A Gaggle of Ghastly Grandmamas: Wonky Inn Book 9 Page 3

  “That’s a first!” Gwyn clapped her hands happily. “My great-granddaughter actually thinks I’ve had a good idea.” I could see how pleased she was, and that warmed my heart.

  “It’s not a first,” I told her. “Not at all.” I paused, my pen ready to scribble down the details. “Does this sorority or branch of the Witches Institute or whatever you want to call it have an actual name?”

  “Kappa Sigma Granma.”

  Sitting diagonally from me, Charity roared with laughter and slapped the table.

  The only thing I wanted to slap was my own head. “Granma?” I asked. “Why ‘granma’? That’s not a Greek letter.”

  Gwyn shrugged. “Who cares. We mostly were granmas, so that’s what we’re called.”

  I really should have known what to expect. The name gave it away.

  Kappa Sigma Granma? Really?

  Just ten days after the staff meeting in The Snug, I prepared to open the doors of Whittle Inn to a Witches’ Institute convention. Gwyn had been as good as her word. She’d sent invitations by email and text (with a little help from Charity), letter, telegram, telephone, pigeon and owl post. We’d received in excess of a hundred responses and now every room had been booked, and part of the attic had been cleared to make room for more deceased witches. In total, we expected forty-three souls.

  I’d had the Wonky Inn Ghostly Clean-up Crew set to with their mops and feather dusters under Florence’s beady eye. Monsieur Emietter had been conjuring up a creative menu of spectacular delicacies from around the world and, to that end, I’d placed umpteen deliveries with Whittle Stores for everything from frozen frogs’ legs to Vietnamese snails.

  The boiler had been behaving itself for the most part. It seemed most temperamental first thing in the morning when we began to use a lot of water. I’d found that if I went into the boiler room and gave the boiler a sharp smack with the palm of my hand, it came on. I couldn’t figure out why; I just went with it. So far, I hadn’t bothered to pursue the idea of locating a new industrial-sized boiler for the inn. It wasn’t as if I had the ready cash anyway.

  Ned and Finbarr had chopped dozens and dozens of bags of logs from the fallen trees in Speckled Wood and we’d stored them in our large shed to dry out and season in case of emergencies. I’d arranged for a basket of logs and kindle to be left in every bedroom just in case the boiler failed, but I hoped that, for the most part, everybody would be downstairs in either the main bar, The Snug or The Hug, playing games and enjoying our hospitality and entertainment.

  Sitting at my desk, I shut down a screen on my computer and glanced across at my planner. “What am I supposed to be doing again?” I murmured.

  “Hooo-ooo.” I peered up into the sparkling eyes of Mr Hoo. “Hoooooo. Hooo-oooo. Ooooh.”

  “Wasting time? How dare you suggest such a thing?!”

  “Hoooo. Hooo.”

  “I was not playing a game!”

  “Hoo-oo!”

  “Alright, I was. But I’m on level forty-two of Castles and Crones. I’ve rescued the damsel in distress and I’ve located nearly all of the ingredients for the potion, but I keep getting trapped in the garderobe. I’ve played this level about a thousand times and I always get timed out trying to escape. It’s impossible. I’m pretty sure the software cheats.”

  “Hoo-oo-oo.” Mr Hoo laughed at me. “Too-wit!”

  I grinned and put a finger to my lips. “Ssh. Don’t tell anyone.” I swung my chair back. I could hear the sound of a vacuum cleaner drifting upstairs, and floorboards creaking above my head. The last-minute touches were almost complete. “I really ought to show willing,” I said and grabbed my clipboard. “Do some supervising … and stuff. Try and look important.”

  “Hoo hoo ooooh?”

  I paused and gazed at him thoughtfully. “Who’s coming? Just a bunch of old witches. And ghosts. Or old dead witches, if you prefer.”

  “I heard that, Alfhild.”

  Old Bat Ears herself apparated out of nowhere. I should have thought before I spoke, but I swear she can read my mind anyway. “Sorry, Grandmama.” I tried to look sheepish.

  “Hoo oooo hoo?”

  “What’s he twittering about?” Gwyn asked, waspish despite my apology.

  I reached out and stroked his soft feathery head. “What’s up?”

  He knitted his brow. “Hoo oooo hoo. Hooo-oo?”

  “How many familiars are we expecting?”

  “Hoo.”

  “I don’t know.” I turned to Gwyn. “I really hadn’t given that much thought.” I glanced down at my clipboard. All of the meetings and tête-à-têtes Charity and I had sat through, and nobody had thought about familiars. “Grandmama?” I asked. “Do you think we’ll have more familiars than usual?”

  “Oh, no.” Gwyn sounded confident. “Not everyone has a familiar, do they?” She twirled a hand in the air. I nodded. I had never heard Gwyn mention a familiar. “About the same as we’d normally expect when the inn is full would be my best guess.”

