Midnight Mysteries: Nine Cozy Tales by Nine Bestselling Authors

by Ritter Ames

  When the policeman answered, I told him everything. It wasn’t until I spoke to somebody that I realized how little I knew about the situation, but the policeman had heard enough as soon as I mentioned a body. He told me to stay put and someone would be over immediately.

  I felt an immense sense of relief wash over me, but knew I should call Wolff as well. He was at work, so I called the school, hoping to get through quickly.

  “Hello?”

  I sighed audibly with relief as soon as he answered. I had been harboring some kind of illogical fear the phone wouldn’t work, or Wolff simply wouldn’t answer.

  “Wolff, I need you to come home immediately,” I croaked, trying to clear my throat.

  “Why? What’s wrong?” he said urgently.

  “I just found a dead man in the garden. The police are on their way,” I managed to say through my tears.

  “I’ll come straight home. Thelma, wait outside for the police.” He hung up, leaving me anxious. Had Wolff said this because he thought the killer could be inside the house? I had no idea, but I hurried outside, once more overcome with dizziness as I passed through the door. It was all so surreal.

  Once safely in the street, I again looked up at the still overcast sky. What could have caused this sudden change? I wasn’t left to ponder it long before a car squealed to an abrupt stop on the street, stopping only a short distance from where I waited anxiously.

  The man was only half out of his car when another car flew around the corner and stopped just behind the first car. It was Wolff, who jumped out and sprinted over to me, hardly giving the first man a glance.

  “Thelma! Are you okay?” Wolff embraced me.

  The first man cleared his throat. “I’m Detective Coleman. We received a call a murder had taken place here.” He looked at both of us with a single eyebrow raised.

  I nodded. “Yes, that was me. The body’s over there.” I gestured behind me.

  “Are you okay?” Wolff asked once more.

  I nodded at him, offering a weak smile, and set off in the direction of the garden. Only a few steps in, Wolff suddenly stopped and clutched his forehead. “Sorry,” he said weakly. “I’m very...” His voice trailed away, and he staggered.

  “Are you all right?” I asked, clutching his arm. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m suddenly very dizzy,” Wolff admitted, his voice weak. “I feel ill.”

  “Sit on the grass, away from the murder scene,” the detective said, though not unkindly. “It happens,” he continued. “I’m more surprised with how well you’re holding up, Mrs. Spelled, isn’t it?”

  “Mrs. Thelma Spelled,” I said. “This is my husband, Wolff.”

  “I see. Well, you’re doing surprisingly well for somebody who has recently found a body. And Mr. Spelled, I would recommend you rest. Your reaction is nothing unusual, and there’s very little chance the attacker is still around at this point.” Coleman bent down to inspect the body, looking closely at the knife and turning the body over slightly to get a better look at the face. It was clear he recognized the man as he sighed deeply and took a step back. “Did you know him?” he asked me.

  “Oh no, I don’t—didn’t,” I said, cringing at the sight. I felt somewhat nauseated, too. “Look, there are dark hairs in his hand. Perhaps he snatched at the hair of his murderer.”

  The detective nodded. “Quite possibly.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it? Can’t you match the hair to someone?”

  He straightened up and looked at me. “What do you mean? There aren’t enough hairs here to test under the microscope.”

  I leaned down. “He must’ve pulled hard—the roots are attached. What a shame there isn’t a method for matching the hair to a person.”

  Detective Coleman snorted. “What a good imagination you have, Mrs. Spelled. That could never happen. So, you don’t recognize the man?”

  I shook my head. “No, who is he?”

  “Mr. Walters. Jasmine Walters’ husband. Late husband now, I suppose,” he grunted.

  “Jasmine Walters?” I asked, bewildered. “No, that can’t be right. She’s not married.”

  “Not any more,” Coleman said. “Sorry. But look, I don’t know what to tell you. This man was her husband.”

