Murder, Magic, and Moggies

by Pearl Goodfellow

  At first, there was nothing. The teardrop-shaped pointer sat, impotent and useless, on the board. I frowned. Maybe I had used up whatever modicum of magic I still had left in me. I don’t know why I was so surprised. Not like I had ever been able to call magic to hand when I truly needed it.

  I was just about ready to take my fingers off the pointer when it gave a surprising little jiggle. It wiggled to the left. Then, it shimmied to the right. Then, slowly, it began to creep toward the left side of the board.

  It stopped over a single letter.

  “B,” I read aloud.

  The pointer moved again. This time it transferred to the right.

  “L,” Chief Trew called out. Spithilda started to glow a brighter green.

  “Aha!” Midnight cried. “Now we’re cooking with gas! Watch and learn, Fraidy, my brother.”

  Fraidy’s paws were planted firmly across his eyes. “No way, José. I ain’t watching nothin’!”

  “A-S-T,” I continued. Chief Trew freed one hand to jot the succession of letters on his trusty note pad.

  “I-M-A!” I cried as the planchette continually picked up speed. Spithilda must have really been starting to get into the groove of her spirit talk now!

  “S-C-R-E!” I nearly lost my grip on the pointer. Hurriedly I anchored myself.

  “W-Y-R-A,” I continued. Spithilda’s glow became so bright; I feared she was going to burn herself out. Remy must have been feeling the ratcheting tension as he let loose a mighty howl I was sure would earn me a call from Old Lady Bristlewaithe.

  “Oh! I can’t stand it!” Fraidy cried.

  “T!!!”

  The planchette fell immediately still.

  Chief Trew let go and looked at the succession of letters he had hastily scrawled.

  “What’s it say?!? What’s it say?!?” Fraidy shrieked.

  “Calm down, Fraidy,” I urged, but if I was telling the truth, I was nearly as eager as he to learn the answer. Thing was, David wore the most bewildered look I’d ever seen on his face to date.

  “David?” I asked. “What does it say? Is it positively horrible?”

  He scratched his head. “Well, it’s not what we expected. That’s for certain.”

  “Read it out loud,” I suggested.

  “Don’t know that it will make any more sense that way, but, okay. Here goes. ‘Blast! I am a screwy rat.’”.

  As soon as he uttered the nonsensical phrase, Spithilda’s ghost gleamed supernova-bright for one single moment, then faded into absolute nothingness until all that was left to indicate she’d been there at all was a generous puddle of snot-green slime in Grammy Chimera’s favorite chair. I winced.

  “Yeah,” Midnight shook his head. “That can happen when you put too much pressure on a nascent spirit. They don’t have enough juice, well, to hold the sauce together for very long.”

  His right paw stretched a length of goo up from the chair.

  “And you’re just telling us this now?” I grouse.

  “Hey, don’t blame me. When a spirit doesn’t have a lot to hold onto in this realm, it’s hard for them to hang out here for long! Not my fault if Spithilda didn’t have a posse of pals.”

  Poor Remulus whimpered, staring plaintively at the gooey chair then back at me. I affectionately patted the shaggy dog’s head.

  “I know boy. This has got to be tough on you. You’ve lost her twice now, huh, boy? I’m so sorry.”

  Gloom nudged the big dog’s leg. “C’mon, ya big galoot. If there’s one thing I know about, it’s how to be miserable. Let’s go into the living room. We can be miserable together.

  Onyx’s eyes widened, right along with those of his present brothers. None was as wide as mine, however. I could hardly believe what I was seeing before me; my most acidic cat, seemingly taking poor Remy under her wing.

  “Now, there’s something you don’t see every day,” my lead cat mumbled incredulously.

  So, the even the all-knowing Onyx can be surprised every once in a while.

  “Yeah?” Onyx replied. “Well, don’t get used to it.”

  Damn it.

  “Blast, I’m a screwy rat?” Fraidy mumbled, puzzlement winning out over any discomfort he may have had over a ghost spontaneously evaporating in his kitchen. “I don’t get it. What’s it mean?”

  “What it means, my dear brother,” Jet began, “is, since Spithilda has left the building, Hattie and the Chief Trew don’t have a ghost of a chance of solving this murder, yep, yep.”

