Witch Is When Life Got Complicated (2 page)

“Are you kidding? The dialogue is painful. They should have called it 'Just so'.”

“What are you on about?”

“You must have noticed. Every other sentence is '
So, I went to the farm
...' or '
I'm just not happy
' or best yet '
I'm just so fed up'
. Who wrote this rubbish?”

“You're only picking fault so you can leave. Well it isn't going to work.”

Kathy turned her back on me, and began to chat to the woman seated next to her. I should have been back at home, practising my spells. If I failed the test, and Grandma turned me into a frog, it would be Kathy's fault.

“I've just remembered,” Kathy said, as she turned back to face me.

“That I’m still sitting here?”

“Lizzie has started collecting beanies.”

Lizzie was my niece who I loved to bits—in small doses.

“I thought she was into Lego?”

“She is, but some of her school friends have beanies, so she's decided to collect them too.”

I knew exactly what was coming, and suddenly I couldn't wait for the second half of the play to begin.

“I told her that you'd show her your collection.”

“She's too young for beanies.”

“You wanted to buy her one for her birthday. And besides, you were the same age when you started with them.”

“Are you sure?”

“Don't you remember? Mum bought you that funny looking octopus?”

“Squid.”

“What?”

“It wasn't an octopus, it was a squid.”

“It scared me.”

“Postman Pat used to scare you.”

“He still does.” Kathy shuddered. “So, can I bring Lizzie over to your place to have a look at your
collection
?”

I could picture her sticky little fingers all over my beautiful beanies.

“I don't have them any more.”

“I've seen them in your wardrobe.”

“I gave them to a charity shop.”

“When?”

“Recently. Very recently. Yesterday in fact.”

Chapter 2

The second half of the play was as riveting as the first, and my will to live was slowly ebbing away. According to the programme notes, it was some kind of humorous costume drama. The only humour, as far as I could see, was the price of the programmes. Six pounds? Someone was having a laugh.

On stage, the evil duke had just got his comeuppance. The duchess had grown tired of his womanising, and had dispatched him with a dagger.

Credit where credit is due. The special effects were good. The blood that was seeping through his waistcoat, and dripping onto the stage looked very realistic from where I was sitting. And the way he fell to the floor like a lead weight—that must have hurt.

The scream was loud enough to shatter ear drums—over-acting if you ask me. Milly Brown, a friend of Kathy’s, was playing the duchess. She screamed again, as she stared transfixed at the blood on her hands.

“Help!” she yelled. “Someone help!”

No one reacted at first—no one wanted to look stupid, in case it was part of the play.

“Something’s not right,” I said. All of my years of P.I. training had not been in vain.

As the reality of the situation dawned upon the audience, the small theatre was suddenly filled with panicked voices.

“Is there a doctor in the house?” someone shouted.

A middle-aged man in the third row got to his feet, and was soon clambering onto the stage.

Moments later, still crouched next to the prone duke, the doctor shook his head. “Someone had better call the police.”

“No need.” A familiar voice came from the back row. “I’ve already called it in.”

I hadn’t noticed Jack Maxwell until that moment.

“Everyone! Can I have your attention?” Maxwell waited for silence. “Please remain in your seats. My colleagues will need to take a note of your name and address before you leave.”

As Maxwell passed by our row, his gaze met mine. Had he known I was in the theatre all along? Who had he come with? I checked the seats either side of where he had been sitting. On one side was a pretty young woman about my age. On the other side was an elderly man.

It was two hours later when we were finally allowed to leave.

“Jill, you have to help Milly,” Kathy said.

Milly Brown, still dressed in her duchess costume, had been led away by two police officers.

“She’ll be okay. It was obviously some kind of freak accident. They’ll let her go once they’ve taken her statement.”

“Can’t you at least talk to Jack?”

“Jack? You make it sound like he and I are on first name terms.”

“I thought you were.”

“Not unless me calling him an asshat counts.”

“He has to show you some respect after what happened in the ‘Animal’ case.”

