by Nancy Warren
I was walking past a white elephant booth, which I’d have called a flea market. There were all kinds of junk in there: small bits of furniture, vases, pictures, an old gramophone, books, old records, a glass case of costume jewelry, watches, old pipes and things. My attention was caught, or more like riveted, by a lamp. It wasn’t an ordinary lamp. The base was a ceramic poodle in pink, with a badly painted face, wearing a tattered green bow around its neck. The lamp shade was pink to match and had plastic pink roses around the edge of the shade. It was, without doubt, the ugliest thing I had ever seen.
A woman of about fifty with soft red hair and wearing a blue polka-dot blouse over white slacks walked up. “It’s quite a conversation piece, isn’t it?”
“I can’t find the words.”
“We’re not officially open yet, but I can put this aside for you, if you’d like it.”
I backed away. “No. That’s all right. I don’t want to rob someone else of such a great piece.”
I turned and picked my way past a collection of old stools and fireplace accessories when a man’s voice hailed me.
I glanced up and smiled when I saw Liam. Another student from Cardinal College, he’d played Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. We’d come to recognize each other’s specialness in the same way members of a secret society recognize a ring.
“Liam, good to see you. Do you live around here?”
“My people are from Ireland, but I’ve cousins living here.” His eyes squinted at me with mischief. “As, I believe, do you.”
Of course my cousin Violet and my great aunt Lavinia lived here, and my sometime mentor and oftentimes trickster rival Margaret Twig lived not too far away.
He said, “I didn’t see you at the last coven potluck.”
I shuddered. “After the disaster of the love potion, I didn’t dare show my face. Besides, until I master my magic better, I’ll always feel like the odd witch out.”
He began to chuckle. “You’re quite famous, you know. I wish I’d been there when you sent the head standing stone flying through the air.”
I shuddered again. “Don’t remind me. It was mortifying.”
His eyes lost their gleam of wickedness and went serious. “Also incredibly powerful. For all our sakes, you need to focus on your studies. You never know when we’ll need someone of your power to defend and protect us.”
“But you have Margaret Twig,” I said. I might not like the woman, but no one could deny her power.
He said something I’d heard on several occasions. “You are a more powerful witch than Margaret Twig will ever be. That’s why you threaten her.”
Most earnestly I assured him that I did not want a showdown with Margaret Twig. She was welcome to remain the head of our coven. More than welcome. I didn’t want to be head witch any more than I wanted to be a witch at all. It wasn’t like I’d had a choice.
He carried a garment bag, and I asked, “Are you performing here?”
“Never miss an opportunity to make a fool of myself. I’ll be putting on a magic show.”
I raised my eyebrows at that. I might not be head witch, but I knew that we frowned on sharing our secrets with people in the normal world. At my expression, he laughed. “Don’t worry, all the tricks I’ll be doing you can get out of a book or, these days, on the Internet.”
“Really?”
“You’d be amazed what you can find on YouTube. Though I know for a fact that anybody who reveals too much finds their channel mysteriously ‘taken down.’” He put the ‘taken down’ in air quotes. I wondered if part of his role in life was to keep an eye on those who gave too much away. Vaguely, I assumed there must be some kind of an informal police force, some bureau of magical standards.
I told him I’d try to catch his act, and when he asked me where I was going, I explained about the fortune-telling booth.
He looked puzzled. “I thought Madame Tatania was back in my hometown. She’s going to be a grandmother again. I heard she wasn’t doing fortune-telling this year.”
“She’s not. My cousin Violet is standing in for her.”
He sent me an odd look. “Your cousin Violet? Here?”
“Yes. Tent number thirty-two. I’m on my way there now. Do you know Violet?”
“We’ve met.” The way he said the words with such airy dismissiveness told me immediately there was a story there. However, being that he was a man and not related to me, I doubted he would tell it to me. I’d have to ask Vi.
When I asked him if he wanted to come with me and say hello to Violet, he promptly declined my offer, thus confirming my suspicion that there was a story there.
