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  Witchy See, Witchy Do

  Riddler’s Edge Book Two

  by A.A. Albright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

  Text Copyright © A.A. Albright 2018

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

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  Website: https://aaalbright.com

  Table of Contents

  1. Maniacal Monday

  2. Dean Danger Isn’t the Only Idiot in this Town

  3. For Whom the Bell Tolls

  4. Grieve For Me Not

  5. Ninety Percent Egg and Eleven Percent Cress

  6. Sign M for Murder?

  7. The Chapter Without a Name

  8. Pointer Brothers

  9. The Singing Stone

  10. A Choir of Angels

  11. The Fruit of the Vein

  12. A Straightforward, Non-Magical Murder

  13. Giggling Ghosts and Dashing Shadows

  14. Roast Chicken and Semolina Pudding

  15. Weird Kicks

  16. The War of the Enclaves

  17. Green-Eyed Monster

  18. Henry Kramer and the Danger Boys

  19. Witchy See, Witchy Do

  20. Witchy See, Witchy Don’t

  21. Deus Ex Machina (AKA The Cat on the Broom)

  22. What’s With All the As?

  23. A Little Bit What?

  24. Right Where I Belong

  1. Maniacal Monday

  There’s nothing remotely unusual about seeing your bath water run itself in the morning; nor of seeing a bottle of salts carefully open its lid, tip itself up, and join the party.

  Wait, maybe I should rephrase that – there’s nothing unusual about any of the above as long as you’re living in Riddler’s Edge. The town had been my home for a few weeks now, and I’d grown used to the houseghost who attempted to clean my room and draw my bath each morning. He/she/it was what you’d expect in a vampire-run guesthouse like the Vander Inn.

  But just because I was used to the ghost did not mean I was happy about it being in my room.

  ‘How many times do I have to tell you? I can run my own bath.’

  I felt a rush of air against my face, and could have sworn I heard an exaggerated huff.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t appreciate you,’ I went on. ‘I do, honestly. But I’m used to doing things for myself.’ And, I didn’t add, considering that they were charging me a pittance to live at the Vander Inn, I did not want to hog the staff – even the ghostly ones.

  I felt another rush of air. The opening and closing of my bedroom door a moment later confirmed that the ghost had left the room. Although let’s be honest – I was just going to have to trust the ghost on that one, because for all I knew it was a lecherous old man who just pretended to leave each morning.

  Lecherous old man or not, the ghost had run an amazing bath. As I sank in, I let out a little ‘Aah.’

  This was the way to start a Monday morning, I thought. No more manic Mondays for me, oh no. This was the beginning of a whole new routine. This morning I woke up early, making sure I had plenty of time to relax before I headed to work. I’d even made some time for yoga in my schedule. I mean, sure, I should probably actually do the yoga tomorrow instead of just watching someone else do it in the video. But I’d get there. This was the new me. The stress-free summer version. The version that–

  ‘Who the heck is ringing the church bell at six in the morning?’ I grumbled.

  I sank my head below the water, wilfully ignoring the sound. Somehow, the ringing got louder.

  I stuck my fingers in my ears, and even said, ‘La, la, la, I can’t hear you.’ Because that was sure to work.

  The ringing got louder still.

  This was supposed to be my perfect morning. My me morning. My new way to start off the week. Didn’t the person in the bell tower understand?

  As it turned out, it was not the kind of noise you could ignore, no matter how hard you tried. There was no rhythm to the ringing – and there definitely wasn’t a pleasant note to be heard. It sounded like some unruly child had gotten into the bell tower and let loose.

  Sighing, I washed myself quickly and climbed out of the bath. I rushed around the room, dressing and drying my hair. Pru would be able to do something about this, I thought. She had quickly become a close friend of mine since my move to Riddler’s Edge and, as a vampire, she could probably compel me to tune out the horrible noise. Hopefully. Even a few minutes without the noise would be welcome. Just long enough for me to march over to the church and have words with whatever crazy person was making all that racket.