You would have been forgiven for thinking so. After all, I had single-handedly solved three murders for him. But no—not as much as a thank you.

“He won’t listen to anything I have to say.”

“You’ve got to try, Jill, please. Milly isn’t strong enough to be locked up. She’ll have a nervous breakdown.”

“I’ll see what I can do, but I’m not promising anything.”

I called in at the police station the next morning.

“There’s a woman down here asking for you,” the desk sergeant said into the phone. “Says her name is Jill Gooder.”

The sergeant raised his eyebrows, and I could only imagine what Maxwell had said to him.

“Yes, sir. I’ll tell her.”

“Did he invite me up for drinks?”

“Not exactly.”

“Did he say he’d be right down to see me?”

“Wrong again.”

“Did he say I should go and—?”

“More or less.”

At least I’d tried.

I’d never seen Mrs V so excited. She was humming, and tapping her fingers.

“What have you done to him?” I said.

“What have I done to who?” The humming stopped, but she continued to keep the beat with her fingers.

“What have you done to Winky?”

Winky was the crazy, one-eyed cat I’d adopted from the cat re-homing centre. Yes, they had seen me coming (which was more than Winky had—sorry, bad taste).

“I haven’t done anything to the stupid cat. He’s in your office—stinking the place out as usual.”

I wasn’t sure I believed her. I couldn’t think of any other reason she would be so happy. I walked through to my office.

“Winky?”

He half opened his good eye, for all of two seconds, before going back to sleep.

“Why
are
you so upbeat then?” I asked Mrs V who was still beaming ear to ear.

“I’m always happy.”

She just hid it well. “Something must have happened—come on, spill the beans.”

“Well, seeing as you asked, I’ve reached the regionals.”

“That’s nice. Regionals of what?”

“The knitting competition. What do you think?”

“Scarf category?”

“Scarves, seven feet in length.”

“That’s great. Congratulations.” I guess.

“The winner gets a gold cup. If I win, I’ll keep it here, so I can look at it every day.”

“That’ll be—err—nice.”

“I’ve bought a ticket for you.”

Alarm bells began to ring. “Ticket? For what?”

“The regional finals, of course. I knew you’d want to be there to support me.”

“You don’t want
me
there.”

“Of course I do.”

“Nah, you don’t.”

“I do. You’ll be my lucky mascot.”

“It’s not really my thing.”

“Your dad would have come.”

She had to play the ‘Dad’ card didn’t she?

“When is it?”

“Tomorrow. I’ve checked your diary, you’re free.”

“I am? Great. Guess I’ll be there then.”

My phone rang. Caller ID showed Kathy. Maybe I’d ask Mrs V if she had a spare ticket for the regionals. It was the least I could do to repay my sister for the night at the theatre.

“I thought you were going to get Milly out!” Kathy yelled.

“I warned you that Jack Maxwell wouldn’t listen to me. Don’t worry, they won’t charge her with anything.”

“They already have. With murder!”

Not even Maxwell was that stupid. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. It’s on the local TV.”

Strike that. He was that stupid and then some. “Leave it with me; I’ll get onto her lawyer.”

“You have to help her, Jill.”

It didn’t take me long to find out who Milly Brown’s lawyer was. A call to his office revealed that she had indeed been charged with murder, but was already out on bail. Her lawyer said it would be okay for me to meet with her the next day.

Every time I looked at my desk, I wanted to cry. The once beautiful, polished surface was now scarred by the scratches that Winky had inflicted on it in a moment of rage. He’d been angry, and although he’d never admit it, a little jealous when he’d discovered I had a dog, Barry, in Candlefield. I’d tried to get the desk repaired once already, but the man had been chased off by Winky.

I had to try again. “Hi, is that Greendale Polishers?” Theirs was the largest advert in Yellow Pages.

“Yes, madam,” a sing-song voice on the other end said. “How can we be of assistance today?”

“I need someone to repair my desk. It’s scratched.”

“We can certainly help with that. How did it come to be scratched?”

“A cat.”

“Is the desk in your home?”

“No, in my office.”

“You have a cat in your office?”