  I shot Jet my most disparaging look, even though I feared he was completely and totally right. “Thank you, Jetters. Thank you very much.”

  Chapter 10

  The next day dawned far too early for my liking.

  After the fruitless Ouija session with Spithilda the night before, Chief Trew and I had both agreed to hit the hay, get a good night’s sleep, and pound the pavement again the next day. Rad Silverback was still M.I.A. and we had yet to eliminate him or any of the other remaining suspects we had come up with so far. We definitely had our work cut out for us.

  So, when Grammy Chimera’s old Crosley Candlestick phone started jangling an early wake-up call, I could only manage a guttural groan from deep under the pile of quilts and down-filled comforters.

  “BRRRINNNNNG, BRRRINNNNG! BRRRINNNNNG, BRRRINNNNG!”

  I tried to lift my head, but there was a heavy, fur-bearing weight curled rather solidly on top of it.

  “Mmmmmmmmmnnnn,” I attempted. The weight snored away peacefully despite the jangling phone.

  “MMMMMMMMMMNNNN!” I tried again. The phone’s incessant ring persisted.

  Finally, the feline squatter atop my melon stirred. “For cryin’ out meow, Hattie. Are you gonna get that, or what? Some of us are trying to catch a cat nap.”

  “M-E-E-E-E-O-O-O-W!” Midnight yowled as both he and the bedclothes tumbled in an unceremonious heap onto the hardwood floor. I stood, a frighteningly disheveled mess, in a tank top and boxers and tried to focus on the phone.

  Onyx strolled into the room. “Oh, Hattie. You’re up. You want to grab that phone? It’s been ringing forever.”

  Midnight shook himself and walked past his immortal brother. “I know, right? That’s what I said!”

  Cats. Why did it have to be cats?

  You can bet a dog-owner never got this kind of lip from a Basset Hound.

  I scowled sourly at Onyx and snatched the phone from the end-table. I put the earpiece to my ear and barked into the mouthpiece. “Whaddya want?”

  “Hattie?”

  My crumb-filled eyes suddenly popped wide. David!

  “No, um, good morning, Chief. Sorry about that. How can I help you?”

  “Well, I was wondering if you wanted to come to The Mutley Crew offices with me. Amber was able to secure an appointment with Alban Dewdrop.”

  “Sure. When?”

  “I thought I could swing by and pick you in five minutes or so.”

  Five minutes! I caught sight of my raggedy reflection in the dresser mirror across the room.

  Midnight nudged Onyx.

  “Bet she’s wishing she used magic now,” he snickered.

  A feather-down projectile nailed him right in the kisser and bowled him over backward.

  Contrary to Midnight’s comment, I did not use magic to get ready for my errand with the Chief. I did, however, set a new land speed record for strip, shower, and dress, and I didn’t look half-bad, even if I say so myself.

  I was quiet on the walk to The Mutley Crew Offices. Gless Inlet was so compact, it rendered traditional Unawakened transportation nearly obsolete. It was mostly foot, fly, or cycle in our little burg. As we passed Polliwog Pond, where a knot of toads were chirruping in concert, Chief Trew noticed my reticence.

  “Penny for your thoughts, Hat,” he said as we strolled past the pond.

  “It’s nothing, really,” I offered the polite fib.

  “Seraphim Joyvive Jenkins,” the Chief admonished. I shot him a warning glare which he prompt
ly ignored. “We have known each other far too long for you to be able to lie to me. Something is eating at you. Now, fess up! What is it?”

  “Seriously,” I insisted. “It’s likely nothing at all.”

  He stopped cold in his tracks. “Hattie, if I had a nickel for every time one of your hunches has been right…”

  “You’d have a nickel.”

  “Pah!” he scoffed. “Remember when we were kids, and I was going through that ugly pimply phase?”

  Yeah. Okay. I might remember that. Mr. Perfect wasn’t always perfect.

  I smirked. Just a little.

  “Aha! See? You do remember. Well, do you also remember how Magnus Grimalkin told me he had a ‘foolproof’ spell for clear skin?”

  “Oh, you mean the Brigid Blackberry spell? Darn. What was it?”

  “Three ladies came from the East. One with fire,” he began.

  I picked up his rhythm. “And two with frost.”

  “Out with fire,” he continued.

  “And, in with frost!” I concluded, slightly cheered that I had remembered a spell from so long ago.

