A Little Bit Witchy (A Riddler's Edge Cozy Mystery #1) Page 4

  I looked across the bridge. Norma was off in the distance now, turning to the left, towards a modern-looking building. From the back, it looked like a convenience store. There were a few other buildings along the same road, and they were an odd mixture of modern and ancient. Was it too much to hope that the Vander Inn would be one of the newer places?

  I sighed. Yeah, yeah it was definitely too much to hope for. Even though I still hadn’t set foot on the bridge, I already knew which one the Vander Inn was. It was the one that looked Victorian, creepy, and – although I couldn’t tell this simply from the back of the three storey house – it kind of looked like it might be lacking in indoor plumbing, too.

  As I neared the opposite side of the bridge, I spied the sign swaying in the stillness – The Vander Inn. Hot and cold running water available. I gulped. Hot and cold running water should not be something you needed to advertise on a sign. It should be a given.

  I hovered on the spot, wondering if now would be a good time to just turn tail and run. Maybe that was what my predecessors had done. Maybe they hadn’t even made it past day one of the week-long trial.

  But whatever about the other reporters, none of this should be fazing me the way it was. I mean, I was a girl who had lived with over a dozen foster families. And the elephant trainer wasn’t even the worst of the bunch.

  There had been the family of stunt people who sent me back to the orphanage when I baulked at jumping a horse through a flaming hoop. There had been the family of bankers who washed their hands of me when I spent my pocket money on sweets and magazines instead of depositing it in a high-interest savings account. There was the foster-father who couldn’t understand why I didn’t declare him the One True God the way his other children did, or the amateur astronomer foster-mam who believed her alien lover had given her the blueprints for three of her telescopes. Actually, I’d liked her, and she seemed to like me too. I’d only returned to the orphanage because she disappeared in a blinding flash of light one night.

  Hmm, maybe I should wait a while before I reveal information like that. I realise that, when I list these things out, one after the other, the events of my life can sound a little on the farcical side. But that kind of life can have its upsides. Like today, for instance. Sure, I wanted to run back to my tiny, unhomely flat. And yeah, my job in the Daily Dubliner’s basement was suddenly looking like a wonderful position. But I’d been through worse than this.

  I squared my shoulders, sang Row, Row, Row Your Boat inside my mind (my voice was far less screechy that way) and walked towards my lodging house.

  When I pushed the gate open, it let out a high-pitched squeal that I’m sure people could hear all the way back in Dublin. There was an ornate porch above an elegant red door, and one of those bells you pull was hanging next to the door. Like the door itself, the bell was in surprisingly good nick. In fact, now that I was no longer looking at the house from a fearful distance, the whole place appeared a great deal nicer than I’d expected. There were daffodils and ferns in little pots, and a doormat with the word Welcome spelled out in pretty scrolled writing.

  I reached for the doorbell, and tugged.

  Oh dear. Forget what I said about this place being nicer closer up. It wasn’t nicer. In fact, it was about a hundred times scarier. Because the tune that the doorbell played was Row, Row, Row Your Boat.

  A moment after the disturbing ditty finished, the door was pulled open by a woman who looked close to my age. She was wearing jeans and a gypsy shirt, and had silver jewellery draping off just about every body part it could. She wore vivid make-up, and had long black hair, reaching almost to her waist.

  She squinted a little, then stood back in the shadows. ‘You must be Aisling Smith,’ she said, extending a hand laden with more rings than she had fingers. One of them stood out in particular. The stone was an odd shade of green, a shade that made me feel a little dizzy. ‘I’m Pru. Come on in.’

  I followed Pru into a wide, stunning hallway. The tiles on the floor were black and white, and the walls were painted a calm shade of cream. There were portraits and ornaments everywhere, but the hall was so large that it didn’t seem claustrophobic.

  ‘My mother runs the establishment,’ she told me. ‘But I help out now and then, when I’m not too busy with my fortune-telling work. Would you like some breakfast, or would you rather see your room first of all?’

  My stomach began to growl. It was almost nine, and usually I’d have wolfed down some porridge at six-thirty and be searching for a snack right about now. ‘Breakfast would be wonderful,’ I said.

