Murder & Spice (Nether Edge Witch Cozy Mystery Book 1) Read online

  Cassy let Dot’s emergency call fade from her focus, and she reset her gaze on poor Mrs. Hamswell. Was it a coincidence that the one person Cassy suspected—no, suspected was too strong a word—considered involved with the Newmark killing (it was the name she’d given to the Fontaine case) turned up dead just moments before Cassy came to ask her a few questions? Not that anyone knew that it had been Cassy’s plan to do so. Besides Deputy Jones and Dot.

  “They’ll be here soon,” Dot announced. “Sheriff Noyce was in the area and he said we should stay right where we are and not move a muscle.”

  Chapter Eleven

  When Noyce arrived, it wasn’t in his official vehicle. Apparently, he was on one of his increasingly frequent breaks from the job and was escorting his recently acquired lady-friend to the mall just out of town when the call came in. Cassy watched the midlife-crisis-mobile pull up outside the Hamswell residence. Despite the sunny skies, the top was up on the convertible, but it popped open as the car came to a stop, revealing the passengers like the contents of a cracked Easter egg. It was Dot who gasped when Noyce’s girlfriend was uncovered by the receding roof, though Cassy had wanted to do the same. Not that Sheriff Noyce was an unattractive man, but he was getting on in years and had the portly build of a man accustomed to desk work, which made the stunning beauty of his companion seem incongruous. They would soon learned that her name was Rebecca. She gave the man who was several years her senior a kiss on the cheek and let her hand slide down the side of his face. It was an unexpected display of genuine affection that took Cassy off guard. Her split-second initial reaction pegged this woman—or girl—as a gold-digger, but Sheriff Noyce had neither gold nor tolerance for duplicity.

  “Mrs. Dean, Mrs. McGuiness,” Noyce greeted them as he sprang up the steps to the house. “Can you wait out here for the deputy to arrive? He’ll take your statements.” He brushed past Cassy, who noted the man was out of breath, despite having arrived in his car.

  “That was quick,” she said, referring to what must have been no longer than two minutes since Dot had called the station.

  Noyce looked back from the threshold of the Hamswell residence. “I was close by, and Marcie at the station always contacts me for situations like this. I make sure she does.”

  “Even if it’s his day off—he doesn’t have a day off.”

  Both Dot and Cassy turned to the slight, young thing climbing the steps clad in a tight white dress that didn’t so much accentuate her figure as receive a blessing from it.

  “You must be the woman we’ve heard so little about,” Cassy smiled. “I hope you weren’t too hard on the old sheriff for that cake he made you. We did what we could to make sure he didn’t go too wrong.”

  “I love cake,” Rebecca said, despite all evidence to the contrary. She looked conspiratorially left then right as if Noyce might be spying on her rather than investigating the crime scene. “It was a little too good, if you ask me.” Cassy did not know what the question to that answer might be. Rebecca laughed, a curious braying sort of sound that wobbled her all over. Suddenly, aware they were outside the house where someone had recently died, the young woman cringed. “I’m so sorry,” she spluttered. “Was she a friend of yours?”

  “Mrs. Hamswell?” Cassy looked back up at the house. She hoped the sheriff was getting more information from the scene than she’d managed to. As far as she could see, there was nothing going on. “An acquaintance, nothing more.”

  “I knew her,” Rebecca said casually, “or rather, I knew her daughter; we went to school together. When the call came through I convinced Phil to come on over. I’m always fascinated by this kind of thing, aren’t you?”

  Although she didn’t reply, it held a certain fascination for Cassy, too.

  “I’m studying forensics,” Rebecca continued, prompting Dot to wheeze and Cassy to wonder how someone so beautiful can manage brains, too.

  Soon one of the sheriff department’s vehicles pulled up to the curb, and out stepped Wolinski and Jones. Wolinski went straight past them to the house, casting a brief, judgmental look at Rebecca and leaving Deputy Jones to ask the questions.

  “This is becoming a habit,” he said, taking out his trusty notepad.