And don’t I love a good gossip as much as the next witch?
I found Violet’s tent with no trouble. She’d decorated it with scarves and bells and a few dangling crystals, and Theodore, one of the vampire knitters with a talent for scene painting, had made her a silk banner. It was a thing of beauty, of dark purple silk decorated with gold paint and plastic jewels that caught the sunlight and sparkled.
I stepped inside the tent and discovered my cousin had truly embraced her day’s calling. Her eyes were heavily made up, so they looked huge and smoky. She wore a red and gold silk turban and thick gold hoops in her ears. Her dress was actually a silk dressing gown that she’d borrowed from Alfred, one of the vampires who was given to colorful lounge wear.
She was in the act of throwing a lace cloth over a round patio table.
She greeted me, then asked, “What do you think of my crystal ball?”
I would never have guessed that was supposed to be a crystal ball. “It looks like a goldfish bowl turned upside down over a tea light.”
Violet rolled her eyes. “Lucy, use your imagination.”
“Maybe if you put a scarf over it?” I thought even an interesting glass paperweight would have been better.
Violet dug through a cloth grocery bag and found a creased white silk scarf. “I thought Madame Tatania would lend me her crystal ball, but apparently, she’s very possessive. Says it’s been in her family for generations and I might dilute its power. Honestly, what is it with mortals? They read a few horoscopes and do a couple of Tarot card readings, and suddenly they’re convinced they have power. I could have shown her what real power looks like.” At my gasp of distress, her blood-red lips curved in a smile. “Don’t worry. I only messed up her suitcase a little.”
When we’d fashioned the scarf around the fishbowl, it didn’t look too bad. Then Violet looked at me and shook her head. “You should be in costume, too.”
“I thought the pashmina added a touch of glamor.”
“Not enough glam for Madame Violetta’s assistant.” Violet dug back into the bag and found a multi-colored scarf in gold and blue and tied it around my head, pirate style. She put her head to one side. “Wait, I think I’ve got an extra pair of gold hoops. I wasn’t sure which size I wanted, so I brought both.” She was already wearing enormous gold earrings. I couldn’t imagine what the rejects looked like, but as it turned out, they were smaller. More like the width of a cardboard toilet roll tube, unlike Violet’s, which looked big enough that hamsters could use them as exercise wheels.
Once I’d put on the earrings and Vi had added a pound or two of makeup to my face, giving me dramatically painted eyes and red, red lips, she stood back and surveyed me critically. “That will have to do.”
My job was to stand outside the tent, put people’s names on a list, take their money, and usher them in when Madame Violetta was ready for them. It seemed simple enough. I doubted I could screw it up.
Even though the fair didn’t start for another half hour, cars were already arriving, disgorging families with excited kids of all ages.
A second, smaller patio table sat outside the tent, and on it was a pad of paper and pen suitable for making lists. There was even a plastic chair for me to sit on and a metal money box that locked. All the proceeds of the fête were to going to support a maintenance project on the bell tower of the old
church.
Violet retreated back into the tent while I prepared a rudimentary schedule, marking out times and spaces for names. Violet felt she could do a reading in ten minutes, so I blocked out twelve-minute slots to give a bit of breathing room. While I was doing this, an officious-looking woman came up. She checked her clipboard, then looked at me. “Tent number thirty-two? Fortunes by Violetta?” I nodded and pointed up at Theodore’s sign.
The woman gazed up at it and sniffed. “A bit over the top, isn’t it?”
I disliked her on sight. She had a sharp nose and a pinched-looking, humorless mouth, as though life consistently gave her lemons and instead of making lemonade, she sucked them. She wore a bright pink sun hat with plastic flowers on it, a yellow T-shirt and a flowered cotton skirt—and she thought our sign was over the top? Still, I gave the woman my best smile, as the badge pinned to her shirt said she was Hilary Beaumont, the fête coordinator. “Well, it’s all in aid of charity, isn’t it?”