  “She simply isn’t married,” I insisted. “She hasn’t been married for years.” Jasmine had become wealthy after inheriting her previous husband’s estate. The fleeting thought occurred to me that Jasmine had murdered her first husband for the money, and had killed this husband for reasons of her own, but I quickly dismissed it. I didn’t like Jasmine. She had all but thrown herself at Wolff when he arrived in town to take up the post as the principal of the local high school, and she had continued to throw herself at him even after we were engaged.

  What’s more, she was a mean-spirited woman and a witch. She had been raised in Africa, and it seemed to me she had learned some magic there, magic I was sure she had used against me on occasion. I presumed she knew I was a witch simply because I could defend myself, magically speaking. I had taken protective measures, largely due to the help of my friend Nama, a Koori lady who lived in a little house on the edge of town. Nama was a healer and also what we white fellas would term a witch, the type of witch I was. White fellas also called her people ‘Aboriginal,’ but as I had grown up with Nama, I knew to refer to her by the word Koori. Koori were the people in the part of New South Wales in which we lived. Just north of us were the Murri people. In Nama’s culture, healing and what Europeans called ‘witchcraft’ went hand in hand. I had grown up with Nama, and consequently learned some of the ways.

  At any rate, what Detective Coleman said didn’t add up. There was no way Jasmine could have married recently without my knowing it. I mean, if you sneezed in this town, everybody knew about it.

  “Do you know Mrs. Walters well?” Coleman turned his back as he knelt down to continue inspecting the body.

  “Well, yes,” I said. “We’ve spoken several times over the years, but I can’t say we’ve ever been close friends.”

  “How long have you known her?” Coleman asked, occasionally making small noises to himself as he inspected the body and jotted down something in his notebook.

  I shrugged. “About eight or nine years. I met Jasmine when I arrived in town to take up a teaching post. It was just after her previous husband’s death, actually, which is how I know she’s not married.”

  “Well, I suppose she’s recovered since, because I can confirm she is indeed married. Or was until this morning at least,” Coleman said as he stood up and turned to face me again, his expression serious. “You’ll need to come to the police station and give us your statement in writing.”

  I took a deep breath. “I’ll head down as soon as I’m able.”

  Coleman put the notebook back in his jacket. “I’m sorry you had to see this,” he said with a nod. “It’s never easy. Anyway, I’ll see you down at the station.”

  I followed Coleman back to his car. It was a Buick. I knew this as my father had bought one just like it eight or so years earlier. This car was just like my father’s, only a different color.

  Coleman noted my interest. “Isn’t she a beauty,” he said, fondly patting his car. “A Buick Model 25 Tourer. Bought her brand new last month.”

  I shrugged. My knowledge of cars couldn’t be as good as I’d supposed. The car looked brand new, but I could’ve sworn it was an earlier model.

  I shook my head to clear my thoughts, frustrated that they were so muddled. The sky was growing ever darker, and rain was almost certainly on the way. What had happened to the beautiful sky this morning? Who was the mysterious dead man, and why had he been murdered in my garden? How on earth had Jasmine kept a new husband secret, and why did Detective Coleman know about him when I didn’t? And wasn’t it too much of a coincidence she had married two men with the same surname? I rubbed my still-throbbing temples and sighed again. I decided I should head down to the station to give my statement as soon as possible.<
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  BLACK COCKATOOS

  I LEFT WOLFF lying on the couch at home. I didn’t know what was wrong with him, but he said he was dizzy. I wondered if he was in the early stages of a migraine, not that he’d ever had one before, to my knowledge. It was a short walk to the police station, and was now a bright sunny day again, barely a cloud in the sky.

  I heard a series of unearthly screeches and looked up to see five huge black cockatoos flying overhead. These enormous birds were beautiful, but their calls were unnerving. Indigenous lore held that the coming of black cockatoos signaled rain, but also brought the truth to light.

  It was a small town, so nothing was far, but even by our standards I lived quite close to the police station. I walked through the front door and looked around. There was a small wooden desk and behind it sat an elderly uniformed officer reading a newspaper. I imagined working as a police officer in this town would be especially boring. I suspected that was about to change.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I was told to come here and give my statement to Detective Coleman.”