“Yes.” What’s so unusual about that? I bet a lot of people have cats in their office. “How quickly can you do it?”

“We could get someone to you tomorrow.”

“That would be great.”

I gave her the address, and agreed a time. “Just one more thing,” I said.

“Yes, madam?”

“Do your operatives wear safety clothing?”

“They wear overalls.”

“Are they scratch-proof?”

“They’re standard overalls.”

“Right. Of course. Are any of them cat lovers?”

“Sorry?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m sure it’ll be okay. Thanks. Tomorrow it is then.”

Mrs V was so busy admiring her potential-prize-winning scarf, that she didn’t notice me standing by her desk.

“Mrs V.”

“Jill! You scared me to death. You shouldn’t creep up on people like that!”

“Sorry. I just wanted to let you know that someone will be coming tomorrow to repair my desk. Can you make sure Winky doesn’t scare them off this time?”

“How am I meant to do that?”

“I don’t know. Can you keep him out here while the man does his stuff?”

“Out here? With me?”

“Yeah.”

“With my yarn?”

“It’s locked away in the linen basket.”

I’d bought the basket after Winky had ransacked the mail sack that had previously housed Mrs V’s yarn stash.

“Can I tie him up?”

“No, you can’t tie him up.”

I spent the next hour finding out everything I could about the Washbridge Amateur Dramatics Society. They had their own web site, which looked like it’d been created by a ten year old, back in the nineties. I’d almost forgotten just how annoying animated gifs could be. On the front page, in huge red letters, were the words ‘All performances cancelled until further notice’.

The page titled ‘current production’ provided a full cast list for the play I’d been forced to endure. That might come in helpful. I clicked on a link marked ‘Company’. This page listed every member of the society—front and back stage. It was a much more comprehensive list, which included all of the amateur thesps as well as the back stage staff. One name in the list of actors caught my eye—Jack Maxwell.

The intercom buzzed.

“Yes?” I said.

“Jill?”

“I’m here, Mrs V.”

“Jill?”

I gave up, and walked through to the outer office. Mrs V was still hitting the ‘talk’ button.

“This thing’s broken.” She gave it one last thump.

Aunt Lucy gave me a sympathetic smile. “I hope you don’t mind me turning up out of the blue. If you’re busy—”

“No, it’s fine. Come on through.”

“What happened to your lovely desk?”

“
He
happened!” I pointed to Winky who was curled up, fast asleep on the leather sofa.

“He looks so peaceful.”

“Don’t be fooled. He’s a monster.”

Winky opened his good eye long enough to give me a ‘look’.

“The intercom was working fine,” Aunt Lucy said, as she took a seat.

“I know. Mrs V’s hearing is getting worse, but she won’t do anything about it. Anyway, what brings you here today?”

“It’s your mum.”

“What about her?”

Since my birth mother had died, her ghost had appeared to me on several occasions. I’d found it a little scary at first, but I’d slowly got used to it.

“She’s only gone and got herself a man friend.”

“Can she do that? I mean—with her being dead and all.”

“She can and she has. Hussy!”

Aunt Lucy suddenly spun around in her chair, and shouted at the wall, “I might have known you’d show up!”

“Sorry?” I was confused by her reaction.

“You did it on purpose! Just to spite me!” Aunt Lucy yelled.

I had no idea what she was talking about, and even less idea why she was shouting at the wall.

“Aunt Lucy?”

“Sorry, Jill. I might have known she’d make an appearance.”

“Who?” Then the penny dropped. She’d been talking to my mother. Ghosts can only make themselves visible (attached) to one person at a time. My mother’s ghost was usually attached to me. She must have made herself visible to her sister, Aunt Lucy, so the two of them could argue.

“I’m sorry about this, Jill.” Aunt Lucy stood up. “She might as well tell you herself, now that she’s here.” She turned back to face the wall. “Don’t worry! I’m leaving. Goodbye.” And then back to me. “Bye, Jill.”

“Bye.”

Once she’d left, I turned to the wall and said, “Mum?”