  “I’m not even involved with this.” Rebecca retreated to the convertible.

  “I know you’re not, ma’am,” Jones said. Something about the Texan accent made everything he said sound so gentlemanly. “I was referring to Miss Dean here, who seems to have found more dead bodies than is statistically probable.”

  “Not really, if you think about it,” Dot interjected. “You see, she was following up on a hunch she had about the previous murder.”

  “Fatality,” Cassy and the deputy both corrected her.

  “So, it’s really just linked to the same event. If it had been an entirely different situation, then I would grant you the point.”

  “This isn’t a game.” Jones had become deadly serious, all trace of the southern gentleman evaporating, replaced with an officious monotone. “I’d like to take both of your statements, starting with Cassandra.”

  “No problem,” Cassy responded, casting Dot a serious case of side-eye stilettos. “Just one thing though, before we begin.”

  “Certainly,” Jones said.

  “Go in there and tell me that the crime scene doesn’t look funny to you. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t like it.”

  The problem with giving evidence to the police is that it is just about the most boring thing you can do with your time, but it’s so important to their work that there is no way you can get out of doing it. By the fourth time she’d recounted her version of events leading to the discovery of Mrs. Hamswell, Cassy was feeling the need to embellish just to keep herself engaged. The problem was there was so little to go on. The discovery of the body was as straightforward as anything.

  Which was putting Cassy on edge. Death is often a messy thing, and she wasn’t thinking about the blood that had stained the kitchen floor. Besides the smashed mug there was no sign of forced entry (the door was never locked anyway), no sign of struggle or confrontation. Nothing. By the fifth time she’d spelled out what she’d done, even Cassy was conceding that perhaps this was just an unlucky coincidence. Maybe it was just a curious twist of fate that the one person she believed could shed some light on the Newmark killing had wound up dead herself.

  Depleted, tired and resigned to facing a dead end in her short run as a sleuth, Cassy graciously accepted the simple yet hearty food provided by the police station’s in-house catering. Deputy Jones brought a beef stew (with two dumplings) and a mound of mashed potatoes while she was waiting in Noyce’s office. With limited space, it was the only place available to keep her until she was needed. Besides, Noyce was neck-deep in work and didn’t need the space.

  “I thought you looked a little hungry, so I brought you this,” Jones smiled. The meal came on a tray with little compartments for each food, and Cassy ate it from her lap.

  “You have no idea how hungry I am,” she said. “Apart from a few stolen cookies, I haven’t touched anything.”

  “So, you’re admitting to the crime then?”

  Cassy went pale, convinced that Jones would arrest her for the murder of Mrs. Hamswell. When he saw the change in Cassy’s complexion, he stumbled over his words to put her straight.

  “I meant the theft of cookies. It’s okay—we don’t tend to deal with crimes on that scale.”

  She could just about swim in the man’s smooth voice, put a few candles around it and soak for the rest of the day. Cassy noticed that she was staring at the deputy in a half-daze only when he waved his hand in front of her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, returning to the food she so desperately craved. “No energy and my mind’s wandering.”

  “I’m sorry. I guess we don’t need you after all. When you’re finished, I’ll take you home.”

  “That’s so nice, James,” Cassy said. As he got ready to leave, Cassy called to him
. She wanted him to take her home, anything to get close to him, but there was something else she needed to do first. “It’s okay, I’ll make my way back. Fresh air will do me good.”

  “If you change your mind, let me know.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The door closed behind him with a soft click, and Cassy found herself alone once more. Less than a minute was all it took for her to finish the tasty food, and having satiated her hunger, Cassy leaned back in the chair. From her seat, she could see the entire office. It was, as expected, a blandly official-looking room. It was however, punctuated with personalized elements—inevitable, considering how long Noyce had held the position. He’d been sheriff for as long as Cassy could remember.

