by Nancy Warren
Since the lady from the white elephant was wearing a hand-knitted cardigan, I thought that would give me a good excuse to talk to her. The barista called out a cheerful, “Good morning, Mrs. Beasley. The usual?”
“Yes, please, Donnie.”
“You sit down. I’ll bring it out to you.”
Clearly she was a regular. She sat at a table for four, so I suspected she was meeting someone. Before they arrived, I decided to make my move. I took the hastily created brochure and walked over to where she was sitting. She glanced up, squinting at me in surprise, clearly trying to recall where she’d seen me before.
I smiled. “I’m Lucy. I was helping with one of the booths at the fair on Saturday.”
Her cheerful face grew grim, and a visible shudder went over her stout frame. “Oh my goodness, don’t remind me of that dreadful day.”
“You were running the white elephant.”
“Yes.” I decided to proceed carefully. First, I admired her cardigan. Like her, I was also wearing a hand-knitted garment, though Gran had made mine.
She brightened up at my compliment. “Thank you, dear. I like the red. It’s such a cheerful color. Especially when one is feeling a bit down in the dumps.”
“I’m sure you don’t need lessons, but since you obviously knit, I thought I’d let you know that we’re starting a knitting class on Wednesday, here in town. I run Cardinal Woolsey’s knitting and yarn shop in Oxford.”
“Oh my, yes. I used to shop there. It’s a lovely store. It was an older lady, I think, who had it.”
“Yes. My grandmother. Sadly, she passed away, but she left the store to me, and I still run it.”
“What a lovely way to honor your grandmother. What a shame she can’t see you. She’d be so proud.”
I was able to see almost every day exactly how proud my grandmother was of me, but of course, I didn’t say that. I merely nodded, looking sorrowful.
She took the brochure and said that she thought it would be a good distraction to get out for an evening of knitting. “One can always learn something new.”
I wasn’t sure how to segue into immediately asking her questions about the white elephant until I had a brainwave. “I had planned to return to the white elephant when I got a break, but with that poor woman dying, of course, the fair ended abruptly.”
“Oh, my dear, don’t remind me. I put so much effort into that white elephant, too. I was hoping to raise so much money to rebuild the church steeple. It’s falling to ruins, you know. I even cleaned out my own attic and went through old cupboards and drawers just so there’d be a few more interesting things for sale.” She laughed suddenly. “My husband wasn’t too pleased, though. Isn’t it funny how years will go by and a man won’t take any interest in something, and the minute it’s gone, he wants it.” She looked toward heaven.
I laughed too, feeling the hair rise on the back of my neck. “What, particularly, did he want back?”
“I don’t know. A box full of bits and bobs. If old model soldiers and wooden toys were so precious to him, what were they doing shoved in an old box, I ask you?” We both laughed again.
“Where do most of your items come from?”
“They’re all donated, of course. Local people get rid of unwanted items, and we put out the word to close-by communities. People drive in with things they no longer have use for. It’s a great way to get some of the clutter out of our houses. Why do you ask?”
I scrambled to come up with a reason why I was being so nosy about her white elephant sale and grasped at a particularly unpalatable straw. “There was a lamp I liked. It was shaped like a poodle. That wasn’t one of yours, was it?”
She looked at me as though I might’ve taken leave of my senses. “The poodle? Yes. I remember now. You looked at it before the fête even opened.”
“Yes,” I said brightly. “I thought it was humorous and kind of retro.” I took a breath. “Also, there was a silver pocket watch. I saw it, but didn’t have time to look closely. Do you remember it?”
She shook her head. “No. But I had volunteers help me get everything out of boxes and out on display. I didn’t see everything.”
I continued, “Is there perhaps a list of which items came from which people?”
“No.” She brightened up, though. “But fortunately for you, I know exactly where that lamp is. I packed everything up at home and put the boxes away in our garden shed, ready for next year. I know exactly where that poodle lamp is. I can get it out for you today.”
