A Gaggle of Ghastly Grandmamas: Wonky Inn Book 9 Read online

  A Gaggle of Ghastly Grandmamas:

  Wonky Inn Book 9

  by

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  JEANNIE WYCHERLEY

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  Copyright © 2020 Jeannie Wycherley

  Bark at the Moon Books

  All rights reserved

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  Publishers note: This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and for effect or are used with permission. Any other resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of very brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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  Sign up for Jeannie’s newsletter: eepurl.com/cN3Q6L

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  A Gaggle of Ghastly Grandmamas was edited by Christine L Baker

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  Cover design by JC Clarke of The Graphics Shed.

  Formatting by Tammy

  Proofing by Johnny Bon Bon

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  Please note: This book is set in England in the United Kingdom. It uses British English spellings and idioms.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Need More Wonky?

  Please leave me a review

  The Wonky Inn Series

  Also by Jeannie Wycherley

  Coming Soon

  Special dedication

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  We find ourselves in unprecedented times and I’m sure, like me, you’ve been feeling the strain.

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  I’d like to dedicate Wonky Inn Book 9 to everyone who has found themselves in the front line, especially to all our NHS workers and carers in the UK

  and to health workers worldwide.

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  Also those who are so often forgotten: the delivery drivers, the supermarket workers, the pharmacists, the cleaners, the council workers, those working in public transport, the police and the fire service, the prison service and so on.

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  But most especially, I want to dedicate this book to all of you who are fearful or alone or simply in need of a hug.

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  The doors of Wonky Inn are always open.

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  Rest assured, Alf and the gang, and I, will welcome you anytime.

  * * *

  Jeannie Wycherley xxx

  April 2020

  “If the wind changes, your face will stick that way, you know?” Charity, dressed in a chunky cardigan with a bobble hat covering her faded green hair, leaned against the door frame and chuckled. Steam drifted out of the large mug in her hand and I realised I could do with a cuppa myself.

  “Hoo-hoo-hoo.”

  I gently moved Mr Hoo, balancing on my monitor, slightly to one side so I could see Charity properly over the top of the screen. I poked my tongue out at her. The air was frigid, so I didn’t leave it out there too long.

  “Is that for me?” I asked, ever hopeful.

  “No, it’s mine.” Charity cradled the mug to her chest and stepped into the office. The enticing scent of soup tickled my nostrils and, right on cue, my stomach rumbled. “What’s got you all grumpy?”

  Pulling the heavy blanket I’d wrapped around myself a little more snugly under my chin, I narrowed my eyes in response. “I can’t imagine.” I huffed my breath out. “Have you seen this? It’s steam. That means the ambient air temperature in this room is lower than my body temperature. I’m freezing in other words. And what’s more, I can only find one glove.” I waved a mittened hand in her direction. “You haven’t seen the other one, have you?”

  “Nope.” Charity tipped her head up to the ceiling. “Although you’d imagine there were a million pairs of gloves up in the loft somewhere. Hiding out in a chest. Just waiting for you to set them free.”

  “Eww,” I turned my nose up. “Can you imagine? Full of the dust and dirt of decades gone by.”

  “It’s not very warm, I must admit. I’ve got a t-shirt, a jumper and a cardigan on,” Charity said, giving me a little twirl.

  I pointed a foot at her. “I’m wearing three pairs of socks.” I could barely get my slipper-boots on. My feet were the warmest part of me. Let’s not talk about how cold my backside was, sitting in this chair and not moving around much.

  Charity tittered again and took a sip of her soup. “Mmm. Yummy.” She narrowed her eyes in ecstasy and I glared at her.

  Sitting up a little straighter, I asked, “What flavour is it?”

  “Winter veg. Leftovers from Sunday dinner, I think. It’s glorious.”

  “It sounds it.” I gave a theatrical shiver—channelling my inner Kate Winslet on the sinking Titanic, chattering teeth and all. “I’m so cold. I need soup!”

  Charity hugged her mug again. “Then go and get some, lazybones!”

  “I’m working,” I grumbled, pointing at the spreadsheet on the display.

  “Unlike the boiler,” Charity reminded me.

  As if I needed reminding.

  The ancient boiler responsible for heating the water and the radiators had been temperamental ever since I’d taken over Whittle Inn and had conked out three times in the few weeks since Christmas. With a bit of patience and some prodding, I’d usually been able to tease it back to life. Not so, today.

  “I’ve called the plumber approximately nine million times,” I said, and picked up my mobile to check for any call-back I might have missed. Of course, I couldn’t possibly have missed a message because I hadn’t been more than six inches from my phone the entire morning.

  “And what about the fuel situation?” Charity asked.