  She smiled. ‘Just leave your bags there. The housegh– the em, the houseboy will bring them up to your room.’

  She led the way into a dining room that reminded me of the dining car on the train – tablecloths, vases, the whole shebang. The smell coming from the kitchen was divine, and there was one resident finishing off his meal.

  His skin was paper-thin, but despite his age he kept himself looking well. His suit was neatly pressed and elegant, and his shoes were gleaming. He was eating a plate of what looked like black pudding, and sipping at a coffee. As soon as I entered the room, he placed his knife and fork neatly on his plate and turned.

  ‘You’ve been on the train,’ he said, gazing at me with watery eyes. ‘Somebody died.’

  I blinked. ‘I … how did you know that?’

  Pru patted his arm. ‘Hush now, Donald. Let her settle in.’

  ‘But you can smell it just as well as I can, Pru. And Bathsheba should have been here by now.’

  While I stared down at the doily-strewn tablecloth, wondering how the hell to field that one, Pru gave him a sympathetic look, patting his arm again. ‘Go on now, Donald. Go on and go up to bed for the day, and I’ll let you know as soon as Bathsheba returns.’

  As the old man walked away, Pru sat down across from me. ‘She died, didn’t she? Bathsheba died on that train.’

  I swallowed. ‘I … yes. A woman called Bathsheba died in the dining car. How did you know?’

  She sat back and folded her arms. ‘My bedroom looks out onto the platform. I saw you and Norma get off, and no one else. They only keep people on the train when there’s been a murder.’

  I was trying to decide how to digest that when another woman walked in. She didn’t look much older than Pru, but Pru looked up at her and said, ‘Hello, Mam. This is Aisling Smith. Aisling, this is my mother, Nollaig.’

  Her mother gave me a warm smile. ‘Of course, of course. Now, I wasn’t told if you have any dietary preferences.’ She gave me an odd sniff. ‘Oh, you’ll probably just want the usual sort of breakfast, then. Sausages and eggs and the like?’

  ‘That’d be great,’ I said, my stomach letting out another rumble.

  She and Pru rushed off to the kitchen. There was only a door separating it from the dining room, and I could hear them whispering back and forth. Arnold’s name was mentioned a lot. Mine was mentioned almost as much. But what was said about Arnold and me, I couldn’t quite work out. After a couple of minutes they walked back in, Nollaig carrying a plate piled high with food, while Pru carried a pot of coffee and some toast.

  ‘Did you both know Bathsheba, then?’

  Nollaig sat down and sighed. As soon as she was sitting across from me, I noticed she was wearing the same green-stoned ring as her daughter. ‘Bathsheba has been with us a few weeks. She’s been having treatment in Dublin, and it helps her to be close to the station. She and Donald have a home in another town nearby.’

  I looked down at my food, wanting to eat but also feeling so sorry for him. Pretty soon, someone would be giving him the bad news. I hoped for his sake that it wasn’t Detective Quinn. The man didn’t seem like the sympathetic sort.

  ‘I know how you feel, love,’ said Nollaig. ‘But you starving yourself silly isn’t going to make Donald feel any better, now is it?’

  I looked up at her, laughing weakly. ‘What are you? A mind-reader?’

  Nollaig and Pru shared a glance.
Then Nollaig rose, patted me on the shoulder and said, ‘Eat up, love. You’ll need all the energy you can muster, if you’re going to be able to deal with us lot.’

  She sauntered off to the kitchen, curvaceous hips swaying behind her, and Pru sprang up and said, ‘I’ll go and make sure your room is ship-shape. It’s on the top floor – room number nine. You’ve got your own bathroom, and there’s a phone if you need to ring down for anything.’

  ≈

  After breakfast I was stuffed to the gills and exhausted. Both Pru and her mother had disappeared, and the whole house had a sleepy silence about it that made me want to curl up beneath the covers. But I only had an hour to get ready for my meeting with the editor at the Daily Riddler, so I rushed to my room to prepare.

