Witch Is When I Said Goodbye (A Witch P.I. Mystery Book 10) (5 page)

“I was a substitute.”

“The seventh substitute!”

“That still counts. I’ve got a badge and everything.”

“She’s got a badge,” Peter said. “So it must be so.”

Peter and I burst into laughter.

Kathy was not amused. “Anyway, Lizzie has a beautiful voice.”

“Let’s hope, for her sake, that she’s inherited it from her father.”

Chapter 5

The next morning, I found a parcel, wrapped in brown paper, on my desk. I was surprised Mrs V hadn’t mentioned it.

“Mrs V, who delivered the parcel?”

“Which parcel is that, dear?”

“The one on my desk.”

“I haven’t seen a parcel. There wasn’t one there when I dropped the post on your desk earlier.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, dear, positive. I know I can get a little carried away with my knitting, but I would have noticed if someone had delivered a parcel.”

“Okay.” How strange.

Back in my office, I still hadn’t seen my favourite feline.

“Winky? Winky, where are you?”

“What’s all the shouting about?” He crawled from under the sofa. “Is there a fire?”

“Where did this parcel come from?”

“What parcel?”

“The one on my desk.”

“Don’t ask me. The old bag lady probably put it there.”

“Mrs V says she doesn’t know anything about it.”

“You know what her memory’s like. She’s probably forgotten already.”

“So, you didn’t see anyone bring it in?”

“Nope. I’m going back to sleep now. Please don’t disturb me again.”

I wasn’t sure I could take Winky’s word for it that no one had been in the office. He could easily have slept right through it. And despite what Mrs V had said, it was entirely possible that she’d been so engrossed in her knitting that she hadn’t seen the delivery man.

Could it be from TDO? I always had to be on my guard.

There was no label, so the parcel must have been delivered by hand. I removed the wrapping paper. Inside was a white box. Once again, there was no label or marking of any kind. I cautiously pulled open the lid. Inside was a small ornament. It was a miniature gravestone, and on it was inscribed the words:
Jill Gooder, R.I.P.

Nice.

Which of my many admirers had sent me this lovely gift? I threw it across the room, and it hit the far wall with a satisfying thud, shattering into a thousand pieces.

Winky looked out from under the sofa. “What’s a cat got to do to get any shut-eye around here?”

***

Doris Drystone lived alone in a small bungalow, close to my local supermarket. She answered the door in a dressing gown covered in pictures of mermaids. How strange! Not the fact that it was two o’clock in the afternoon. It was the mermaids’ beards which had me baffled. Still, she was friendly enough, and invited me in for a cup of tea. There were no custard creams on offer, but she did a mean cupcake.

In fact, she did a ‘mean’ cupcake, a ‘kind’ cupcake, and a ‘considerate’ cupcake.

“Do you always name your cupcakes after human qualities?”

“No, sometimes I name them after Greek gods. I might still have a Poseidon left from my last batch, if you’d prefer that?”

“No, these are fine. What flavour exactly is ‘mean’?”

“Apricot. I’ve always considered apricots to be the meanest fruit.”

Oh boy. The quicker I asked my questions, and got out of there, the better.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking you this, Doris.” I took a bite of ‘mean’; it tasted much better than the name suggested. “How did you feel when you were expelled from the knitting circle?”

“It was a shock; it came completely out of the blue. I didn’t deliberately unravel that jumper; it was an accident. It snagged on the zip of my boot, and as I walked around, it began to unwind. The other members tried to make out that I’d planned it, and that I was being vindictive. But it was nothing of the kind.”

If what Doris had said was true, I had a certain amount of sympathy for her. I’d had a similar experience while looking after one of Mrs V’s scarves just prior to a competition. Fortunately for me, I’d been able to use magic to repair the damage.

“Still, I’m over it now.” Doris continued. “There are plenty more knitting circles, and besides, I’ve become rather partial to crocheting in the last year or so. They’re a much more civilised crowd than the knitting bunch.”

As we talked, I couldn’t help but notice that the house was in need of a good spring clean. The curtains were grubby, and the carpets looked as though they hadn’t seen a vacuum for an eon. Every surface was covered in dust. On the far side of the dining table at which we were seated, was a square patch set in the dust. Something had obviously been standing there, and it was about the right shape and size for a typewriter.

Doris must have noticed me staring at it because she said, “I really must get around to dusting one day. I do hate cleaning, don’t you?”

“It’s not my favourite thing.” And yet, I still managed to do it more than once a decade.

“Did you used to have a typewriter there?” I gestured to the square patch.

“What use would I have for a typewriter? That’s where my sewing machine used to be. It was one of the old fashioned ones that you operate with a handle. It was my mother’s—she passed it on to me. It had been in the family for years. When it broke, I tried to get it repaired, but I couldn’t find anyone who would do it. It’s all electronic ones these days. I ended up giving it to a scrap metal merchant. There’s a chap who comes around in a van about once a month; I asked him if he’d take it away.”

Before I left, Doris insisted I take Poseidon with me. Despite her cupcake generosity, I found myself wondering whether she’d been telling the truth about the sewing machine. The square patch was certainly the right size and shape for a typewriter.

***

Fortunately, the section for scrap metal dealers was still in what remained of the Yellow Pages—Mrs V had long since shredded over half the directory. I worked my way through all the companies listed—the majority only collected metal when called out to do so. I was looking for a company which canvassed the same routes for scrap metal on a regular basis.