  It was so loud that it had managed to wake Fuzz. The little black cat looked up from his place on my bed, his yellow-green eyes filled with sleepy aggravation. Even the broom, which was lying next to him, seemed irritated by the sound. It floated up an inch or so from the bed, then placed itself back down with an angry thwack.

  ‘I’m going to go see what I can do about it,’ I told the unlikely pair. Seeing as the cat was supposedly my familiar, there was a chance that at least one of them understood. Actually, I thought as I looked down at them, there was more than a chance. These two had attached themselves to me shortly after I arrived in Riddler’s Edge, and I sometimes got the feeling that even the broom was paying attention to every word I spoke.

  I was just about to head out of my room when another ringing noise began. This time, it was just my phone.

  ‘Greg?’ I said as I picked it up, seeing his number flash across my screen. ‘Can you hear that racket in your flat? I’m going over to that church and I’m going to tell whatever psycho who’s in that bell tower to shut the heck up. This was supposed to be my special Monday. The start of the new me. I’m so …’

  I let my voice trail off, realising I’d been barking at him since I answered, and the poor guy had yet to get a word in. Seeing as I’m not a dog, I definitely shouldn’t have barked. I really liked Greg. He was a wizard – literally, not figuratively – and also an all-round great guy. I’d never been partnered with a photographer half as nice in my previous reporting jobs. When I’d needed photos taken for the Daily Dubliner, my boss used to tell me to use the camera on my phone.

  ‘I know how you feel,’ Greg replied. ‘I was having an awesome me morning. I made a resolution to myself last night that I was going to start every week as I meant to go on. So I got up, did some yoga – well, I watched a yoga video, but … Anyway, there I was, taking my time in the shower, looking forward to breakfasting on some nice healthy muesli, when the ringing started up.’

  ‘Aw! How weird is it that we both decided to start doing yoga this morning?’ It wasn’t that weird, to be honest. We’d shared an enormous pizza the night before. And some wedges. And some chicken wings. And … well, you get the picture. ‘Anyway,’ I said. ‘Whoever’s gone and ruined our morning had better be prepared. Because I’m on my way over there right now, and I’m feeling fit to murder them.’

  There was a beat of silence. ‘Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to be necessary. Because that racket we’re hearing? That’s the sound of a woman dangling from a rope in the bell tower. A woman who is, unfortunately, dead.’ He sighed. ‘I worked so hard on making sure I wasn’t going to have another manic Monday. Turns out, it’s gonna be a maniacal one.’

  2. Dean Danger Isn’t the Only Idiot in this Town

  Riddler’s Edge is ca
lled a town, even though its official population is two hundred and three – well, two hundred and four since my arrival. But the thing is, the actual population is in the thousands. It’s just that certain people who live here have ways of concealing themselves from the world. There are supernatural enclaves dotted around the town, places no human can see. Places where, if a werewolf wants to wander around with his furry parts on show, no one will bat an eyelid.

  But the bell tower? The bell tower was on church grounds, and was firmly within the ownership of those two hundred and something humans – which was why I was surprised to hear that there was a body on the premises.

  As I neared the old, stone building, the horrible ringing had finally stopped. I could see Greg’s purple Volkswagen van (which he called his Wizardly Wagon) driving around and around, trying to find a parking space amid the chaos. There was an ambulance, a fire engine, two standard garda cars, one unmarked car, a hearse, and an ice cream van. There was also, for some reason, the entirety of Riddler’s Edge church choir, standing in perfect formation and belting out some sea shanties.

  Sea shanties aren’t quite what you’d expect a church choir to be singing when someone in the area was, reportedly, dead. But I’d been bombarded with posters hung up all over town, informing me that this was the local sea shanty season. Clearly they took their responsibility seriously. There was a black-haired man standing in front of them, waving a conductor’s baton around. He obviously knew his stuff because, even though the choir sang some quite bawdy lyrics, they managed to do so in perfect tune.