  “That’s the one! You were supposed to lay blackberry leaves over the bumps while you said the incantation. Only, the blackberry leaves Magnus gave me weren’t blackberry leaves.”

  “Nope. They were poison oak.”

  “Hey. They looked almost the same. And, you tried to warn me. You knew your herbs and plants inside and out. Even back then. Chimera taught you well.”

  I did try to warn you.” I nodded vehemently. “But, you didn’t listen.”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t listen. So, instead, I wound up with zits and an oozing rash.”

  I grimaced. “It wasn’t pretty.”

  He laughed. “No, it wasn’t.”

  “As I recall, you were doing it to impress a girl.”

  “It’s true. What can I say? She was hot. I wanted her to like me.”

  “So? Did she? Like you, I mean.”

  “The jury’s still out.” He casually kicked a rock to the street. “But, my point is, Hattie, I trust your instincts. So, what’s on your mind?”

  I sucked in a huge breath, held it for a few seconds, and then exhaled it in one, big blow. “Oh! Look! We’re here!”

  I pointed up to the sign that read The Mutley Crew: Animal Advocate Society and Adoption Agency. A vast expanse of green stretched out from the façade of the building interrupted only by a perfect ring of toadstools in the shade of a single, weeping willow tree.

  There’s a little magic in everything if you’ve half a mind to look.

  Grammy Chimera nudged me again.

  “Did you hear that?’ I asked, grabbing his arm.

  “Hear what?” Quite obviously, Chief Trew hadn’t heard Grammy’s ethereal whisper. I began to wonder if I was starting to lose my mind.

  “Nothing,” I muttered. The tendrils of the willow brushed the grass. “Just the wind in the willows, I guess.”

  “Okay, then. Shall we?” He bowed deeply and gestured toward the front entrance. I gave a quick smile and a curtsey, and we headed inside.

  “Welcome! Welcome! Welcome!” Alban Dewdrop croaked merrily as the Chief and I entered his cheery office. Indeed, it was more like entering the warm, inviting parlor of your favorite Great Aunt than a cubicled warren of a typical non-profit.

  The round little man was squat and portly, particularly around the middle. His long, spindly legs bowed oddly to the sides, as if unable to support the cumbersome weight of his top half. I had to admit, though, he was markedly springy in his step as he ushered us to our seats, two enormously green wing-backs that very nearly made us appear like tiny, insignificant insects as we sank into the overstuffed cushions.

  The bright, brass buttons on his emerald waistcoat glimmered in a shimmering light emanating from a source I could not quite put my finger on. I caught a quick gleam in his bulbous green eyes, but the elusive spark was gone nearly as quickly as it had appeared.

  “Gummy worm?” Dewdrop asked sunnily as he proffered a candy dish overflowing with sweet, writhing confections. The Chief and I both politely declined.

  “No? Too bad. Too bad.” He popped a juicy, rainbow-colored worm past the full, spread lips of his mouth and onto his strangely long tongue before he returned the dish to its perch on a side table. He made a funny little hop into his own chair and folded his long-fingered hands over the rounded hump of his belly. I couldn’t help but notice Mr. Dewdrop suffered from syndactyly, and unusual genetic abnormality that caused webbing between the fingers.

  “So, what can I do for the Chief Para-Inspector of Glessie Isle and his lovely lady companion? I’m more than hoppy; I mean happy to do anything to help.”

  I shook my head quickly. “No, no, no! I’m no lady. What I mean to say is, I’m not his companion. I mean, we’re not together. That is to say; we’re together. And, I’m a lady. I’m just not his lady. Oh, pphhttt!”

  I finally just blew an exasperated flume of air through my bangs in submission and settled into an uncomfortable silence. Part of me wished I was one of Mr. Dewdrop’s gummy worms so I could just crawl my way out of here. David looked at me as if I’d grown a second head. He shook his own and turned back to Mutley Crew’s chairman.

  “Mr. Dewdrop,” he began.

  “Oh, Alban, please. Please, please. Rhymes with fleas,” the little man corrected.

  The Chief raised a curious eyebrow, then smiled. “Alban. I’m sure you’re aware of the recent passing of Spithilda Roach.”

  Dewdrop clicked his long tongue. “Yes, yes. Sticky business. Sticky business.”