  “I beg your pardon?” the officer asked, setting aside his newspaper and leaning forward. “Madam, are you well?”

  I nodded, and realized I had not reapplied my lipstick before leaving the house. I must have looked pale. “Um, Detective Coleman. I was the one who called this morning to report the murder, and he came out to see me. He asked me to come down to the station to give a statement.” I was nervous as it was, and having to explain it just made it feel all too real.

  “And you’re sure it was Detective Coleman?” the officer asked, raising an eyebrow. “May I ask your name?”

  “I’m Mrs. Thelma Spelled,” I said. “And yes, I’m positive that was his name. I saw him less than an hour ago, as a matter of fact. May I just speak to the detective?”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to track him down first,” the officer said with a bewildered look. “Mrs. Spelled, Detective Coleman hasn’t lived in this town for ten years, much less worked at the station. Last I heard, he was somewhere in France.”

  I clutched my stomach. I didn’t know what to think. Was this a prank? But who would prank someone about a murder? I sat on the nearest chair, worried that I was about to pass out.

  “Perhaps you got his name mixed up.”

  I nodded with relief. “Yes, that must be it.”

  “The detectives are Detective Strait and Detective Pierce. They’re both in their early thirties, and have fair hair.”

  “No, it wasn’t either of them, for sure,” I said, anxiety once more gnawing away at me. “This man was middle-aged and had dark hair.”

  “Can you describe the man to me?” the officer asked.

  I did as he asked, describing the detective as best as I could. I described his appearance, clothes, mannerisms and even his car, just in case it could help. The entire time I was talking, the officer looked at me with a shocked expression.

  “Does sound like him, all right.” The officer rubbed his chin. “Can you tell me exactly what happened this morning?”

  I clenched my jaw, partially frustrated I would have to repeat myself and relive everything, but also because I was so confused. I was sure I had talked to Detective Coleman, especially given the fact that according to the officer my description matched the man. At the same time, he apparently wasn’t now a member of the force, yet he had been the one to arrive when I called.

  I explained the situation at length, from the sudden murder that had occurred, to me calling and having Coleman arrive.

  “We didn’t receive a call this morning,” the officer said with a shrug.

  “I was told to come down and give my statement about the murder of Mrs. Jasmine Walters’ husband. I can personally testify his body was at my home this morning, so either way you should investigate. I don’t know what the story behind this Detective Coleman is,” I admitted, as my frustration welled to the surface. “All I care about at the moment is a man was killed, and apparently nobody here is aware of it.”

  “Jasmine Walters’ husband?” the officer asked, looking more confused than ever. “Are you feeling quite all right, madam?”

  “No! I’m not!” I was perturbed. “I want somebody to investigate a murder. It shouldn’t be this hard. On top of which, apparently somebody was posing as a policeman at my home this morning.”

  “Mrs. Spelled, Jasmine Walters hasn’t been married for ten straight years now. Her husband was killed a decade ago, and the murderer was never found, despite Detective Coleman investigating the case. There’s simply no chance what you’re describing to me actually occurred this morning. The only explanation is someone is having an elaborate prank at your expense, or…” His voice trailed away. “Anyway, Mrs. Spelled, I need your address for the incident book.”

  “It’s 9 Salisbury Street, Bayberry Creek.”

  The man gasped. “I think that’s where Mr. Walters was murdered, right in the garden at that very address!”

  Everything went dull, as though I heard it from behind a thin wall. My vision blurred and my brain filled with white noise. What was happening? I was positive Detective Coleman came to my home that morning, and it couldn’t have been an imposter unless he looked like, talked like, and drove the same car as the real Coleman. Did the officer think I had taken leave of my senses?

  “I have to leave,” I stammered, getting up and nearly knocking over my chair in the process.

  “Mrs. Spelled, I really think you ought to...”

  “No, it’s fine,” I said over my shoulder.