  She meant the coal and wood we needed for the fires. Whittle Inn is blessed with dozens of open fires. There’s one in every bedroom, the bar of course, The Snug and The Hug, and the kitchen. Late the previous evening, we’d realised we were out of coal and had little in the way of wood left either.

  “I phoned down to Whittle Stores and Stan promised he’ll do his best to get us some. Finbarr is out chopping wood with Ned and Zephaniah. Between the three of them, we should be able to keep a fire going, even if it’s only the big one in the bar.”

  “We’ll have to huddle together in there, then.” Charity sipped her soup and made a few appreciative noises. “Mmm. Yum.”

  I put my head down, studiously ignoring both her and the gurgle of cold empty hunger emanating from my stomach.

  “Why don’t you come and work down there where it’s a bit warmer?” Charity asked. “It’s not as if we’re overrun with guests at the moment.”

  “Mmm. No kidding,” I grumped.

  A lack of guests was partly responsible for my glum mood. Bookings for the inn were down. I kind of expected a slump in January, I mean, who in their right mind t
akes a holiday in the UK in January? Down here in the south-west it didn’t even get snow very often (unless Mara the Stormbringer was having an off day). No. It remained generally cold and damp or, as today, frozen solid outside. But it seemed to me that I’d had more cancellations than normal, and even a few of our regulars like Frau Kirsch, who practically lived with us, had yet to enquire about fresh reservations for the spring.

  “Maybe I need to do some more advertising or something. Bolster awareness of how wonderful a stay at Whittle Inn can be, even in the grip of the deadliest of winters.”

  “It’s hardly deadly, boss,” Charity laughed. “It’s a bit cold and the boiler isn’t working. Other than that, perfectly normal for the time of year.”

  That seemed to be an opportune moment for my deceased great-grandmother to apparate into the room. I say ‘apparate’, but that assumes that she wasn’t there to begin with and, as far as I’m aware, Alfhild Gwynfyre Daemonne—or just Gwyn as I like to call her behind her back—is annoyingly omnipresent. Unless you want her for some reason, and then she can’t be found.

  Anywhere.

  Today Gwyn looked particularly resplendent in her blue velvet ballgown and tiara.

  “Board games,” she announced.

  Charity snorted. The way Gwyn had expelled the word it had sounded like something else entirely.

  “I beg your pardon, Grandmama?” I asked politely, sending Charity a warning look.

  “Are you going deaf, Alfhild? I said, board games. Why don’t you organise a board games weekend? People like board games.”

  “Do they?” I rocked back in my chair, pulling the blanket around my shoulders again. Gwyn sometimes invited a few of her friends over to play cards, mainly bridge and cribbage, but I couldn’t recall ever seeing her playing a board game. “Like Monopoly and Buckaroo, you mean?” I’d enjoyed playing those with my Dad as a kid.

  Charity sniffed. “That’s all a bit last century, isn’t it?”

  I blinked. Last century? We weren’t exactly running a business popular with millennials, were we? Had it passed Charity by that the average age of people who stayed at our wonky inn was probably about seventy? And that quite a few of them—like Gwyn’s friends—had died decades ago?

  Gwyn ignored Charity. “I was thinking more of bagatelle.”

  “Bagatelle?” Charity and I repeated at the same time.

  I couldn’t resist it. I had to follow up. “Jinx!”

  Charity lifted her mug to her lips. “You’re such a child, Alf.”

  “Takes one to know one!” I had yet to forgive her for having soup when I had none. She understood the cause of my angst and therefore smirked and took a big swig.

  I turned my attention back to Gwyn. “It’s a nice idea Grandmama, but I’m not sure a bagatelle weekend would have quite the draw that Whittle Inn needs at the moment.”

  “You don’t know till you try,” Gwyn barked. “You shouldn’t be so closed-minded, Alfhild.”

  Oh, here we go, I thought. It’s ‘have a pop at Alf’ time.

  “Perhaps not a bagatelle weekend, but some other event,” Charity nodded. “I think that’s a great idea, Gwyn.”

  “Marvellous. Everyone’s ganging up on me.” I folded my arms and the blanket slipped off my shoulders. “We’re not hosting an event of any kind. We just need to attract some—”

  “An event could be a great money-spinner. You can charge a little more for food and drinks,” Gwyn nodded.

  “I don’t think—” I began.

  “Or have an all-inclusive package,” Charity said, her voice rising with excitement. “I went on holiday to Tenerife and absolutely everything was included. I didn’t stop eating for a week.”

  “How would we make any money if everybody ate and drank all day every day?” I asked, appalled by the idea. “How much food would we need to order? How much would go to waste?”

  “Okay,” Charity shrugged. “Just a suggestion. Do it Gwyn’s way and charge extra for evening meal and drinks. Let’s see. What kind of event can we organise?”