  The low drone of a fly hummed through the room. Dewdrop’s globular eyes rolled in search of the annoying sound.

  “I understand Miss Roach was an ardent supporter of your organization,” the Chief continued.

  “Heavens, yes. Such an angel. Our angel. Now, the angel flies,” Dewdrop gushed.

  Both the Chief and I were a little taken aback. This was the first time either of us had heard anyone besides Amber mention Spithilda’s name without a healthy helping of rancor and a side dish of revulsion. It definitely made the Chief sit a little further forward on his chair.

  “Really?” Chief Trew started. “An angel? And, what makes you say that? Does this have anything to do with the big announcement Miss Roach was scheduled to make at the gala the other night?”

  “True, true,” Dewdrop replied as the buzzing sound got louder. “No flies on you.”

  I caught a lightning quick movement out of the corner of my eye, but by the time I turned to look, nothing was there. I rubbed my tired eyes. I needed some good, quality sleep, and I needed it soon. Maybe I would whip up a batch of Grammy Chimera’s Sleepytime Drink when I got back to the shop.

  Did still I have nutmeg?

  At least the buzzing had stopped. “What was the big announcement?” I asked, hoping that joining in the questioning might help me stay focused, and maybe even evoke an answer that actually made sense from the toady little man.

  Dewdrop took a large gulp, then tented his webbed fingers together. “Miss Roach was going to announce she was bequeathing her entire estate to us here, at The Mutley Crew, save for a small stipend set aside to care for her canine companion, Remulus. She adopted him here, don’t you know?”

  We nodded in the affirmative.

  “In sum, it was going to be a legacy worth over twenty million dollars. We’ll be able to build shelters on every single one of the Coven Isles. Enough to house every stray witch dog and cat out there!” Dewdrop clapped his hands together with glee, but suddenly remembered that Spithilda had passed, and fell respectfully somber.

  “We’ll name them in Miss Roach’s memory, of course.”

  Hmm. The Roach Shelter.

  Yeah. Somehow I didn’t think that name was going to encourage a lot of foot traffic.

  Chief Trew stood. “I would like to thank you for your time, Mr. Dewdrop. If you think of anything else you think might be helpful, please don’t
hesitate to give us a call down at the station.”

  “Right, right,” Dewdrop croaked and showed us the door.

  As we stepped out into the sunshine of the morning, I could clearly see Chief Trew was deep in thought.

  “What’s on your mind?” I asked.

  Chief Trew tapped his chin with a finger. “Anything about that meeting seem odd to you?”

  “Aside from trying to wrap my head around someone leaving twenty million dollars to a bunch of cats and dogs?”

  I mean, I loved my eight furry housemates, but I’d be hard-pressed to leave such an exorbitant sum to them. Besides, Jet would probably blow the entire wad on catnip in the first year anyway.

  “Well, yeah. That was a little on the odd side. But, there was something else. I just can’t quite put my finger on it. Ah, well. I guess it will come to me.”

  At that moment, a giant, warty toad hopped across our path and flopped wetly into Polliwog Pond.

  “Ugh!” the Chief grimaced. “I never could stand toads. All those bumps and lumps.”

  “Remind you too much of the Magnus Grimalkin incident?” Thirteen-year-old Hattie couldn’t resist the chance to needle her oldest pal. I elbowed the Chief in the ribs.

  “Keep it up, Hattie. I still remember how to do an Implexa spell.”

  Horrifying images of long braids tangled in the monkey bars returned to give me pause. I instinctively reached for my head, running my fingers through my long, wavy tresses.

  I looked at Chief Trew with his long, lanky legs and toned, muscular arms. My mouth dropped into a surprised little “o.”

  Did the Chief just flirt with me?

  But, just my luck, this case would get far more tangled up before I could give that delicious question a second thought.

  “Good morning, Chief Trew. Hattie,” Amber called as we breezed into the bullpen.

  The Chief sank into his high-backed executive chair. He rubbed the insistent wrinkle furrowing in between his eyebrows. “I’ll agree with the morning part anyway, Amber.”

  The Chief’s assistant shimmied up to the Chief’s desk, the hint of a flirt in the sway of her full hips. What is this chick’s deal? My tired mind had had enough of processing visual information. I was a half zombie by this point.