  I stood waiting for Greg, because I’m nice like that. It had nothing to do with the fact that he had an endless supply of snacks and I hadn’t yet had my breakfast.

  He finally managed to sandwich his Wizardly Wagon between the ice cream van and the hearse, and hopped out, bounding towards me with his usual quick strides.

  ‘You had breakfast yet?’ he asked, searching his pockets.

  ‘Nope. What have you got?’

  ‘Em …’ He pulled out a couple of energy bars and some water, followed by a packet of dried nuts, a bag of popcorn and a banana.

  I took an energy bar while he tipped his head back and threw the entire bag of nuts down.

  ‘Right,’ he said, taking a quick drink of water and wiping his mouth. ‘Let’s go do this thing.’

  ‘Why are the choir here?’ I pointed to the shanty-singers.

  As soon as I asked the question, the choir’s conductor turned around.

  I gasped. I did a double take. I opened and closed my mouth. I did just about every cartoonish action you can think of, while the leather-jacketed man extended a hand.

  ‘I’m Dean Danger,’ he said. ‘The choirmaster. And I take it by that rather fetching lanyard around your neck that you’re with the local press?’

  I fingered stupidly at the badge attached to my bright-yellow lanyard. It had a photo of me, with Press – the Daily Riddler written in enormous italics across the top. Below that was my photograph – which happened to be taken on a day when my hair looked like a bird’s nest and I was foolishly trying out a new lipstick that did not flatter my skin tone.

  Greg’s photo looked far better than mine. And he looked far better than me in person too, at that particular moment, because unlike me, he was not fingering stupidly at his press card and staring at the choirmaster with his jaw dropped open. Instead, Greg gave Dean Danger a brief smile, stepping in front of me and shaking his hand.

  ‘Yeah, we’re with the Daily Riddler,’ said Greg. ‘Do you mind me asking why you’re all singing?’

  Dean Danger shook his head sadly. ‘You mean, why are we singing even though poor Heather Flynn has recently committed suicide in the bell tower? Well, Heather was one of our own,’ he said. ‘That’s why we’re singing out here – to honour her memory. I mean, we would have been all together this morning to sing anyway, because we were due to practise in the church hall. But this horrible discovery seems to be making us sing better than ever.’ He pulled an awkward face. ‘Oh dear – that sounds bad. What I meant was that our grief has added an extra dimension to our singing. Hmm. That doesn’t sound much better does it? I must say, I’m glad you two are here. In my short time in this beautiful town, I’ve found your paper to be most informative. Would you like to take a photo of us for the story?’

  My reporter’s brain was struggling with my giggly teenage-girl brain – and the teenager was almost winning out. ‘You’re Dean Danger,’ I said. ‘Of Dean Danger and the Danger Boys.’

  By now, you’re probably growing increasingly irritated with my lack of explanation, so I’ll fill you in. Dean Danger and the Danger Boys were just about the most famous boy band in Ireland when I was a teenager. Most of my foster-sisters had their albums and posters, and I sometimes got to listen to a song or two. I’m not going to say that they were good, because … well, in retrospect, they really weren’t. They were just a group of guys not too much older than us who happened to be well acquainted with an auto-tuner.

  Dean was considered the ‘dangerous’ one to have a crush on, because he wore a leather jacket and had his eyebrow pierced. In fact, the leather jacket he was wearing right now looked exactly like the one he wore back then. Even the red and white spotted scarf he wore around his neck seemed the same.

  While I continued to stare at the pop star, Greg gave me the sort of look that told me he had lost all respect for me. I couldn’t say I blamed him. But unlike Greg, Dean didn’t seem remotely put out by my teenage-like reaction. He widened his smile and focused it on me. ‘Ah, a fan, are you?’

  I shook my head. ‘No. Yes. A little bit. I mean … wait, Heather was a member of your choir? Was she supposed to join you for practice this morning?’