With another sniff, the woman moved on.
When the fête opened at eleven, we already had two clients signed up to see Madame Violetta. Obviously friends, they looked to be in their early thirties. The redhead said, “I came last year, and she was ever so good, the fortune-teller. She said I was going to have a boy, and I did. Little Justin.” Using her hand to indicate a pregnant belly, she said, “I was out to here, and everyone said it was going to be a girl, but Madame Tatania, she knew.”
I imagined Madame Tatania had reckoned on a fifty percent chance of being right, but all I said was, “Unfortunately, Madame Tatania isn’t here this year. We’re very excited to have Madame Violetta with us instead.”
The woman looked disappointed. “Oh, is she as good, then?”
“I’ve heard she’s excellent.” I wasn’t lying. I’d heard it from Madame Violetta herself. From the depths of the tent, a heavy female voice sounded like a cross between a heavy-smoking Frenchman, a Russian countess and a Jersey girl. “Let the first person come in.”
I told little Justin’s mother to go ahead. Her friend said, “It’s very exciting, isn’t it? Being able to predict the future? I’ve got two dates this week. I’m hoping she’ll tell me that one of them is my soul mate.”
“I hope so, too.”
Ten minutes went by, and little Justin’s mother came running out, tears pouring down her face. Her friend looked startled. “Jeannie, what’s wrong?”
Her friend waved her away and ran away from the village green and toward the public toilets. Her friend looked at me, puzzled. “Should I go after her?”
Madame Violetta boomed out, “I am ready to tell ze next fortune.”
“Why don’t you go on in? I’m sure your friend will be fine.”
Three more women came up, and I added their names to the list.
Everyone was in a good mood, giggling and gossiping. The second woman stumbled out of the dark tent and blinked as she emerged into the bright sunlight, as though unsure of her footing. I said, brightly, “Did she tell you whether one of your dates this week will be the one?”
The woman looked at me, stunned. “No. She said they’re both losers and I should stop wasting my time with online dating. She says I need to work on my inner insecurities before anyone will fancy me.”
“I’m sure she didn’t mean—”
“I have to find my friend. I wonder if it’s too early to go to the pub.”
Chapter 3
I’d have gone after her, but a well-dressed older couple arrived. They were probably in their late sixties and looked like a comfortable retired couple. She wore a yellow cotton dress and a large sun hat, and he had on beige cotton trousers and a blue cardigan sweater over a blue and white checked shirt. “Did you both want to see Madame Violetta?”
The woman laughed. “No. It’s just me. Harry thinks psychics are nonsense.” I took her two pounds and ushered her into the tent.
Her husband hovered as though not sure where to go while his wife was busy.
I now knew enough about knitting that I could say to him, “That’s a lovely cardigan. Did your wife knit it for you?”
He turned to me and studied my face as though he might later be asked to draw it. Then his eyes narrowed as he chuckled. “How are you so sure I didn’t knit it myself?”
“Perhaps you did. I know plenty of men who knit.” Some of them were even undead. It wasn’t that I believed knitting was only for women, more that this man didn’t seem like the knitting type.
“In fact, your guess was correct. My wife’s a champion knitter,” he said with pride. “Well, she had to be. I left her alone so often in my working life, you see. I was a police officer.”
I knew from my brief time dating Detective Inspector Ian Chisholm how true that was. I wondered how any of them got married, given that they were so often on call. Or perhaps that was just the detectives. I glanced around me at the happy people enjoying a village fair in the sunshine. I suspected that the greatest crime committed today would be not putting on enough sunscreen. “Was this your beat?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I was stationed in Oxford, though I did spend a few weeks here once on a case. I think that’s when I fell in love with the place.” His brow furrowed. “Even though we never did solve the case.” He rocked back on his heels, and I felt that he was looking into the past. “It was a nasty business. A murder.”
“A murder? Here?”
