Witch Is Why Time Stood Still (A Witch P.I. Mystery Book 13) (4 page)

Chapter 6

By the time Mrs V brought in my mid-morning cuppa, she seemed a little brighter.

“How’s Armi, Mrs V?”

“He’s very well, thanks. We had a lovely weekend. We went to the Washbridge carnival on Saturday. Armi won a coconut.”

“That’s great. Has Armitage, Armitage, Armitage, and Poole moving out of here had much of an impact on your relationship?”

“Of course—it was inevitable. When Armi worked next door he could pop in during the day, or I could go around there. It was only for a few minutes—perhaps a cup of tea or a chat, but we both enjoyed it. Since they moved across town, I only get to see him at weekends or occasionally in the evening.”

“How’s he taking it?”

“He didn’t want to move, but he didn’t have a say in it. It was Gordon who was calling the shots, as always. Once Gordon realised he was never going to get you out, he decided to cut his losses, and find new offices. The only good thing that came out of it is that we don’t have to put up with that awful Gordon Armitage. I certainly don’t miss him.”

“Me neither.”

“Have you heard anything from the landlord about who our new neighbours are likely to be, Jill?”

“No. I’ve spoken to Zac a couple of times. He said there were a few interested parties, but there’s nothing concrete yet. It could be empty for some time, I guess. But, let’s be honest, whoever we get can’t be any worse than Gordon Armitage.”

“That’s true.”

I’d just taken a sip of my tea when Kathy walked into the office.

“How come you always turn up when I’ve got the custard creams out?”

“Is there a time when you
don’t
have them out?”

“I suppose you want one?”

“Two actually.” She grabbed them before I could snatch the packet away. “A cup of tea would be nice, too.”

“Mrs V!” I shouted. “Would you make Kathy a cup of tea, please?”

“How’s the job-sharing going between Mrs V and the new girl?” Kathy asked.

“Her name is Jules, and it’s not going great. There’s a certain amount of friction.”

Mrs V brought Kathy’s tea through. “There you go. It’s nice to make tea for someone who has uncomplicated sugar requirements.”

“Thank you, Mrs V.” Kathy smiled. “How’s the knitting going?”

“It would be going a lot better if I could find my patterns. My desk isn’t my own anymore.”

“I see what you mean,” Kathy said, after Mrs V had gone back to the outer office. “Sounds like a storm in a teabag.”

“Cup.”

“What?”

“It’s a storm in a tea
cup
not a storm in a tea
bag
.”

“Why do you always have to be so pedantic, Jill? So what has Jules done to upset Mrs V, exactly?”

“She’s commandeered some of the drawers in Mrs V’s desk. Mrs V is none too impressed, but it’ll all come out in the wash.”

Kathy took a slurp of tea—and I do mean a slurp. Gross!

“I must say, Jill. I never thought you’d get around to doing it.”

“Doing what? Getting my own house?”

“No. Getting a new sign for this place.”

“Do you like it?”

“I’m not mad on the colours, but at least it has
your
name on it.”

“What’s wrong with the colours?”

“White text on orange? It doesn’t really say private investigator to me. More tanning salon.”

“You never did have an eye for colour.”

“If you say so. Has anyone moved in next door yet?”

“Not yet, but I don’t imagine it’ll stay empty for long. This part of Washbridge is still very popular.”

“Anyway, the
real
reason I popped over is, I’ve got two bits of news to tell you.”

“Good or bad?” I already knew the answer; Kathy was grinning from ear to ear.

“Good news. Definitely good news. Which would you like first, the good news or the gooder news?” Kathy laughed at her own joke.

“Hey, this is
my
office. I do the comedy routines in here.”

“Can’t say I’d noticed.”

“Cheek! Go on, what’s the good news?”

“I’ve got four tickets for the hottest show in town.”

“Four? So, that’s one for you, one for Peter, one for Lizzie and one for Mikey?”

“No, it’s not a kids’ thing. The tickets are for me, Pete, you and Jack.”

“Tickets for what?”

“I’ve already told you; it’s the hottest show in Washbridge. These tickets are like gold dust.”

“According to you. What is it?”

“You’ll thank me when I tell you.”

“If you ever get around to it.”

“You know Ultimate Factor, right?”

“Is that that awful talent contest on TV?”

“There’s nothing awful about it. It’s the top rated program across all the networks.”

“It’s still rubbish.”

“How would you know? Have you ever watched it?”

“I don’t need to watch it to know it’s rubbish. It’s a talent contest. All the acts in talent contests are rubbish.”

Oh bum. What had I just said?

“Have you forgotten that Lizzie regularly enters talent contests? Are you saying she’s rubbish?”

“No, no. Of course not. That’s different, obviously. I just meant TV talent contests. Anyway, what’s this got to do with the tickets you’ve bought?”

“They’re for Ultimate Factor Live. The top acts from the previous year’s show go out on tour, and they’re coming to the Washbridge Arena.”

“Washbridge Arena?” I laughed. “Don’t you mean the Astoria?”

“They’ve renamed it. It’s now the Washbridge Arena.”

“It’s not even an arena. It’s just a poky old theatre.”

“Well, anyway, Ultimate Factor Live is coming there, and I have four tickets.”

“I don’t want to go, and Jack certainly won’t.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. He’s totally up for it.”

“Please tell me you didn’t go to Jack behind my back.”

