How to Stone a Crow (Witch Like a Boss Book 2) by Willow Mason (great novels txt) 📕

She adjusted a set of horn-rimmed glasses that Dame Edna would have been proud of, then squinted over the top. “Is this the paranormal investigative unit?”

“Sure is.” I stepped back. “Come on inside.”

“Oh… well… no, I don’t want to intrude.”

Definitely not a member of my aunt’s circle. “It’s no bother. What do you need help with?”

The woman snuck one foot inside, clinging to the doorframe and leaving her other foot on the mat as though her shoes had serious commitment issues. “It’s to do with my fiancé.”

I nodded and plastered a large smile on my face, hoping she hadn’t confused us with the private eye in Briarton who specialised in fraudulent building claims and cheating spouses. “What about him?”

She pulled at her ponytail, sucking in a large breath, her eyes turning to glance back at the street, checking her exit was clear.

“He’s dead,” she whispered before heaving in another deep breath. “He was murdered.”

Chapter Two

“Please eat something,” I urged fifteen minutes later as the woman sat in a puddle of tears at my kitchen table, still unable to speak. The last few biscuits from a stale packet of gingernuts where the best I could do at short notice and I nudged the plate closer. “Get your blood sugar levels up.”

“Would you like us to call the police?” Patrick asked from the doorway, hovering in a way that set my teeth on edge but appeared to comfort our distraught client. “We can ask them for more details if you give us your name.”

“P-P-P-Pru Donnelly,” the woman spluttered before another wave of sorrow turned her mute.

As Patrick made good on his promise, I patted the back of Pru’s hand, feeling wholly inadequate. I’d already made a cup of tea and offered snacks. Until we had more information, the best I could do was click my tongue in sympathy and power on through the awkwardness.

My partner shook his head, moving into the hallway to muffle his conversation. Uh-oh. That wasn’t the sign I wanted to see.

Was there a spell for grief? If so, I couldn’t remember it. Perhaps the one I used for drying up the spill underneath the dishwasher when the pipe disconnected mid-cycle would do?

Luckily, Patrick came back before I put that disastrous thought to good use. “I’ve spoken with Sergeant Grosvenor and he remembers the case.” He helped himself to a biscuit then turning his nose up as his teeth encountered softness instead of crunch.

Remembers? What a weird thing to say about an active homicide case. Unless… “When did your fiancé die?”

Pru waved her hands in distress, one of them settling on a biscuit that she made gone in a few seconds flat before she chugged half her cup of tea. “It’s been a while.”

I turned to Patrick, and he nodded. “Fifteen years,” he mouthed, taking a seat opposite me so Pru was sandwiched between us. “I guess it’s something you never really get over.”

“Haven’t they solved the homicide?”

Patrick appeared to be trying to communicate using only his eyebrows, but whatever he wanted to convey was beyond my ability. “Please just use your words.”

“The sergeant didn’t seem to think there was a murder.”

“Neither did I,” Pru managed, wiping her face dry with the heel of her hand. “Until this morning. Andrew always seemed perfectly content, but now… now…” She shook her head.

<Andrew Darby,> Annalisa said, strolling into the room and curling up at my feet. <He dropped dead of a heart attack one morning on the way to work and his car went flying off the road. Lucky he didn’t kill anyone else.>

“Except it wasn’t a heart attack.” Pru sobbed again, then slapped her palm flat on the table in frustration. “He told me someone poisoned him. Someone wanted to get him out of the way.”

Patrick settled back in his chair, used to disentangling the threads of conversations with familiars he couldn’t hear. “Why didn’t the police pick that up during his original autopsy?”

“How should I know?” The woman’s newfound anger cut through her sorrow, and with a sniff, Pru regained her composure. “Maybe they’re all useless at their jobs. Maybe they didn’t think to look. Maybe—”

“Who told you this?” I asked. “If your fiancé’s been dead for so long, who decided it was a good idea to dredge up this accusation today?”

“He did. From his own lips.”

“But he’s…” Patrick searched for a polite way to say what we were both thinking.

“If he’s dead, how is he talking to you?”

“His ghost told me.” Pru wiped her face with her sleeve, drying up the last of her tears. “Every morning, he comes and keeps me company during breakfast. It’s like our… routine, I guess you’d call it. We have a wee chat, and he leaves, then he’ll turn up again the next morning.”

“And it’s taken this long for him to tell you he was murdered?” Patrick took the revelation in his stride. “What’s different about this morning?”

“I don’t know.” Pru clenched her hands into fists, her jaw tightening into stark relief. “Up until today, he didn’t even seem to know he was dead. Now, he’s fully aware, and he’s not at all happy.”

<Who killed him?> Annalisa stared at Pru with her hypnotic eyes. <Since the pair of investigators you’re trying to hire don’t seem to be capable of asking the obvious question.>

Pru’s face collapsed into uncertainty. “He didn’t say,” she said after a long pause.

Looks like we weren’t the only ones to overlook the obvious question. “You said he joins you every morning?” I asked, pulling my phone out and opening a notes app. Pru nodded. “What’s your address? We’ll drop by tomorrow with some equipment and ask him ourselves.”

“Would you?” She relaxed in the chair, sporting a relieved expression. “Honestly, that would be wonderful. I was scared no one would believe me and I’d have to sort everything out myself.”

“Why wouldn’t we believe you?” Patrick asked.

<Because she’s a nutter with a history of mental illness?>

I kept a straight face, grateful that Annalisa appeared to have sent the