His eyes were a faded green, like a cloth napkin that had once been the color of grass but repeated washings had muted it to a pale sage. He had the air of command about him, and I suspected that whatever he’d done, he’d ended up in charge. His eyes were wise and a little sad. “Don’t be fooled by these charming little English villages. They all hide secrets. The way a smiling face can hide dark thoughts, so does the glowing Cotswold stone hide some terrible deeds.”
Sadly, I knew he was right. Still, it was a beautiful sunny day, and I believed everyone was here today to have a good time.
However, my cousin Violet lived here. Great-Aunt Lavinia didn’t live far away, and even Margaret Twig resided in the vicinity. “If they never caught the murderer, do you think there’s any danger to the people who live here now?”
He shook his head. “I shouldn’t think so. Well, I moved here with my wife, so clearly I think it’s a safe village. It was an odd case, that. Grayson Timmins was a pillar of the community. No debts, no scandal, went to church regularly. He was killed in his own home. It looked as though he interrupted a burglary. People said it was a random act. An outsider who came to town, was caught in the act of robbing the house and killed the owner, who’d surprised him.”
That sounded plausible to me. “And you didn’t believe that?”
He glanced at the tent, but his wife was obviously still occupied. “Do you ever get an instinct? An inexplicable sense about something?”
I nodded, probably more enthusiastically than he was expecting.
Once more his eyes crinkled in a smile. “My wife told you that I don’t believe in psychics or any of that nonsense, and it’s true, but when you’ve been a copper for enough years, you develop an instinct. Mine was that it wasn’t a random burglar who killed that man.”
I saw a shadow cross his face. “You thought you knew who did it, didn’t you?”
His body jerked in surprise. “You’re a very astute young woman. Yes. I did.” He shook his head. “But a man can’t be in two places at once.” He rocked back and forth again. “In the end, we had to move on. Of course, the case remains open. I still hope that one day someone will come forward or new evidence will present itself.” He shrugged. “In the meantime, I play golf, do a bit of gardening, and drive my wife regularly to Yorkshire to see the grandchildren and her mother, who hasn’t been too well. She’s over ninety and takes great pride in still living alone. Still, we like to get up as often as we can and keep an eye on her.”
I smiled at his slightly petulant tone. “It sounds like a nice life.”
“It is. Just a bit boring.” I laughed, and he said, “You should think about joining the police force. You’ve got a way about you that makes a person say more than they intended to.”
I’d already had more to do with crime than I needed in one lifetime. “I’m very happy running a knitting shop. I have all the respect in the world for the police, but I couldn’t do that work.”
“A knitting shop? Not in this town, surely?”
“No. In Oxford.”
“That lovely little shop on Harrington Street?”
I chuckled. “The very one. Cardinal Woolsey’s.”
“Oh, my dear, my wife loves your shop. It’s where most of my policeman’s pension goes, I can tell you.”
Since I was pretty sure he was joking, I laughed as though it were a good joke. He said, “You may laugh, but I can never get over that it costs more money for her to knit a jumper herself than it would to buy one brand new at a John Lewis department store.”
I gave him the same argument I gave every husband who complained about prices. “Those are knit by machine. The beauty of a hand-knitted sweater is all the love and care that goes into it. No two are ever exactly alike.”
“Yes, that’s what my wife always says. But she likes to keep her hands busy, and she tells me she finds it soothing.”
I would have found some bland answer to that, as I always did, since I could never see what was soothing about knitting. To me, it was a fiendish activity full of tangles and frustration resulting in a soreness that I got between my shoulder blades. I was spared answering, however, when his wife emerged from the tent. Because of the large hat, I didn’t immediately see her face, but her husband, the former policeman, did. He took two quick steps forward. “Emily, whatever’s wrong?”
Now that I looked at her under the brim of her hat, I could see that her face was deathly pale and her eyes wide. “She says Mum won’t live the summer out. She’s got advanced cancer and won’t tell any of us because she thinks we’ll put her in a home.” She glanced around blindly. “Harry, take me home and let’s pack. I want to be on the road by tomorrow.”