“That’s wonderful,” I said with false enthusiasm. “I’ll make a nice donation to the church restoration fund.”
“That’s very sweet of you. It’s nice to see items find a nice new home.”
Oh lucky me. She waved to two ladies who were coming in the door, and so I rose to leave. She said, “Give me your mobile number, and as soon as I’ve unpacked it, I’ll give you a ring.”
I thanked her, gave her my mobile number and told her I’d be in town for another couple of hours.
The barista gave us permission to put a poster in the window, and then Clara and Sylvia and I got ready to leave. First, of course, I had to pay a visit to the washroom to give back some of those three coffees I’d just drunk. By the time I came out, Sylvia and Clara both had their large hats on. As I walked past Mrs. Beasley’s table, I sent her a quick wave, and she responded by putting her hand up to the side of her face, thumb up and baby finger extended in the classic I’ll call you gesture.
We stepped into the June sunshine. As we ambled up the street, Sylvia turned to me. “Lucy, I can’t believe you’re interested in a poodle lamp. I didn’t know where to look. I thought you had some modicum of taste, though it’s difficult to tell, since you won’t get rid of that sentimental junk of your grandmother’s that’s clogging up your flat.”
“And your cat won’t be too pleased to have a dog lamp in the house,” Clara added.
I’d leave Sylvia’s criticisms about Gran’s belongings for another time. Mostly because I knew she was right. But how could I hurt Gran’s feelings that way? She’d left me her collection of Victorian dolls, and every time she came into the flat, I thought she checked on them.
She’d be so upset if I put them away. Anyway, it wasn’t like I had a lot of time for home decorating between running a shop and getting dragged into other people’s business.
Being a witch was like having a second job.
I had to defend myself about the lamp, though. “Of course I don’t want the poodle lamp. It’s the ugliest lamp in the history of illumination. It was the only excuse I could think of to ask questions about her white elephant sale.”
Sylvia looked slightly mollified. “I’m pleased to see you have some sense. If you ask me, Agnes’s dolls should go in a white elephant sale.”
I might’ve defended myself more except I spied Nora heading into the small grocery store across the street. I suggested Sylvia and Clara see about getting a poster put on the community board in the village green, because this was my chance to talk to Nora. I didn’t think we’d have a very intimate chat with two nosy vampires listening in on every word.
“We’ll do that, and then we’ll go into the post office to get out of the sun. We’ll see if they’ll put up a poster,” Sylvia said.
The co-op wasn’t large, but it was fiercely air-conditioned. I shivered as I entered. Not wanting to seem as though I was stalking Nora, I grabbed a green plastic basket and thought I might as well stock up on a few things since I was here. I was low on coffee, and the way my stress levels were lately, I needed more butter and powdered ginger and molasses for the cookies Gran kept turning out.
Apart from choosing groceries, I hoped to pick up a few clues.
Chapter 13
I caught up with Nora in the aisle devoted to smoked salmon, olives, pickles, dips and spreads.
Nora seemed confused by the selection of olives, which ranged from Greek through Italian to every stuffing imaginable. A person could spend their
whole day trying to pick out an olive.
I reached for a packet of smoked salmon. It was a good snack to keep around for when I had an unexpected vampire visit, which was pretty much every day. I started in fake surprise and said, “Nora?”
She glanced at me and blinked in puzzlement.
“It’s Lucy. We met at the fortune-telling booth at the village fête.”
Her eyes widened, and she took a step back as though a witch had said “Boo” right in her face. She dropped the tub of Sicilian olives and hastily picked them up off the floor. Why was I making her so nervous?
“Your cousin,” she said. Then silence stretched. “I heard Madame Violetta was your cousin.” She inched away. “Why would she do something like that? We’ve always lived here so peacefully.”
I didn’t like either the fear in her eyes or where this conversation seemed to be heading. I was the one sleuthing. I didn’t appreciate being looked at in that accusing fashion. “What, exactly, are you trying to say about my cousin Violet?”