  Pacing the room with an idle curiosity, she perused the photos on the shelves behind the big desk where Noyce did most of his work. There he was, holding a fish half as long as he was tall, a grin splashed across his face almost as bright as the sun behind him in the clear blue skies. There were other similar photographs, not of him fishing, but proudly displayed the triumphs of his manly pursuits. Noyce with his soccer buddies, a group photo from his days in the military. Next to those was a faded Polaroid of a young, dark-haired woman. The hairstyle, the beads and the quality of the photo itself suggested that it was taken in the 1970s. The woman was pretty, smart-looking, and nothing like Rebecca, whom Cassy had met earlier. Men—so predictable. They go soft in the head over a pretty face. Was it impossible for them to date someone their own age? Cassy picked up the tray of food, which she had all but licked clean (although she was tempted) and made her way to the door before it became suspicious just how long she was taking. As she passed the wastebasket by the door, she spotted the most incriminating piece of evidence she was ever likely to discover.

  “Why Noyce, you little devil, you,” she murmured.

  Cassy retrieved a hastily stashed card box with a golden filigree design printed on the side. She recognized it as the packaging used by the Buttercup Cake Shop in town. There was the proof that the sheriff, in his efforts to woo his young lover, had sought external help. And to think he’d let everyone believe he was making a cake!

  She tossed the box back into the basket and covered it back up so not incriminate the man, then left the station.

  Mrs. Hamswell’s house wasn’t on the way back to the Spicery, but it was close enough that it wouldn’t seem strange that she passed by. Besides, the little detour would take her past Coffee & More, where she could pick up one of their pumpkin spiced lattes, which she’d become increasingly fond of.

  All traces of the police investigation were gone from the front of Mrs. Hamswell’s house, save for the yellow ribbon that barred the door. Entrance to the house was out of the question, and not even Cassy would push her luck that far.

  Instead she went to the back of the house. A small window looked out to a small yard from the kitchen where the body had been. To get to it, and the view inside, Cassy had to use an upturned wheelbarrow. She teetered awkwardly for a moment then went up on tip-toes to get a look in. She cupped her hands over her eyes to shield them from the light, and slowly the scene within revealed itself. Although the carpet was still stained red and probably always would be, the rest of the crime scene was clean. That wasn’t surprising to Cassy, because even when the body had been there it had been oddly neat and tidy.

  It was almost as if the killer had taken as much care with the murder as the police had with tidying it up.

  Cassy let out a concerned sigh as she sat down on the edge of the wheelbarrow and absentmindedly spun the single wheel. The killer was familiar with crime scenes and had taken care not to leave any trace. This was all based on the speculation there had been a killer, of course, rather than the whole sorry affair resulting from some tragic accident.

  Cassy thought back to just a few hours earlier and tried to remember who had entered the crime scene first. Had it been Deputy Wolinski? It wasn’t Jones, as he had taken their preliminary statements. Noyce had arrived first, as he’d conveniently been nearby.

  The tingle crept over her body again, the same one she’d felt at the morgue. An empty chill. It was her own fault for going back to the place where she’d found Mrs. Hamswell dead. She reminded herself she was not a detective but a misfiring witch with a nice little business that sold herbs and now had a very limited selection of books.

  This was all beyond her. This was not her territory.

  Cassy marched back to the front of the house and strode all the way back to her own familiar neighborhood of Nether Edge. The name struck her as silly. Maybe it was the desire to flush bad thoughts from her mind, but it was all she could think about on the walk back home. The part of town near the river was appropriately called the Edge. But long ago, someone had built farther away from the fishing area and had struggled for a name. The best they’d come up with was Near the Edge, which over time had transformed into Nether Edge. The name was used so frequently that it had lost all its absurdity for her. Odd, she thought, that something as patently silly as that name had become accepted over time.

  It was much like Coffee & More, which she was now approaching. When she’d first heard it, the name sounded casual to the point of being pretentious in its over-studied, noncommittal expression of what it was: a café. But the more she said it, the name was just as a good as any other. It got her thinking that perhaps The Spicery was a little too on-the-nose.

  She looked though the large window of the café before entering and saw Mrs. Orange at the helm that afternoon. She waved at Cassy as she entered. There were a few tables occupied, more than Cassy had ever seen before.

