow and flat landforms, carpeted, in turn, by a muddy, mucky greenish-brown sludge that sucked at your shoes with every tenuous step, amid more economical islands of solid, dryer land. Gaunt Manor, the queer, unnerving domicile of Portia Fearwyn sat squarely on one of these isolated islands, like a fat, warty toad waiting to snare a previously happy-go-lucky unsuspecting fly.

  The Chief and I hesitated at the massive oaken front door. Brushed in a dark, flaked and chipping black, the imposing entrance yawned like a great, sucking, toothless maw, devouring any sunlight, or visitor, that dared encroach too closely to its boundaries.

  “Are we absolutely sure we have to do this?” My voice trembled ever-so-slightly, belying my reservations about our current course of action. Like, I said, I wasn’t scared of Portia, per se, but accusing the indomitable witch, once more, about her possible role in a murder, didn’t exactly do anything to make me feel relaxed.

  “I’m afraid so, Hattie,” the Chief admitted. “Portia may very well be the key to solving this case. I’d be dropping the ball if I didn’t question her.”

  An innocent tinkle jingled mysteriously in a nonexistent breeze. Chief Trew glanced in the general direction of the sound, where a wind chime jingled beneath a gable. The hollowed bleached bones of something I did not care to identify dinged together in a macabre melody.

  “No matter how creepy she is,” the Chief finished.

  Gaunt Manor was aptly named. It's dingy gray façade was sunken in at the edges, like the cheeks of an old, bitter crone. Up close, it looked like a pile of giant rubble, what with hunks of parts of it’s carved exterior strewn haphazardly around it’s main bulk. Its smeared windows stared out over The Gorthland swamps with an apparent rheumy disinterest, and yet eerily observant at the same time.

  The structure itself gave the illusion of an asymmetrical lean, a crooked hag leaning on a pile of course rubble masonry. The edges of each brick were jagged and rough; no finesse applied after arrival from the quarry. Just knocked with the mason’s hammer and fitted, pell-mell, to break joints as much as possible, creating an awkward plane of stone chaos. A keen observer might notice random spalls wedged into some of the larger bones. It reminded me of bits of decaying meat and vegetation trapped in rotting teeth. The myriad of carved gargoyles, all in various states of apparent agony, stood guard on most of the estate’s columns and balustrades.

  The bones of the dwelling rose skyward in steeply pitched gables. Comprised of blackened oak timbers, the skeletal framework was held tenuously by aging wooden pegs. It was fleshed out with sallow wattle and daub, a woven morass of twigs and thin branches from the nearby black gum and spruce trees and dried clay and mud.

  Portia was a practitioner of Gloomy Magic. Perhaps the most prolific practitioner on all of the Coven Isles. Where the old crone was getting her licenses from is anyone’s guess, but she’d been busted many times, and had always produced the right documents, signed from a significantly well placed congressman on Talisman. Her work with the gloomy arts was well protected, to say the least. No one knew exactly what kind of evil spells she concocted within the confines of her ominous home, but every so often, the Chief would receive a report of strange lights and eerie sounds filling the airspace above the manor. Once, years ago, some foolhardy teens had dared to investigate, bent on defacing Portia’s home with toilet tissue and rotten eggs. They had returned from their misadventure, pale and quaking, but without the willingness to report any wrongdoing on Portia’s part. Folks managed to steer a wide circle around The Gorthland Swamps from that point on.

  It was no wonder, I thought, as I surveyed the general area surrounding the manor. An odd conglomeration of trees stood sentinel, great bald cypress kneeling in the murky swamp surrounding the estate. They resembled great, dark giants waiting, at any moment, to pull up knotty knees from the black water, and overwhelm any daring trespasser. Long, eerie tendrils of Spanish moss and Witchmoss hung in limp, damp tendrils from scorched and blackened trees, like so many dead fingers waiting to curl around any unsuspecting intruder. The rotten egg scent of sulphur permeated the air, filling my nose with the dying smell of rot and decay. The humidity was tangible, pulling in thick through my nostrils, as if I was breathing water. I was certain I would need to wring out my shirt sooner rather than later.