After one hour and fifteen phone calls, I finally tracked down the most likely candidate. Dance and Scrap operated a pickup truck which covered all of Washbridge—visiting each area on average once a month. It was a long shot, but worth a visit. If I could find the typewriter, which I suspected Doris Drystone had disposed of, and if that typewriter had a faulty letter ‘O’, then I had my man—err—woman.

“I can’t give you much for that heap of scrap.” A man with a ring through his nose greeted me at the gates of Dance and Scrap. “Fifty quid?”

“I’m not here to sell my car. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

He shrugged. “I’ll give you seventy-five, but that’s as high as I can go.”

“No thanks.” Cheek. There was at least another twenty thousand miles in that old girl. “I’d like to see Mr Scrap.”

“Who?”

“Mr Scrap. Or, if he isn’t in, Mr Dance.”

The man laughed so hard it made his nose run. I’d never seen anyone blow bubbles through a nose ring before. It was quite disgusting.

“We don’t have a Mr Scrap or a Mr Dance.”

“Oh?”

“It’s what we do. Scrap and dance.”

“Dance?”

“Yes. I’m Charlie Watt; I run the scrap metal side of the business. My wife, Dot, runs the dance business.”

“Dot Watt?”

“Yeah. She sells dance shoes, costumes, trophies—if it’s dance related, she probably has it. Was it her you wanted to see?”

“No, actually, I wanted to ask about your scrap metal collections.”

“Then I’m your man. Did you want to arrange a collection?”

“No. I wanted to ask about a collection you made during the last month. My grandmother had promised to give me her old manual typewriter and hand-operated sewing machine, but then she forgot and threw them out. She said someone came to the door and collected them. I thought maybe you’d still have them.”

“Do you realise how much scrap we collect every week?”

“A lot?”

“Correct.”

“So you won’t still have them?”

“What would they be worth to you?”

“They only have sentimental value.”

“I can’t pay the mortgage with sentiments.”

“Twenty pounds.”

“Fifty.”

“Do you have them?”

“Possibly. Depends if we have a deal or not?”

“I’ll give you fifty pounds if they’re the ones I’m looking for.”

“Come with me. We separate out anything which we can sell on. We can usually get a few pounds for old typewriters and sewing machines on the flea market.”

I followed him across the yard and into a small building which had rack upon rack piled high with all manner of rubbish.

“The typewriters are over there, and the sewing machines just down there on the left. They all have a label tied to them with the date they were collected. Take a look while I go shake Percy at the porcelain.”

I made a beeline for the typewriters. I checked the labels, but none of them had been collected within the last four weeks. Drat! Still, they were worth a closer look, so I examined the letter ‘O’ key on each of the machines—there was no sign of wear on any of them. That blew my theory clean out of the water. Charlie was still otherwise engaged with Percy, so I checked the sewing machines. One of them had been collected two weeks earlier, and it looked exactly the same size as the square patch on Doris’ table.

It seemed she had been telling the truth after all.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Charlie was back.

“No. They’re not here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. Sorry to have wasted your time.”

He shrugged. “No sweat. Can I interest you in a leotard or tap shoes while you’re here?”

“No, thanks, but I’ll keep you in mind if I decide to join The Coven.”

“Who?”

“Washbridge’s premier dance troupe. You should check them out.”

***

It suddenly occurred to me that today was the day that Sebastian worked on Aunt Lucy’s garden.

So, he fancied himself as something of a ladies’ man, did he? You had to admire his nerve. I mean—two-timing is one thing, but two-timing identical twins, that took some guts.

Aunt Lucy’s was his last job of the day, so I hid a little way up the street, waited for him to come out, and then followed him to a coffee shop in Candlefield town centre.

I ordered a latte, and forced myself to have a blueberry muffin—just as cover, you understand. I deliberately chose a table from where I could keep an eye on him. I hadn’t been there for more than ten minutes when a pretty blonde witch came through the doors. Sebastian must have been waiting for her because, as soon as he saw her, he joined her at the counter. After he’d paid for her drink, they both went back to his table.

So, this was number three!

I took out my phone and captured the two of them on video.

Cuppy C was practically empty, so when I asked Amber and Pearl to join me at the window table, they were happy to leave one of their assistants in charge.

“I have something to tell you both,” I said.

“Is it something exciting?” Amber giggled.

“Do you have some juicy gossip?” Pearl said. “We love juicy gossip!”

“As it happens, yes I do.”

“Ooh goody!”

“I’m going to tell you a secret even though I promised not to reveal it.”

They both looked intrigued.

“Are you sure you should do that, Jill?” Amber said. “If you promised not to?”

“Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t, but I’m sure the two people who entrusted me with this particular secret will understand why I’m doing it. So, are you ready?”

“Yes, go on,” Pearl urged.

“Yeah, tell us.”

“The secret relates to a certain Sebastian.”

“No! You promised,” they said, almost in perfect unison. Then they stared at one another.

“Sebastian has been seeing both of you.”

“Seeing Pearl?” Amber looked gobsmacked.

“You’ve been seeing Sebastian?” Pearl said. “What about William?”

“Never mind William, what about Alan?” Amber shot back.

“You can talk!”

“What about you?”

“Stop it! Both of you. You’re as bad as each other. Anyway, I thought you’d like to know that you two aren’t the only ones he’s been seeing.”

“What?” Amber was fuming.

I took out my phone and played the video. They both watched wide-eyed as the blonde witch gave Sebastian a kiss on the lips.

“I’m going to kill him,” Amber said.

“Not if I get to him first!” Pearl was seething. “How dare he cheat on me.”

“He was cheating on
me
!”

“He was cheating on both of you,” I interrupted. “But he wasn’t the only one who was cheating was he? What about your poor fiancés?”