  There was a wooden plaque on the wall beside the staircase, listing the room numbers and the floors they could be found on. My room, number nine, seemed to have the top floor all to itself. I wasn’t sure if that meant I was getting a nice penthouse suite, or if I was being segregated in a cobwebby attic. But if the previous reporters had been anything to go by, I was unlikely to be here very long, so it probably shouldn’t matter how cobwebby my room was. It wasn’t as though I had a deathly fear of spiders or anything. I was only afraid of the ones that had eight legs.

  As I sped up the stairs, I got the distinct impression that something cold and filmy rushed right past me. What was it Pru had seemed about to say before she revised her words to houseboy? Could she actually have been about to tell me a houseghost was bringing my bags upstairs?

  I shook my head, refusing to look back at the cold, filmy form, and continuing on up to the third floor. There was a small landing up there, and only one door. It clearly stated that it was number nine, so I pushed it open.

  As the room was revealed, I stood on the threshold, gasping. The room was … well … the room was amazing. Sure, it was just as old-fashioned as the rest of the house. But I was beginning to realise that sometimes, old-fashioned was good. I mean, I had a four-poster bed for criminy’s sake. Through the open bathroom door I could see a huge, claw-foot bath, and the toilet had one of those overhead cisterns with a pull-chain.

  There were French doors draped in gauzy white curtains, which seemed to lead out onto a balcony. In front of the doors there was an antique telescope. I examined it for a few seconds, a broad smile making its way across my face. My favourite foster-mother had a few like this in her collection, and my mind was suddenly thrust back to the nights we spent staring at the stars together.

  As I cautiously opened the French doors, I realised that my room didn’t just have a balcony. It wrapped around the entire third storey, and even had steps leading up to a widow’s walk on the roof, giving me a view of the entire town. The surface looked stable, so I took a step out and walked around.

  Arnold had told me this place was a coastal town, but he hadn’t explained the smell, the view, the gorgeous white sand, the lovely little harbour with the fishing boats and what looked like an olde-worlde tavern a little to the north.

  I rolled the telescope towards the doors and took a look through the lens. I focused on the tavern first, on the people walking in and out. There was a man with a pipe in his mouth, making me wonder, once again, if I’d entered some sort of time warp. A sign hung off the front of the place – the Fisherman’s Friend. I spun the telescope to the right, and saw a lighthouse a short distance from the harbour. I heard my breath intake, just a little. Lighthouses and me … well, let’s just say I find them sexy and leave it at that.

  Okay, let’s not leave it at that. I mean, I’ve already spilled way too much embarrassing information, so what difference will a little more make? I don’t just find lighthouses sexy. I dream about them. I fantasise about them. I have invented a hundred scenarios in my mind, of living in a lighthouse with a sexy, barefooted man who makes amazing coffee and likes to do carpentry in his spare time.

  He also enjoys midnight swims, impromptu picnics, and listening to David Bowie. He has a telescope set up on the top floor of his lighthouse, and he knows almost as much about the stars as Janette (my favourite foster mother). Oh, and because I don’t have remotely high expectations, he happens to be an amazing lover, too.

  I spun the telescope a little further to the north, and stood back, wiped my eyes and looked again. A sudden haze had fallen, although the sky looked clear just about everywhere else. That haze …

  I went back inside and sat on my amazing bed, deep in thought. That haze had the same shimmering quality as the haze I’d seen between Let’s Go Round the Bend and Times of Yore. For the first time in my life, I felt absolutely certain that this was not a migraine.

  A sense was beginning to fill me, but it wasn’t a sense of foreboding. I felt like I was opening. Like I was about to embark on the most exciting experience of my life. This town was the strangest place I’d ever seen – and I’d seen a whole lot of strange. But despite it all, I felt completely at home.

  6. The Daily Riddler

  When I was a kid, I always had this notion that reporters should look a certain way – a snazzy suit, maybe a pair of glasses. But I was cursed with perfect eyesight (other than the aforementioned hazy moments), and I had yet to find a snazzy suit that I felt comfortable wearing. I’d bought one after my lunch with Arnold, along with some very grown-up shoes, hoping to make a good impression on the paper’s editor.