  “Well, there you are,” I smiled down at Mr Hoo. “Half a dozen, maybe a few more.”

  “Hoo—”

  “You’re not nervous, are you?” I asked as the internal phone began to ring.

  “Hoo—”

  “I just need to get this,” I told him.

  “Hoo—”

  I picked up the old Bakelite receiver. “Alf speaking.”

  “I think the first guest is here.” Charity’s voice sounded as though she were several hundred miles and six decades away rather than downstairs. That’s the problem with old technology.

  “Already? I thought we had another hour at least.” I grimaced. I’d spent too long playing Castles and Crones and not enough time doing my job. “We’ll be right down.” I replaced the receiver and nodded at Gwyn; she smoothed the front of her lacy Edwardian blouse and adjusted the high collar.

  “Hoo—”

  “I’ll be back soon!” I sang and, grabbing my clipboard and a pen, waltzed out of the office, Gwyn flitting past me in a rush to beat me down the stairs. There was no competition really, she left me for dust.

  I pulled the door closed on Mr Hoo’s indignant twittering.

  “Ah, there you are, Alfhild,” my great-grandmother announced in her most imperious tone as I followed her down the stairs and into the reception area less than sixty seconds later. “What kept you? Our first guests have arrived.”

  Resisting the urge to cut my eyes at Gwyn, I rushed forwards to greet the newcomers.

  “Oh, watch out Miss Alf!” Florence cried, but too late. I tumbled to the floor, my feet tangled in the vacuum cleaner’s cord.

  “Ouch.” I didn’t have time to wait for the pain to start. I hurriedly sprang up, my face burning.

  “Are you alright, Miss?” Florence asked, evidently concerned. “I’m so sorry—”

  “I’m fine,” I smiled, resisting the urge to rub my knees and my right wrist, which had taken quite a jolt. I gestured with my head and Florence hurriedly twitched a finger at the vacuum cleaner’s cord. It rapidly sucked itself into the machine and Florence ushered it towards the bar.

  “Pleased to meet you!” I announced as cheerfully as I could manage and as though nothing untoward had happened. I thrust my throbbing hand out in the direction of the woman nearest me.

  Three elderly women stood together, the taller, darker, most austere-looking one flanked by two smaller, altogether gentler creatures. Obviously witches, all three were dressed in traditional long black robes, pristine and neatly buttoned up, with polished leather lace-up shoes. Their outfits were topped off by freshly brushed pointed hats that stood tall and straight.

  An awkward silence fell over us all, gathered there together in the hallway as the first witch, a woman in her eighties I imagined, and yet standing as upright as an Apollo rocket, regarded me with scarcely concealed contempt. Dark eyes glittered with hostility above her pinched nose and thin lips. My stomach flip-flopped. Had I done something to offend her? Already?

&
nbsp; I glanced hurriedly at Gwyn.

  “Phyllis, I’d like you to meet my great-granddaughter, Alfhild Yasmin Daemonne. Named after myself of course. Alfhild, this is Phyllis Bliss. She’s the highest-ranking living member of Kappa Sigma Granma.”

  “Welcome to Whittle Inn,” I tried again. After another few seconds of uncomfortable scrutiny, Phyllis finally cracked and held out her own hand. Her handshake was light, her skin dry and her fingers cold.

  “Alfhild is custodian of the inn at the present moment in time,” Gwyn said, her way of making it clear that although in the mundane world my name was on the legal documents as the owner, in the magickal world, I wasn’t the only person making all the decisions and pulling the strings. “How long has it been now, dear?”

  “Nearly two years,” I said, although it was still four months off two years. I bristled, slightly irked by the turn the conversation was taking. I hoped Gwyn wouldn’t be claiming the high ground with all of our guests. That would be tiresome in the extreme and make for a rather long week.

  “From what we’ve seen so far, you’re doing a marvellous job.” The soft voice of the witch on the right of Phyllis calmed me down a little. Probably in her late sixties and shorter than Phyllis and way more rounded, her hair was a soft yellow-blonde—obviously dyed these days—and her blue eyes sparkled. Evidently from somewhere in the south of the USA, she had an attractive drawl. It sounded as though she needed to giggle. I warmed to her instantly.

  “This is Onnalee Mason,” Gwyn said. “I knew her grandmother, Prudence Beaujolais, very well for a time. Onnalee’s mother Roberta was a founding member of Kappa Sigma Granma, but sadly she is no longer around.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” I smiled, and this time when I shook hands, the grip was warmer in all the ways that mattered.

  “I am honoured to meet you, honey. I’ve seen photos of my grandmama and yours together when they were young and oh my gosh, you look just like her with all that wonderful untamed red hair.”