  “We’re not holding an event,” I reminded her, a little more firmly this time. Why was everyone intent on ignoring me?

  “Don’t be a stick-in-the-mud, Alf. We organised a great wedding—”

  “I’m never doing that again.” I shuddered.

  Charity rolled her eyes. “It doesn’t have to be a vampire—”

  “No weddings. No events.” I was adamant. “And definitely no vampires.”

  Charity tried a different tack. “Well, what about something culinary? You know, we could host something like The Great Witchy Cake Off again?”

  “Absolutely not!”

  Gwyn nodded at Charity in full agreement. “Really, Alf. That was a magnificent success.”

  “Somebody died, Grandmama,” I reminded her. “And to be fair, you spent most of the time hidden away.”

  Gwyn had the grace to look sheepish. “Did I?”

  “And this is the problem,” I complained, forcing my chair back. “I end up having to handle things we haven’t planned for, and it can all be a little bit stressful.”

  “Oh my,” Gwyn tutted. “You are being a bit precious this afternoon, my dear.”

  “Hooo!” Mr Hoo joined in.

  “She’s hangry,” said Charity.

  “I am not!” I returned, starting to get narky now. My mobile vibrated and began dancing towards the edge of the desk. I reached for it before it could tumble off. “Hello?” I asked, glad of the distraction. Mr Perry, the plumber, was calling to let me know he’d be along in five minutes. He’d just finished a job in Whittlecombe and I had made it to the top of his to-visit list. “Splendid!” I smiled. “See you in a minute.”

  I stood up and violently threw my blanket aside. Mr Hoo flew away in alarm. “You see?” I demanded. “That was the plumber. He’s on his way. We’ll have heating and hot water by teatime.”

  Feeling more positive, I skipped past Gwyn and Charity. “I’m going to go downstairs and meet him.”

  Charity nodded and slipped into the seat I’d vacated to have a look at my spreadsheet. It told the full story of the financial bind Whittle Inn currently found itself in. She raised her eyebrows at me.

  “No need to look like that,” I told her. “Things will pick up. I won’t need to hold an event of any kind. People will be flocking to our nice warm inn again in no time.”

  I wiggled my fingers at them, one hand in a mitten, the other naked. “Mark my words.”

  More like famous last words.

  A rather substantial beast, the inn’s boiler was housed in its own room, just off the kitchen at the back of the inn. Mr Perry took the screwdriver from between his teeth and pointed at a brass component in front of us. He’d unscrewed the cover and what I was examining now looked like nothing I’d ever seen before. Thin copper pipes and a variety of brightly coloured wires had been mashed together to create … well, a mess, quite frankly.

  Now I’m not a plumber. Drains and stopcocks and u-bends and taps are not my thing. I’ve had occasion to bleed radiators—goodness knows there are dozens of them at Whittle Inn—but boilers are something I’ve never really taken much notice of. Boilers are why central heating experts were invented.

  That being said, I didn’t recognise the inside of this boiler as being typical of a normal boiler and, judging by Mr Perry’s face, neither did he.

  “There’s your problem,” he said.

  I edged a little closer and grimaced. What should I be looking at? “Where?”

  “There,” he said and waved a hand in a gesture that covered everything we could see.

  “Oh.”

  He scratched his head. “You know, Miss Daemonne, I have never not seen nothing like this before and I’ve been a plumber for nigh-on forty years, I have. How old do we reckon this contraption is?”

  “Ha ha ha.” I laughed to cover the sinking feeling in my stomach. “Well, I don’t suppose they had boilers in the fourteenth century, so any time aft
er that is my guess.”

  “No, I don’t suppose they did.” Mr Perry had missed my attempt at humour.

  “So, can we fix it?” I asked, knowing that there was no ‘we’ about it. Either Mr Perry could, or he couldn’t. I certainly wouldn’t be able to.

  Mr Perry nodded, his face grave. “I really wouldn’t know where to start to even try and patch this thing up, but in any case, I think if I were you, I’d seriously consider upgrading this old monster to something a little more up-to-date.”

  “Really?” I rubbed my forehead. “And how much would that set me back?”

  “Oooh. Now you’re asking. For a building this size with this many rooms? I expect you use a fair amount of water, don’t you?” Mr Perry glanced up at the ceiling as though he would be able to count the number of bathrooms in the inn using some sort of X-ray vision.

  “A small oceanful every day,” I nodded. “And that’s just the washing machines.”

  “That’s what I thought. You’ll need an industrial-sized boiler to cope with everything. That and having the pipes flushed through and the radiators cleaned out, you won’t get much change from, let me think …” he pondered, screwing up one eye, “… around fifteen grand. Maybe more.”