  My ears pricked at the chirrup of invisible bullfrogs singing a melancholy dirge, a basso profundo funereal march, trumped only by the maniacal scree of cackling owls. It sounded like choir practice at Midnight Hill; lunatics in musical discord.

  The only pleasant note in the sinister symphony was the whisper of butterfly wings. As Chief Trew echoed a deep knock on the front door once more, I gestured to a narrow, undeveloped border near the edge of Portia’s property, where the terra-firma met a spongier, moister parcel. A clutch of green shrubs, all standing nearly five feet in height, rimmed the property. The deep-green, one-bladed leaves formed an organic ladder up the smooth, fleshy, reddish-purple stems. They bit through the air, jaggedly toothed near the edges and veined through on the underside with marked pink veins. The largest leaves stretched out to nearly ten inches, fanning out to the side at least half that length. An imposing plant until you noticed the brilliantly jewel-toned butterflies waltzing over clusters of pink and white flowers that blossomed over the breadth of the shrub. A few bunches of small, green berries, some beginning a blush toward purple, hung from several stems.

  “Pokeberry,” I confirmed.

  Before we could explore the flora of Portia’s landscape any further, however, the front door yawned open, and we were faced with the penetrating glare of the mistress of the manor.

  “Yes?” Portia’s voice curtailed in a sibilant hiss. The succinct question characterized Portia’s economic conversational habits. Brief. Short. As if she couldn’t be bothered to spend more than a nanosecond for those she deemed beneath her.

  Chief Trew removed his hat in a gesture of politeness.

  More flies with honey, I suppose.

  That was the thought that fleeted through my mind. Though truth be told, I couldn’t see how anyone as mordantly pickled as Portia Fearwyn could be enticed by anything even remotely bordering on sweet.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Fearwyn. We hate to bother you,” Chief began, a polite smile on his face.

  “And yet, still, here you are,” Portia quipped.

  As nervous as I was, I suppressed a chuckle.

  Suck on that sour dill, Chief.

  The Chief’s smile faded as quickly as the sunbeams that were trying to break through the heavy-set cloud cover. He replaced his hat firmly back on his head.

  “We aren’t selling Ghoul Scout cookies, Miss Fearwyn. This is an official visit. We need to ask you some questions about your relationship to Spithilda Roach.”

  At the mention of Spithilda’s name, Portia stiffened visibly. Her black eyes peered down the curvature of her beaky nose, sizing her options. She opted in favor, albeit reluctantly, of compliance. She stepped crisply aside and gestured, stiff-armed, for us to enter.

  As I followed the Chief over the threshold, the claustrophobic crush of the interior darkness flattened the breath from my lungs. Gauzy furniture covers draped over the settee and love-seat in the front parlor as Portia guided us past. I guessed she didn’t entertain many visitors.

  It was only when a long, spindly-legged arachnid crested the back of the love-seat that I realized it was webbing that covered the furniture. An uncontrolled shiver rippled down my spine. I knew there was a reason I had always kept my deliveries to Portia’s confined to the stoop.

  Our footfalls echoed on the dusty parquet floor. Somber, gilt-framed portraits of Fearwyns past hung, staring disdainfully, from the tattered, papered walls. It might have been a trick of the dim light, but I swore I felt the boring eyes of Portia’s ancestors follow me down the narrow hall.

  We passed an oil of her Great-Grandfather, Mordred Fearwyn; a brilliant potioner who’d
almost certainly passed on his fiercely smart talents to his great-granddaughter. That is if Portia’s colossal purchases of some of magic’s most potent herbs were any indication. It was an inarguable fact Portia wasn’t friendly, but her skills at the cauldron had to be grudgingly admired. Most of the baneful herbs that Ms. Fearwyn purchased were highly regulated. There were but a few witches who had the rights to make such fearsome purchases. All buyers of baneful herbs had to regularly apply for licenses; by way of showing that they knew how to handle the herbs they were working with. Portia Fearwyn was just such the adept.

  The piercing ebony eyes of Portia’s Aunt, Urania Velvet Fearwyn — a former titan of the Gloomy Arts — who had fought on the dark side of the Wars, stared malevolently from the confines of her gilded prison. In the Trials, Urania had steadfastly refused to admit to any wrongdoing. She wasn’t alone. Each side firmly believed in the justice of their actions during that bloodbath of a war.

