In My Attic by Lina Hansen

Author:Lina Hansen [Hansen, Lina]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Crime, Supernatural, Suspense, Small Town, Attic, amateur, village, Wicca, sleuth, Witch, English Humor, Cozy, Magic, Cat, British Detective, Murder, Paranormal, Mystery
Publisher: Literary Wanderlust
Published: 2020-06-30T22:00:00+00:00

18

WHICH WITCH

Witch. Lurking among the elaborate scrollwork of the magazine cutting, the word reminded me of those trick images camouflaging figures, faces, and objects: hidden one moment, all too visible the next. Some bastard had called me a witch. Where I needed guidance from my aunt—a note, a letter—anything, all I got was a whacky message.

Did it scare my socks off?

Oh, yes.

“I would need a plastic bag for the letter. Can you get me one from the kitchen?” Alan said to Alma. His voice penetrated the confused sludge clogging my mind.

“Now I’ve ruined your weekend,” I said.

Alan, standing on the other side of his table, drummed the backrest of the chair with his fingers. “Never you mind. It’s more important to work out what might be behind the threat.” His gaze bounced off me and landed again on the message from the glue artist, where it stayed. I wondered whether I might have overlooked something and stepped closer.

“Don’t!” Alan grabbed his napkin and used it to carry his precious note to the French windows. Fogged up with condensation and covered in a rash of raindrops, they didn’t let through enough of the light he needed to examine the threatening message, assuming that was his goal. The guy really ought to work on his family liaison skills. The way he acted made me wonder whether he might view me as a culprit and not a victim.

Alma returned, Cecily trailing behind, with the bag Alan had requested. He wrapped the napkin around his fingers and used it to deposit his evidence in the plastic pouch.

“Do me a favor and check the wastepaper baskets,” he said to the Simpkins sisters.

“What for?” Cecily asked.

“Well, the letters are cut out from newsprint and magazines. It’s unlikely somebody would throw away the leftovers here, but I want to be sure.”

The ladies strode off, two bloodhounds on the scent.

When Alan faced me—or rather a point somewhere over my left shoulder—his brows were drawn into a line almost as straight as his fringe. “Is one of these salespeople still around?”

“Mr. Johnston left yesterday.”

Alan deposited the bag on the table, whipped out a notebook from the depth of his pants and addressed the French windows. “He’ll have to be contacted.”

No way would young Randy write threatening notes. He had arrived on the scene well after my aunt’s death. But Alan was thorough and thorough was fine with me, though why the blasted message would have brought back the awkwardness from our first encounter was beyond me. The way he kept staring at the fogged panes, wringing his hands, made me wonder whether he wanted me to leave the room.

I decided to take the bull by the horns. “Is there a problem?”

Alan swung around, this time meeting my gaze. “What do you mean?”

“You’re acting a bit odd.”

He forced a smile. “Sorry. I’m not the world’s greatest people person. It’s such a great opportunity. Eh, I mean, something really is off in this place, don’t you think?”

Again, he gave me the full wattage of his baby blues.

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