She glanced up and down the aisle, but we were the only two there. She said, “Everyone knows Violet is a—” She waved her hand about as though that would define what she meant.
“Violet is a what?” I wasn’t going to make this easy for her, even though I felt a niggle of fear under my breastbone. Fear that the witches in this area were being blamed.
“There’s a rumor that she’s a witch.”
“Why is that a problem?”
“Look. Maybe she should move to Glastonbury or somewhere they’re more comfortable with pagans. We’re all regular people here.” She leaned closer and her voice grew shrill. “Every fortune she gave that day came true. That can’t be coincidence.”
No. I would call it arrogance. Hubris even. I felt a surge of anger against Violet. She’d pulled us all into danger with her fortune-telling and made herself too easy a target.
However, if I were the murderer, I’d put a lot of effort into shifting the blame onto some poor witch as well. I was not so easily distracted, especially as I knew Vi hadn’t killed anyone. So did Nora. “You know she couldn’t have killed anyone. You were with her when Elizabeth Palmer died.”
She looked at me as though I were incredibly naïve. “Witches have magical powers. She could easily have killed Elizabeth with a spell.”
I felt like telling Nora Betts that magic wasn’t nearly as easy as she seemed to think. I could barely manage simple spells. Witches were born with power and talent, but, as I was finding out the hard way, we had to practice and study. Frankly, it was exhausting work. Like being born a great violin virtuoso. How on earth would you even know until you picked up a violin?
I couldn’t imagine being able to kill someone with magic when I wasn’t even near them.
I decided to change tack, since this conversation wasn’t getting us anywhere. “Elizabeth seemed like a great person. I remember how excited she was about her twenty-fifth anniversary cruise.”
Nora’s antagonism faded, and her eyes filled with sudden tears. “She was.”
“I think I heard that you and your husband were going too?”
Nora’s wet eyes widened. I wasn’t sure whether it was because she was startled that I’d heard about her and her husband being invited along on the twenty-fifth anniversary cruise or whether she had picked up some tone in my voice that suggested a certain insensitivity in their tagging along.
“Yes. The four of us have been such great friends for so many years, they just couldn’t imagine celebrating without us. Of course, my husband and I will be celebrating our twenty-fifth in a couple of years, and we’d planned another foursome event.” A woman rolled her cart down the aisle, and we both flattened ourselves against the wall of olives. It was as obvious as that cart rattling down the aisle that the four of them would not be going on any celebrations together ever again.
“I hope you had cancellation insurance,” I said, to keep the conversation going.
She reached almost at random for a plastic tub of hummus. “The three of us are still going on the cruise.”
“You are?” I couldn’t help the shock that emerged clear and sharp in my tone.
She put the hummus back and picked up one that was red, presumably from roasted red peppers. “We talked about it, and we all agreed. It’s what Elizabeth would have wished.” She shot me a quick glance. “Perhaps it sounds callous. But we decided to turn the cruise into a kind of a memorial voyage for Elizabeth. We’ll take her ashes with us and have a small ceremony and say our goodbyes.”
Her voice grew husky. “It will be a burial at sea.”
She laughed, a sad little sound. “Elizabeth will finally get her anniversary cruise. Even if she is in an urn.”
Okay, maybe she wasn’t quite as insensitive as I had thought. Still, how much fun would Jason have on the cruise when his wife wasn’t sharing the bed next to them, but packed inside a box ready to be tossed over the side?
“How is Jason holding up?”
Her hostility instantly returned. “How do you think he’s holding up? He’s just lost his wife in horrible circumstances.”
“At least he’s got good friends.”
“He does.”
I remembered the brochures in my bag and pulled one out. “I know you just lost your friend, but if you’re looking for distraction, we’re offering knitting classes here on Wednesday night. There’s a beginner option and a more advanced pattern. Quite a few of the women here have expressed interest. Be great to have you.”