  It was readily apparent where Portia had inherited her permanent scowl of disdain, as I ducked from the imagined glower of Atropa Belladonna Fearwyn; Portia’s imposing mother. A pinched, aggressive, yet incredibly powerful woman, Atropa had held a position in the magical Congress on Talisman. The world of the Unawakened had its Democrats and Republicans equally represented. The magical community mirrored a similar approach in its governmental structure, with representatives of both sides of the magical community, Gloomy and Sunny, having an equal voice. It made for some interesting sessions in Congress. I suppose that’s why wands were always checked at the door.

  Portia led us across the threshold of her kitchen. Chief Trew followed closely behind her. I was close on his heels, but something fluttering in a splinter of the door moulding caught my eye. I paused for a moment and plucked it loose with my fingers. It was a fluff of peppered gray fur. It had wafted in the breeze stirred by Portia’s passing, waving at me as if to say “Here I am!” I absentmindedly pocketed the fuzz and continued forward.

  We moved beyond the watchful eyes of Portia’s ancestors and into the kitchen. I use the term loosely. Other than a massive, cast-iron cauldron resting, stoic, on the hearth, and a large wooden stirring paddle, I could see no evidence that the cooking of any food occurred here. I was confident I could spy the twisty, winding path of a mouse tail through the dust on the floor, ending abruptly at a hole cracked into the baseboard. No doubt, the rodent responsible had vacated the premises in search of more accommodating, and fruitful, quarters.

  A solid, planked door stood open at the far end of the room on solid, black iron hinges. David and I had spied this door previously; when we were forced to question Portia about the murder of Nebula Dreddock. The portals boards were at least six-inches thick, the joints between the heavy planks, tight and unforgiving. The door itself was imposing enough, but what sent a shudder down my spine were the deep, gouging scars etched into the interior side of the door, like someone — or, rather something — had tried to claw its way out.

  Portia turned toward us. “If you will kindly excuse me for a moment.”

  She walked, with stiff purpose, toward the big door. With some effort, she pushed the door closed. Drawing a heavy, metal key from her pocket, she slid the pin and ward into the yawing lock and expertly snicked the mechanism secure. Slowly, she returned the key to her pocket and joined us at the table with no effort or intent of an explanation.

  Portia sat serenely at a tall, high-backed chair at the head of the table. She motioned for us to follow suit. “You said you had questions, Chief Trew? About Spithilda Roach?”

  The Chief set his hat on the wooden table before him. “Yes, Miss Fearwyn I do. Were you aware that Miss Roach was found dead less than twenty-four hours ago at her home in The Humps?”

  “Good riddance, if you ask me,” Portia quipped drawing a shocked look from both the Chief and myself.

  “You don’t seem excessively sympathetic. How well did you know Miss Roach?”

  “Scarcely at all,” came Portia’s clipped reply. “She was hardly a pleasant individual to be around.”

  Pot, I’d like you to meet kettle.

  The proverbial idiom bubbled, unbidden, to the surface of my thoughts.

  “But, you did know her,” the Chief pressed.

  “Well, of course I knew her. Everyone knew Spithilda. She was forever crafting inept spells to avenge any number of perceived wrongs. I’m almost certain she’s managed to accuse absolutely everyone on Glessie Isle for the state of her miserable existence. I am sure I am no exception.”

  “So, you’re saying Spithilda had a beef with you?”

  Portia wrinkled her nose as if she’d just caught a whiff of a soiled diaper. It was just a hint; just a whisper, of discomfort, as she adjusted herself in her seat. “We may have had a spat over the affections of a certain gentleman here in town.”

  The Chief threw me a look of curiosity. This was news to us. We were both rather expecting to hear that their loveless relationship was caused by conflict over land ownership or money.

  “Oh, do tell,” the Chief urged.

  Portia regained her composure. “It was a silly, girlhood squabble. It happened years ago. I’m not even certain it’s worth bringing up.”

  “Please. Bring it up,” Chief Trew ordered.