“I knew if I asked you first, you’d say ‘no’.”

“So, you
did
go behind my back?”

“See, when you say it like that, it sounds bad. Did you know that Jack is a big fan of Ultimate Factor?”

“He watches all kinds of rubbish on TV. I usually go into the other room to listen to music. Classical, obviously.”

“Which composer?”

Oh bum! Quick, think of a composer! “Bach.”

“Bach, eh? What in particular?”

“I like all his stuff.”

“Stuff? I’m not sure Bach wrote
stuff
.”

“Anyway, when is this show?”

“In a couple of weeks.”

“Great. Can’t wait.”

“You do know who won last year’s Ultimate Factor, don’t you?”

“How would
I
know. Was it a performing gerbil?”

“Now you’re just being stupid. You
should
know—you could have been one of them.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you remember Lizzie’s first talent contest?”

How could I forget? “Yeah?”

“We saw them perform there—The Coven.”

“You mean those three women in the sparkly leotards?”

“That’s them. Didn’t you say they’d asked you to join them?”

“Yeah, they did.”

“Looks like you missed a golden opportunity there. If you’d joined them, you’d be a superstar now. They must be making a packet what with the tour and the TV appearances.”

“Are you sure we’re talking about the same people?”

“Yeah, they won by a landslide of votes.”

“How?”

“People love them. They especially like the bit at the end of their routine where they get down on one knee, then jump up and say—”

“We. Are. The Coven.”

“Yeah. That goes down a bomb.”

“They wanted me to be the ‘The’. If I’d agreed to join them—”

“You would have been rich and famous now.”

“Well, that’s depressing. And that was your
good
news, apparently. What’s your
gooder
news?”

“First, you must promise you won’t say a word to your grandmother.”

“What have you done now? Have you broken something in the shop?”

“No, I haven’t done anything wrong. I’ve been offered a job.”

“In another wool shop?”

“No. At Wool TV.”

“Doing what? Making the tea?”

“Cheek. No. Somebody saw me on the reality show they filmed in Ever. When one of their presenters left recently, he suggested me as his replacement. They called, and asked me to go in for a chat, but it sounds like the job is as good as mine.”

I was lost for words. My sister was about to become a TV presenter, and
I’d
thrown away the opportunity to be a rich superstar. Things kept on getting better and better.

***

I’d promised Alan that I’d investigate what he was convinced was the poisoning of his two friends. He’d given me their names and contact details. One of them was still in hospital.

It was the first time I’d visited the Candlefield Hospital—it was an impressive building located a couple of miles from the centre of town. I started at the reception desk.

“Could you tell me where I can find David Warren?”

“Warren, you say? Is that W-A-R-R-E-N?”

“Yes, that’s him.”

“And you are?”

“I’m his sister, Isabelle Warren.”

The woman, a young werewolf, checked her computer screen.

“Oh yes. He was brought in a few days ago. He’s on Cosmo ward; that’s on the third floor.”

“Will I be able to see him now?”

“Yes. Visiting times are anytime between ten am and seven pm.”

As I was supposed to be this guy’s sister, I could hardly ask one of the nurses which one of the patients was David Warren. Instead, I walked down the ward, glancing left and right at the notes that were attached to the end of each bed.

When I was halfway down the ward, I spotted his name. The vampire was probably in his early twenties, but looked much older.

“David! David! Are you awake?”

He opened one eye. “Who are you?”

“Alan sent me. My name is Jill Gooder, I’m a private investigator. I’m cousin to Amber and Pearl, the twins.”

“I know them.” He pulled himself into a sitting position. “They own the cake shop.”

“That’s right. I wondered if I could ask you a few questions?”

“I’ll try, but I’m not feeling too great.”

“That’s really what I wanted to talk to you about. According to Alan, you’re the second member of his BoundBall team to have been affected.”

“Really? I didn’t know. Who’s the other one?”

“Bobby.”

He nodded. “Poor old Bobby. Is he in here too?”

“No, I believe they’ve let him go home. Can you tell me how this all started?”

“I was perfectly well; in fact, I’d been playing BoundBall. Then, I started to feel weak and a teeny bit dizzy. The next thing I knew I woke up in here. I must’ve collapsed.”

“Had you eaten anything unusual?”

“No, but then I’m a bit of a fussy eater, so I tend to stick to the same diet all the time.”

“The doctors are saying it’s a virus.”

“That’s what they told me too, but I don’t buy it. I reckon it was the blood.”

“Blood?”

“The synthetic blood. All the vampires in Candlefield drink it. No human blood allowed.”

“Of course. What makes you think it might be that?”

“I’d had a new batch delivered that day, and it was not long after I had my first drink that I began to feel off it.”

“Delivered? You don’t get it from a shop, then?”

“No. All synthetic blood is delivered to the door.”

“Did it look or—err—taste—any different?”

“No. It was the same as always.”

“Okay. Thanks, David. I’ll let you get back to sleep. I hope you feel better soon.”

***

I’d only been back at the office for a few minutes when Mrs V popped her head around my door.

“There’s a detective to see you. He says he’s taken over from Jack Maxwell.”

“Ah, right. Send him straight in, would you, please?”

So, Lee O’Reilly had decided to pay me a visit. That was promising. Perhaps Jack’s note had convinced him that we could work harmoniously together.