  But the fancy new outfit was still sitting on my four–poster bed, while I was in a sweater dress, knee-high flat-soled boots, and a faux-leather jacket. No matter how snazzy I wanted to look, I knew my limitations. I’d wind up tripping over my own feet if I wore my new shoes, and as for the fitted skirt and jacket I’d purchased, well … it just hadn’t felt like me.

  When I came out through the Vander Inn’s screechy front gate, I turned right as per Arnold’s directions. The main street wasn’t exactly a happening place. There was that little convenience store Norma had been heading to, off to the left of the Vander Inn. There were a few pretty cottages on either side of the main street. There was a school, a church, a small garda station, and then … well then there was the Daily Riddler.

  It was a large office, arranged over two floors. It had stunning glass doors with huge, circular brass handles. I put on my confident face, and walked inside.

  A few feet inside the office, there was a short, immaculately-groomed man standing behind a walnut reception desk, speaking into the phone. As soon as he saw me he beamed, then quickly finished his call and extended a hand.

  ‘You must be Aisling,’ he said. ‘Welcome to the Daily Riddler. I’m Malachy – receptionist by day, chef by night.’

  ‘Chef?’ I smiled at him. ‘At the Fisherman’s Friend? Or is there somewhere else in town?’

  He began to readjust a perfectly neat pile of papers on the desk. ‘I’ve just opened a little place. It’s out the road a bit,’ he replied vaguely. ‘Quite out of the way. Anyway, why don’t I bring you up to Grace now?’

  I looked down at my notebook. Grace O’Malley was the editor here. I hadn’t been able to find any previous publications she’d been in charge of when I looked her up online.

  I followed Malachy up a sweeping, spiral staircase, and when we reached the top we came to a set of double doors, even more fabulous than the ones at the front of the building. Malachy pressed a brass buzzer, and a moment later a woman opened the doors.

  She had long, golden hair, falling in fifties-style waves to her shoulders. Her lips were painted a deep red, and her outfit made me drool.

  ‘Huh,’ she said. ‘So … you’re Aisling Smith.’

  I nibbled on my lower lip. ‘No need to sound so disappointed,’ I said, hoping I came across as jokey rather than sarcastic. The truth was, I was struggling not to be snarky. Grace was regarding me like I was that last, unsolvable word in an already irritating crossword puzzle.

  ‘Shall I get you two some refreshments?’ Malachy asked.

  ‘I’m fine for now,’ I said. ‘But thanks
.’

  ‘I’ll have my usual,’ said Grace, leading me inside to what seemed to be half office, half private apartment. ‘That is if you’re okay with carrying it up?’

  Malachy nodded quickly. ‘Of course. I’ll carry it. But don’t blame me if some of it gets spilled along the way.’

  The place was just as glamorous as the rest of the office. There was a sunken seating area with shag carpeting, a huge desk with an old-school typewriter, and a set of open double doors which showed me her magnificent bedroom beyond.

  ‘Wow, talk about glam,’ I said. ‘I love the décor.’

  Grace smiled and took a seat behind her desk, indicating that I should sit facing her. As I sat into the chair, she picked up a gold-handled magnifying glass, and looked through it at me. ‘Huh,’ she said, placing it down. ‘So what do you think to the town, Aisling?’

  ‘Call me Ash,’ I said. ‘And as for the town … well, mismatched is a word that comes to mind.’

  She let out a peal of laughter. ‘Yes. We all seem to be stuck in our own definitive time zones here. But it’s not all like that. You’ll find most of the town is perfectly … normal. Now, I’ve been informed of the incident on the train. I’ve already written up a piece.’ She rummaged through a pile on her desk and pulled a page out, passing it to me. ‘This is for tomorrow’s daily edition. The piece for the evening paper isn’t yet prepared. Tell me what you think.’

  Well, what I thought was: what the heck could a town with a population of two hundred and three need with two editions per year, let alone per day? But I pasted a business-like smile on my face, and scanned the short article.

  Unfortunate Death on the Riddler’s Express

  Yesterday morning, on the early morning train from Dublin to Riddler’s Edge, an unfortunate incident occurred. Bathsheba Brookes, 85, died from an allergic reaction after consuming a meal containing nuts.