  Portia sighed and continued. “Well, Spithilda and I were vying for the attentions of this handsome young man. Neither of us could have been more than nineteen at the time. Anyway, this young man came from an excellent family, good breeding — or so we thought — with reliable connections in magical government. Mother Atropa felt quite confident that we; that is, myself and the young man in question, would have made a smart political match for the advancement of the Fearwyn family. Only …”

  “Only?” Chief asked.

  “Only, Spithilda Roach seemed to be forging stronger inroads with the young man. This was unexpected, and obviously an unknown quantity we were dealing with here. And, yet, it did, in fact, look as if she was successfully swaying his attentions.”

  The Chief’s puckered his lips in that odd twist he does when he’s trying to wrap his brain around a difficult concept. He just couldn’t seem to reconcile the fact that the distasteful, wizened old crone could turn anyone’s head. “Are we talking about the same Spithilda Roach, here?” He nudged Portia for confirmation.

  Portia laughed a cold chuckle that chilled the blood in my veins. “Spithilda wasn’t always a twisted, bitter pill. That came after years of misery and solitude. No, originally, she was quite the beauty. And indeed, it seemed as if the young man was on the cusp of a proposal.”

  “And you got jealous!” Chief interjected, finally glad to have stumbled upon a valid reason for trekking out to this miserable patch of gloom.

  A motive.

  “Don’t be absurd, Chief Trew!” Portia spat indignantly, the apparent acrimony sliding down her throat like a slimy dose of castor oil.

  “But, for whatever reason, you didn’t act on your jealousy right away, did you? Maybe Mother Atropa stayed your hand, so as not to upset the apple cart on the Fearwyn’s chances in politics. A felonious daughter might tarnish the family’s reputation.”

  The Chief stood, pacing across the tiled floor. He rubbed the scruff on his chin thoughtfully. “No. You harbored your resentment instead, letting it fester and simmer for years. But, when it finally boiled over into a murderous rage, you poisoned Spithilda for stealing the affections of your would-be beau all those years ago. You poisoned her with the pokeberries right from your own garden. There would be no bill of sale, no evidence that you’d purchased something dangerous.”

  Portia blinked vapidly. “My pokeberries? Whatever are you talking about, Chief? I harvest the leaves and sell them to Verdantia Eyebright for her greengrocer shop. They’re quite tasty I’m told, but you must be certain to prepare them correctly. And besides, Spithilda didn’t steal anyone away from me. She was no more successful in ensnaring the young man than I was. No. Something else happened to foil the lovebird’s
plans. At least, that’s the rumor.”

  “What? What happened?” I was on the edge of my seat. Curiosity overruled any misgivings I may have had about being in the same room as a second-time-accused Portia.

  Okay. True confession time. I’m a blubbering, suck-down-the-chocolate-ice-cream and sob-into-my-tissue mess when it comes to hopeless romances. The more star-crossed the lovers, the more personally invested I am in the outcome. And, there was no more of a star-crossed Juliet than someone like Spithilda Roach.

  You had to understand my philosophy. If an impossible romance was possible…well, then I just dared to hold out a scrap of hope for my own love life. I snuck a surreptitious glance at the dashing Chief Trew. My heart burst into an eruption of tender butterflies.

  Portia’s upper lip curled in a satisfied sneer. She knew she had me under her spell, and she hadn’t used a lick of witchy magic to get me there. She had merely tapped into one of my deepest vices, snatched it with a skeletal hand, and kept one critical, bony finger on my ability to breathe. The Voodoo Queen, Marie Laveau, used a similar technique against the high society of New Orleans. Portia was in powerful company.

  She leaned in conspiratorially. The sharp end of her hooked nose hung inches from my own. “I…don’t…know.”

  I blinked.

  What?

  “What do you mean you don’t know? Why didn’t they get married? What happened to the young man?”

  Portia leaned back, a satisfied grin plastered to her already overstretched, thin lips. “In retrospect, I suppose I should thank Spithilda for saving me from making a mistake of a lifetime. Turns out the young man wasn’t at all who he pretended to be.”

  “Who was he?” the Chief asked.

  I’m almost positive I saw a glint of pity, or something similar, spark in Portia’s dark eyes. She folded her long, spindly arms.

  “Rad Silverback, of course.”

  This case just kept folding back in on itself. It was like trying to fold a fitted sheet. And the hopes of it being a simple open and shut?