Free Witch Is When It All Began by Adele Abbott Page B

cronies?
    “I wish I shared your faith in them. What can I do to help?”
    “Can we start with the day of the murder? Where were you when it happened?”
    “I’d been to visit my mother. She’s in a nursing home. Been there a few months now. I’m not sure she’ll ever come out.”
    “Sorry to hear that.” The image of my mother on her deathbed flashed across my mind. “Your wife didn’t go with you?”
    “No. She and my mother didn't see eye to eye. They hadn’t seen one another for over five years. There was some kind of silly falling out. I can’t even remember what it was about.”
    He seemed to zone out again. I waited for a few seconds and then prompted him, “When you got back?”
    “I found her lying on the bedroom floor. There was blood everywhere.” He began to cry. “Who would do such a thing? Why would anyone want to kill her?”
    “Can you think of any reason why someone would have done this?”
    “No. That’s why I reckon there might be something in your serial killer theory. Maybe it is some psycho who has decided to kill women based upon their names.”
    “How was she on the days leading up to the murder? Did you notice any change in her?”
    “No. She was the same old Pauline. Except for the reunion thing.”
    “What reunion thing?”
    “It was nothing, really. She’d been looking forward to her school’s reunion for months, but then at the last minute, she cancelled.”
    “Did she say why?”
    “She said she was ill, but—”
    “You don’t sound convinced.”
    He finished off the last few drops of whiskey. “She said she was feeling under the weather, and didn’t feel up to going, but then she went out anyway—to visit her sister.”
    “When was that?”
    “Two days before—” He broke down again.
    We talked for almost an hour. When I left, I promised to keep him posted of any new development. In turn, he promised to contact me if he thought of anything else that might be relevant.
     
    “I had to throw four balls of wool away.” Mrs V greeted me with this when I struggled into the office—linen basket in tow. “They were too tangled to sort out.”
    “Everything will be okay now you have this.” I slid the basket across the floor until it was next to the mail sack.
    “When you transfer the wool from the mail sack,” Mrs V said, “make sure you keep the same colours together.”
    “You want me to transfer the yarn?”
    “That’s very kind of you, dear.”
    Did I have mug written on my forehead? “I am kind of busy.”
    “Me too, dear.” She held up her current knitting project—a black and purple scarf. Obviously that took precedence over a little thing like a serial killer investigation. This was no doubt my punishment for insisting that Winky stay at the office.
     
    “There you go!” I pointed to the linen basket, which was now full of yarn. “That’s better isn’t it?”
    “I suppose it will have to do until you get rid of that stupid cat.”
    So ungrateful. “Did you remember to feed Winky?”
    Mrs V gave me one of her looks.
    “Not to worry. I’ll do it now.”
    Winky was all over me like a rash the moment I walked into my office.
    “Look buddy,” I said. “I need to know something.” I glanced back to make sure Mrs V hadn’t followed me. The coast was clear so I crouched down next to him. “Can you or can you not talk?”
    “Meow, meow.”
    “Do you want this?” I held up a can of chicken and sardine mix.
    “Meow, meow.”
    “Go on, ask me for it then.”
    “Meow, meow.”
    What had I expected? Of course the stupid cat couldn’t talk.
    “Meow, meow.”
    “Okay, okay.” I scooped it into his dish, and then gave him milk from the fridge—full cream, obviously.
     
    This is what it had come to. I was asking the cat to talk to me. I sat on the leather sofa and watched Winky devour his food. My conversation with Aunt Lucy kept spinning around in my head—one thing in particular. What had she called them? Sups? According to her,