She took the flyer. “Honestly, I’m not sure I’ll feel up to it.”
“Of course. Whatever you decide. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
As I turned away, I saw her wipe her eyes with her free hand.
Coming out of the frigid grocery store into the bright sun was a shock. Not seeing my vampire friends in the village green, I crossed the street to the post office, which doubled as a stationery store. It looked like there were photocopiers and an Amazon pickup location there as well. I walked in and found Clara and Sylvia perusing the birthday cards. I wondered whether vampires kept celebrating their birthdays. Did you really want a card that said “Happy 589th”?
Besides, would they celebrate the day they were actually born or the day they were turned into a vampire? It seemed fraught with complications to me. Then I realized my own birthday was coming up in a couple of weeks. Were they looking for birthday cards for me?
A year ago, on my twenty-fifth birthday, I was still with Todd the Toad and working in a cubicle in Boston. A mere twelve months later, I was living in Oxford, running a knitting shop—oh yeah, and a practicing witch. Some of my best friends were vampires.
Sometimes I looked at my life and wondered if I was crazy.
Vampires have more acute hearing than humans, so I was surprised they hadn’t heard me, but then I realized they were having a low-voiced argument. My hearing wasn’t vampire-acute, but it was better than most mortals’. I heard Clara say to Sylvia, “I think a surprise party would be delightful. She’ll never expect it.”
Sylvia shook her head. “That’s exactly the problem with a surprise party. If one is going to be the center of attention, one wants to be looking one’s best. There’s the hair and makeup, the dress and shoes. The right jewelry. It all takes time, Clara.”
I hid my smile and backed away so they wouldn’t know I’d overheard them. I didn’t care how much advance notice I had about a birthday party, I was never going to look as well turned-out as Sylvia. But I loved that the pair of them were trying to give me the best birthday possible.
I came around the corner a second time, calling out, “Sylvia? Clara?” By the time I reached them, they’d moved over to the sympathy cards. Clara looked up and said, “Lucy. We were wondering about a sympathy card for the grieving husband.”
I felt slightly alarmed. “He doesn’t even know you.”
Sylvia shook her head. “Not from us. From you.” She held up a hand. “And before you say he doesn’t kno
w you either, your excuse is that you were probably the last person to see his wife alive or at least to speak to her, and you thought you’d visit to bring him comfort. You can tell him how excited she was about their anniversary cruise. No need to mention Violet’s fortune.”
If the gossip about him and Nora was true, his girlfriend would have told him about Violet’s warning that Elizabeth stay away from water. However, the idea wasn’t a bad one. “So instead of mailing the card, you think I should take it to his home? Or the car dealership?”
“Yes. But take a very strong protection charm with you. He is the most likely culprit in his wife’s death.”
I wasn’t sure how I felt about this idea. Barging in on a grieving husband was terrible. Barging in on a murderer was even worse. I seemed torn between the inappropriate and the life-threatening.
Before I could debate the idea of pushing my company on a grieving widower, my phone buzzed. “This is Florence Beasley, from the white elephant sale. Good news! I’ve unpacked that poodle lamp and even given it a bit of a dust to shine it up.” It might be good news to her, but it was dreadful news to me. Why hadn’t I noticed something else at that white elephant? Something I might actually want? With fake enthusiasm, I told her how happy I was.
Florence Beasley told me that her home was on Church Lane, which was, of course, behind the beautiful old stone church. Sylvia and Clara said they could keep themselves busy while I picked up that lamp. I didn’t feel like moving the car yet again, so I decided to walk. I went around the edge of the green, not wishing to cross that bridge again and be reminded of poor Elizabeth Palmer lying there.
The church grounds were beautiful, and so, instead of walking around the church as I had planned, I opened the gate into the graveyard. Some of the gravestones were so old that time and weather had obliterated the writing, so I had no idea who lay beneath the crumbling stone, the buttercups and dandelions.
