Page 23 of Bewitched By the Pumpkin Queen

Chapter 8

Delia

We push through the door of The Moonlit Bakery, squeezed between Pennington Falls' centuries-old apothecary and a tourist trap hawking enchanted trinkets. The bell above the door chimes with a magical melody as we enter. Cinnamon and sugar hit my nose, and I can't help but linger over the display case where candied apple skulls grin next to bat-shaped marzipan and gravestone scones, all arranged in perfect little rows, screaming for attention.

People tend to clam up when badges flash, but they'll spill secrets over sugar and sympathy. At least, that's what I'm counting on as we approach the counter, my most disarming smile at the ready.

Mrs. Holloway looks up from behind the counter; her fingers dusted with flour. Her eyes widen at the sight of us, and she smiles, quickly wiping her hands against the faded pink apron she has on as she rushes over to us. “Delia and Jasper Nightshade! Good heavens it’s been ages since I last saw the two of you in here.”

Five months to be exact. When I ordered that three-tiered anniversary cake with the black buttercream roses.

“What can I get for the two of you?” She asks, gesturing over to the counter.

Without consulting him, I order Jasper’s favorite dark roast coffee with a dash of cinnamon, and a maple-pecan cruller. I tack on a second cruller, my vanilla and brown sugar latte, and a tiny, coffin-shaped cookie for Whiskers, who is peeking out of my purse with all the subtlety of a periscope.

"Mrs. Holloway," Jasper takes his coffee, "While we have you…we were actually hoping to ask about your niece, Heather."

The smile on her face falters momentarily, as she looks at me and then back at Jasper, Heather?” she repeats, her voice shrinking a size. "Such a sweet girl. A credit to selkie-kind."

I reach over the countertop and grasp her hand, "Mrs. Holloway, we are so sorry for your loss." The words catch slightly in my throat as I glance at the man that stand beside me, still living, and breathing, all the while Heather remains forever still.

She squeezes my fingers, eyes glistening with a grief I can't bear to look at for too long. "I appreciate that, dear. I really do," she releases my hand after a long moment, wiping beneath her eyes with a knuckle. “I still expect her to walk through that door every Saturday morning, looking like she just rolled out of bed and demanding a double shot of espresso. She hated mornings, that girl.”

Jasper’s face loses its glazed detachment, the mask of irritation and fatigue dissolving beneath something much softer, “I know how difficult this must be.” he says, his voice marshmallow soft.

Mrs. Holloway's chin bobs up and down, her lips quivering before she squares her shoulders and busies herself with my latte, her practiced hands swirling foam into a delicate ghost that floats atop the caramel-colored surface. “Hard doesn’t even begin to describe what our family is going through.” she hands me the caffeinated drink.

"You were one of the last to see her.” Jasper continues. “Did you by chance notice anything unusual?”

Mrs. Holloway's hands work the edge of her apron. "She'd been acting strangely for days. Nervous. Said she felt like someone was watching her," her voice drops to almost a whisper. "Following her."

My fingers tighten around my cup, the warmth a small comfort against the cold coil unfurling in my stomach. "Did she mention who it might be? Or did you notice anyone unusual around the bakery?"

"No names," Mrs. Holloway replies, "But she said they always seemed to be around when she was alone. Never when she was with others."

"Smart," Jasper mutters. "Less witnesses."

I shoot him a look before turning back to Mrs. Holloway with a gentle smile. "Thank you. This helps more than you know."

As we leave, I nudge Jasper’s elbow. “What was that?”

“What was what?”

“The ‘less witnesses’ comment?” I parrot, falling into step beside him. “You sounded like you were analyzing a scene, not talking to a grieving aunt.”

Jasper shrugs, eyes fixed on the sidewalk. "It's just an observation," he mutters.

"You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, you know." I bite into my cruller, the brittle sugar glaze cracking under my teeth.

"Last I checked, we're hunting a killer, not insects," he replies coolly.

Mr. Finch's antique shop is our next stop—a dusty, cramped space filled with centuries of magical and mundane artifacts. Mr. Finch jumps at the sound of the bell, his ancient fingers clutching the edge of the counter until the blue veins beneath his papery skin stand out like rivers on a map.

"We're just here to ask about Thomas," I say, naming the vampire who was the first victim.

Mr. Finch's eyes dart between us, never making direct contact. "Don't know anything," he says quickly. "Barely knew the fellow."

Jasper steps forward, his presence somehow filling the small shop. "Town gossip says otherwise. You two argued publicly the week before his death."