  “Things are looking up,” Cassy smiled as she went to the counter.

  “Not bad. We’ll survive.” Mrs. Orange grinned. “Can I get you anything?”

  The news of Mrs. Hamswell’s death and Cassy’s discovery of the body clearly hadn’t reached this part of town yet, otherwise it would have been the first thing they would have talked about. Cassy would have pounced on Mrs. Orange for all the gory details had she been in the same position. She chose not to bring the subject up and ordered a pumpkin spiced latte instead.

  “No can do, Cass. Very sorry.”

  Cassy’s face crumpled with disappointment. The thought of that latte had kept her pace up across town. She’d have to fall back on one of her trusty tea blends back home.

  “No coffee? Are you just selling & More now?”

  Thankfully, Mrs. Orange laughed. She’d tire of jokes like that soon, Cassy was certain of it.

  “You can’t spice a pumpkin latte without spices, and we’re all out of what we need.”

  “And just what do you need? I’ve got a shop full of them. Everything you could possibly need.”

  Mrs. Orange shook her head, correcting Cassy. “That’s what I thought, but you’re all out of nutmeg, and I can’t do anything without that. What I can do, though, is get you an un-spiced pumpkin latte or anything else on the menu.”

  “It’s okay, I’ll get some tea,” Cassy said, softly. Already she was retreating into her head to face thoughts of murderers and their weapons of choice. “I’ll be back…” she added as she turned and hurried across the street.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Nutmeg. It was delicious stuff. Spicy and with an intoxicating smell but not as strong as ginger or mace. And that was the right word. Intoxicating. Used in something like a coffee, or even a cake, it added an earthy zest. In her own work, Cassy used it as an ingredient for good luck spells, especially ones to aid gamblers, as it was always linked to prosperity and fortune.

  It had other effects if used in enough quantity—quantities that would leave both a café and an herbalist’s stocks depleted.

  The small bell above the door chimed gently as Cassy entered the Spicery. Dot was already there, having been released from questioning a lot earlier than Cassy had been, but it was Patty who approached her, bounding from across the other side of the room.

  “Finally,” she cried, �
�there you are. It’s been hectic without you two. Seriously, I don’t care how much you beg or offer to pay me, I’m not doing this again.”

  There would be a time to apologize to the girl, but it was not right now. “Patty, you have the easiest job in all of Havenholm. Buck up, kid, and listen to me.” Cassy took Pats by the shoulders and looked her right in the eye. “It’s very important that you tell me who’s been buying nutmeg over the last few days.”

  “We sold some to the sheriff,” Dot replied, over the heads of several customers.

  “We gave some to the sheriff,” Cassy corrected, “to make a cake he never made.”

  “No, I mean we sold some to him,” reiterated Dot, “in addition to the stuff we gave him before. It wasn’t just nutmeg, though. Star anise, cloves…”

  Dot rattled off a short list, but Cassy wasn’t paying attention. Nutmeg could be fatal if used improperly, bringing on hallucinations, high blood pressure, then death. It also wouldn’t show up on a toxicology report.

  Despite Patty’s protestations, Cassy left the shop. She took the tightly wound staircase that led her up to her apartment. There she found her mother’s old Grimoire, a hulking book with wooden covers that made it almost impossible to read comfortably. She laid it out on the floor and flipped through the fine pages inscribed with small text that on a first look might be mistaken for print. It was the deceased Mrs. Dean’s immaculate handwriting.

  Cassy found the entry on nutmeg where it specified the exact amount needed for a fatal dose. The book was as much about science as about magic.

  She read and re-read the entry, but she was only delaying the inevitable conclusion. She had a murder weapon, she had circumstantial evidence, and she was certain that Dr. Bloom could run further tests to back up her theory. She could do nothing about it, though. With no kind of real proof, or even a solid motive, she would not waltz into the sheriff’s station and point fingers. She needed air. The heady scents coming from the shop below had become overwhelming, when normally they comforted her.