“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 fro
m 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?
Well, Hattie, that was just witchful thinking.
Chapter 7
“Gone? What do you mean he’s gone?!” The Chief’s bellow rattled the fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling fixtures. I could almost make out the faint outline of a miniature mushroom cloud burgeoning over his head. He very nearly knocked over the small, potted plant on the corner of Amber’s desk. I scrambled to catch the purple flowering vegetation before they hit the dirt.
Violets. Hmm. I thought for absolutely no reason.
Spithilda’s dog, Remulus, cowered under a desk on the other side of the room, as the Chief went on his explosive tirade. Rad Silverback had walked out of the Glessie Isle Paranormal Police Department several hours before the Chief and I were able to make it back from Portia’s swamp. The Gloomy Arts practitioner had given us some food for thought in the Spithilda Roach case, including a personal connection between Spithilda and Rad Silverback that the werewolf had neglected to mention in our earlier discussions.
Poor Amber’s lower lip trembled, and a well of moisture gathered in the lower rims of her crystal blue eyes. Her small hands gripped Remulus’ leash just a bit tighter. “I’m really sorry, Chief. But, he hadn’t been charged with anything, and his lawyer said we couldn’t legally keep him beyond forty-eight hours.”
“But, he’s one of the prime suspects in a murder investigation! And you just let him walk right out the front door! I would think you of all people would be willing do whatever it took to get this case solved! After all, Spithilda was your aunt!”
The Chief stormed from the room. Amber teetered on the edge of a complete breakdown. As much as I found this curious little woman vaguely repellant, I wrapped a comforting arm around her plump shoulders. I’d known David for a long time. I knew he wasn’t actually mad at Amber. She had simply followed proper legal procedure. He was just upset that this case didn’t seem to be getting any easier to solve.
“I know how you feel, Amber. Losing a family member just…well, it sort of knocks the wind right out of yo...OOF!”
The wind exploded from my lungs as my back made the acquaintance of the GIPPD squad room floor. A wild mass of fur and drool sat heavy on my chest, while I tried to regain regular breathing.
“Remulus! Bad dog! Heel!” Amber voice tinkled in a largely ineffective soprano reprimand. Spithilda’s wolfhound kept himself parked on my chest with complete disregard.
“It’s, yechhhh, okay, Amber. I was planning on taking a bath later anyway. Remulus just saved me the trouble,” I muttered as she tugged with all her weight on Remy’s leash. He whipped around and gave her a low, intimidating growl.
“Remulus!” The big dog turned to me with a sudden sheepish whimper. I sat up and took the leash from Amber’s nervous hands. The diminutive executive assistant was only too happy to oblige. She slowly put the barrier of her desk between her and the large dog.
“I guess I’m just not much of a dog person,” she laughed nervously, a hint of sadness in her voice. “Not like Auntie Spithilda.”
I gave a solemn nod and patted her hand. “I’m truly sorry for your loss, Amber. If there’s anything I can do to help, please, just say the word.”
“Thank you, Hattie. That means so much. You see, that’s why I like it here in Gless Inlet. Everybody makes you feel like you’re part of the family.”
“Speaking of family,” I begin. “Was Spithilda the only family you had living here o
n Glessie?”
Amber instinctively reached for the charm around her neck. It wasn’t the prettiest piece of jewelry I’d ever seen. Okay. It was downright ugly. It looked like a crystal composed of fossilized…well, poop. It was a brittle-looking, dark brown charcoal-like stone. Ugly as it was, it must have been comforting to Amber, as she fingered it continuously as she sniffed. She grabbed a tissue. She dabbed a teary eye.
“Yes, ma’am. She was. I know Spithilda wasn’t the nicest person in the world,” she paused as her breath hitched, then shuddered her shoulders in a heart-wrenching sob. “BUT, SHE WAS FAMILY!”
The sob ratcheted to full-on wailing. Remulus decided Amber had challenged him to a howling contest. He raised his head toward the heavens and joined in.
“Owooowoowoo!!!”
Several of the officers still sitting in the bullpen winced at the resultant cacophony. One smart witch used her wand and flicked her slim wrist around her ears in a perfect execution of the Silentium spell, effectively rendering herself temporarily deaf. She then went back to merrily typing the intake report she’d been working on. I suppressed a nostalgic smile. Grandpa Opal had a similar trick when Grammy Chimera would yammer unyieldingly into his ear.
Good ol’ Grandpa. He hadn’t needed a spell, though. He just reached up and turned off his hearing aid.
As the howling modulated to a keener pitch, I momentarily wished I had my own wand. Being deaf indeed could prove advantageous in certain situations. Especially when you lived with eight opinionated felines.
But it would be a cold day in hell before I picked up a wand again. For any reason. I’d already been snookered into accessing too much magic today. I could still sense the coppery aftertaste from the Infrigore spell.
Amber’s racking sobs had wound down to hiccupping sniffs.
“I have cats myself,” I replied. “The trick with any animal is just to be firm.”
My inner witch-belly laughed.
Right.
Like any of my cats cared when I attempted to make demands of them. It was their world. I was fortunate enough they allowed me to rent space.
Murder, Magic, and Moggies Page 24