  I had to talk to Jasmine Walters. If it was a cruel prank, then she most certainly would be the one behind it.

  FEATHERFOOT

  AS SOON AS I left the police station, I caught myself expecting an overcast day again. The sky, however, was as bright and clear as it had been this morning, before I’d happened upon the body of Jasmine’s supposed husband, and again as it had been on my walk to the police station. Did I imagine it becoming overcast? It was all so strange.

  Either way, I needed to talk to Jasmine. I didn’t think she could control the weather, of course, but I needed to know what was happening. It felt more and more like this was some horribly cruel joke, and I intended to get to the bottom of it as soon as possible.

  I walked directly to Jasmine’s house, deciding not to go home to check on Wolff first. After all, it was only a minor detour. All the strange things that had happened linked to her, and I needed to set the record straight immediately. I was worried about Wolff, having left him alone in the house after somebody was murdered there, but I knew he could take care of himself.

  The more I thought about it, the less sense it made that everything could simply be the product of a practical joke. What would be the purpose of pretending to kill somebody? Jasmine had always been unpleasant, but she had no reason to do this kind of thing to me. Was it possible she had actually murdered her husband? What if the reason she hadn’t told me about him was she was planning to frame me for the murder, which is why he died in my garden?

  I was so caught up in my thoughts I scarcely realized I’d already arrived at Jasmine’s property. Her house was similar to mine, although if I were honest, hers was immeasurably nicer. It, too, was a Victorian building, but extravagant and far more beautiful. Her car was brand new and sat gleaming outside the house.

  As I approached, I gulped. If she really had murdered her husband not two hours earlier, perhaps walking up and asking her about it wasn’t such a great idea.

  I opened her gate, but before I had taken one step inside, I saw feathers on the ground. I bent down for a closer look. To my horror, I saw the feathers were mixed with blood and human hair. These surely had come from the Featherfoot, the legendary shoes of the feared Kurdaitcha man. There was no way to explain the Kurdaitcha man in white fella terms—suffice to say he could be seen variously as healer, sorcerer, shaman, or even ritual killer for those who wronged others. The Featherfoot allowed the Kurdaitcha man to walk around unseen and
unheard.

  I very nearly turned around for home. Maybe I should talk to Wolff about everything first, then come back with him, I thought. I stood my ground and swallowed nervously, deciding it was best to get this over with. I had no idea why a Kurdaitcha man had been to Jasmine’s house, but even if she murdered her husband, she surely wouldn’t try to hurt me. Turning up dead at her house after her husband had done the same at mine would surely look more than a little suspicious.

  She took a long time to answer the door. I’d knocked loudly three times and waited, but heard no sound from inside. It was possible she was simply out, I decided. But after mustering up the courage to speak to her, I didn’t want to back down. I knocked several more times and felt a strange combination of relief, adrenaline, and fear when I heard footsteps approaching the door.

  “Oh, Thelma, hello,” she said disdainfully as the door swung open. She wore an all-too-tight lime-green dress and an ugly grimace. Her mascara was so thick I wondered how she could see properly, and her makeup appeared to have been applied freely with a trowel. Her lipstick was smeared, and it occurred to me she might have been kissing someone.

  I didn’t know what I had done to upset her, but then maybe she had something much more serious on her mind. “What are you doing here?”

  “Hi, Jasmine,” I replied, conjuring the most convincing smile I possibly could. It didn’t amount to much. “Look, I don’t quite know how to say this...” My voice trailed away. Should I mention I found her dead husband? Had she even heard about his murder? I decided it would be best to get it over with, rather than trying to drag out the task.

  “What?” Jasmine asked, raising an eyebrow. She looked considerably more annoyed than concerned.

  “Have you heard about your husband?” I asked simply.

  Jasmine looked confused. “My husband? What?”

  “Um, I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but your husband is dead,” I said.

  “Yes, Thelma, well done,” she replied, rolling her eyes.

  I was flustered, not knowing what to say next. “Detective Coleman was over this morning, and he...”