  He nodded slowly, a long, laboured breath escaping his mouth. ‘She was,’ he finally answered, his voice choked up. ‘She was our shining light, in fact. She sang the solo parts in the Ballad of the Dread Pirate Brian and An Ode to Two-Armed Abel. She’ll be missed. It was one of us who found the body, as a matter of fact.’ He looked over at a stout, red-headed woman, beckoning her to join the conversation. ‘Margaret – these folks are from the Daily Riddler.’

  She moved out of the line of singers, her head hanging low. I recognised her at once, because I’d seen her around the town on many an occasion. Usually, she was bustling about the place with her friends –Heather and another woman whose name I couldn’t recall. All three seemed to be forever laughing and whispering together. But even though they were clearly thick as thieves, they always had time to stop and chat with everyone they met.

  ‘You found the body?’ I questioned softly.

  She gave me a weak nod, her usually ruddy face pale and drawn. There were dark rings under her eyes, too. ‘I came to set up. The hall where we practise is right below the bell tower. I heard the bell ring before I ever arrived, so I rushed upstairs and … well … I made a bit of a mess of the place, I’m afraid.’

  Greg looked curiously at her. ‘What do you mean?’

  Just as Margaret was about to reply, Detective Dylan Quinn came storming towards us. And suddenly, everything about my former teenage crush seemed like a let-down. Dean had jet black hair, but now that I was standing close to him, I could see it came out of a bottle. His skin was hidden somewhere beneath a few layers of fake tan.

  The detective was so much taller, and even though his skin was pale, it had a tone to it that fake tan could never outshine. He wore a short-sleeved shirt, because it was a warm late-May morning. In comparison, Dean’s leather jacket seemed like it might be a little on the uncomfortable side.

  ‘Miss Smith.’ The detective gave me a curt nod. ‘Greg.’ He turned to the choirmaster. ‘Mr … Danger.’ His voice seemed to shudder as he said the name. ‘Haven’t I already asked you to stop the singing?’

  Dean’s face fell. ‘But we were about to sing the Floating Fisherman. It was Heather’s favourite. All we want to do is memorialize her.’

  The detective glow
ered – and believe me, he was a man who could glower against the best. ‘Feel free to hold a memorial sing-song for Heather on any other day. Today, however, the police have a lot of work to do. And it’s a little bit hard to concentrate when you’re all singing too loud for us to think.’

  Dean turned to the choir and made some sort of movement with his little baton. The sea shanty lowered a few decibels.

  ‘Is that better?’

  The detective gritted his teeth and said, ‘No. That is not better. End the music. Now.’

  Before Dean Danger could answer him, he turned to me. ‘Come on, Miss Smith. You might as well see it – half of the town trampled all over the scene before we even showed up, so it’s not like it’s a secret.’

  As I joined the detective, Greg fell in behind me, fiddling with his camera filters while we walked.

  ‘Why are the fire brigade here?’ I asked.

  The detective sighed. ‘Because Dean Danger isn’t the only idiot in this town.’

  3. For Whom the Bell Tolls

  As we walked up the stairs to the belfry, I could see countless footprints – some of them from enormous boots. The fire brigade had obviously come this way.

  ‘Margaret – the woman who found the body – phoned for the fire brigade before she phoned us,’ said Detective Quinn. ‘I can’t really blame the person who took the call, either, because I’ve already listened to the recording. Margaret told the operator that her friend was “stuck on top of the bell tower.” So naturally the operator thought a fire truck with a long ladder would do the job. Margaret says she misspoke because she was upset but … who knows?’

  We reached the top of the stairs, and he said, ‘Try to stand around the edges, if you can.’

  He pressed his body against a wall, and Greg and I followed suit.

  There was a body on the ground, just below the church’s enormous, ancient bell. Like Dean Danger had told us, it was Heather Flynn. She was laid out in the centre of a green, glowing circle, while a small team worked around her. Both the circle and Heather’s body were arranged on a large sheet of plywood.