  “You’ll have to tell me all you know,” I said, and cast a sly glance at Gwyn.

  “There’s nothing to tell.” Gwyn rose to the bait.

  “How can you say that, Aunt Alfhild?” protested Onnalee. “There is so much to tell.” She turned to me and lowered her voice. “I declare, what a pair they were.”

  I rubbed my hands in glee, but Gwyn floated between us in an effort to redirect my attention. “And this is Sybil Torkelson.” Sybil, also in her late sixties or early seventies, had hair as grey as a battleship, pale blue eyes and the soft milky skin of the Scandinavian races. “Welcome to Whittle Inn,” I smiled, and she nodded pleasantly enough.

  Charity bustled up behind us. “I’ve arranged for welcome drinks in the bar,” she told me.

  “Excellent!” I indicated the visitors should come with me. “I’ll take you through and you can rest after your journey while I have your luggage taken up to your rooms.”

  “I’ll give Ned a shout,” Charity offered and skipped off.

  “You caught us on the hop,” I said, trying my best to make conversation. “We weren’t expecting you quite yet.”

  “We prefer to be punctual,” Phyllis said. “Punctuality is something young people today don’t seem to understand.”

  I pouted. “I’m not sure that’s strictly—”

  Gwyn shook her head at me, ever so slightly, so I shut up. “Right this way, ladies.” I bowed and indicated the door to the bar, allowing first Phyllis, then Onnalee to go ahead.

  Sybil brought up the rear. “Would it be possible to have my familiar brought in straight away?” she asked, indicating the front door. “She’s old, and it’s rather cold outside.”

  “Of course.” I turned to go back, imagining I’d find a cat basket or perhaps a birdcage on the gravel drive with the witches’ luggage that I could bring in and perhaps redeem myself in everyone’s eyes.

  Instead, I was faced with a mountain of trunks and cages that fair took my breath away. I found myself transported back to Perdita Pugh’s visit. She too had been someone who struggled to travel lightly.

  “How, by all that’s green, did you get this little lot here?” I asked, trying to make light of it.

  “We had help.” Sybil spoke slowly, looking down her nose at me, as though I was the simplest being she’d ever met. She crinkled her eyes—you couldn’t have called it a smile—and strolled off after Phyllis and Onnalee.

  I stared at the vacant space she’d left and then back at the luggage and the cages and then at Gwyn.

  “Jump to it,” said my great-grandmother, and apparated away.

  An hour later, I was still at it. No sooner had I managed to clear one pile of luggage, than more guests began to arrive, and another load appeared.

  “Wow,” I said, exiting the inn for the umpteenth time and finding a Mount Everest-sized pile in front of me. “I’m not the bellhop,” I muttered as I picked up yet another birdcage to transfer indoors. Ned cast a wary glance in my direction, took one look at my face and scooted out of the way. “I don’t get where all these animals have come from. Where will I put them all?” I turned in a circle. The green eyes of several cats stared at me without blinking. Birds of all kinds including budgies, canaries, numerous owls, several ravens and the parakeet I held in my hand, twittered in excitement. “I wasn’t expecting this at all. There has to be more than one familiar per witch here.”

  “That might be my fault.”

  I blinked in surprise. A woman had suddenly appeared at the edge of the circle of luggage. Slight of figure and only a little older than myself, her hair hung in unwashed rats’ tails around her shoulders, a dull mousey colour that could easily have been lifted with some hair dye, had she cared enough. She had a strong Roman nose and a wide mouth. Wearing an old green woollen coat with a beige scarf wrapped several times around her neck, she still managed to look cold. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her nose raw. “Quite a few of these are mine,” she said. “In fact, I’d say over three-quarters are.”

  “Really?” I asked. What did she think I was running here? A menagerie?

  “Well, mine and my mother’s.” She nodded in the direction of the inn and pulled a gloved hand from her pocket, swiping at her nose. “Ugh. I have a rotten runny nose.”

  Uh-oh. Avoid at all costs, I thought to myself, knowing full well I could catch a cold at the slightest provocation. “Well, come on in,” I urged her. “It’s warm inside. I can have my housekeeper put something medicinal together, or I’ll just ask the barman to pour you a brandy.”

  The woman looked taken aback at that. “Oh no,” she said. “It’s a bit early to have a drink.”

  “Is it?” I wondered what time it was. Just after midday? The goddess knew I could do with a stiff one.

  She shuffled towards me, sniffling. “I just want to get this lot settled in.”

  I resisted the urge to back away. “No problem, I’ll get one of my crew to help you out.” I turned back to her, the parakeet in the cage dangling from my hand chirping sweetly. “Ooh!” I remembered. “What name are you booked under? I’ll need to make sure this lot—I mean, this erm … your friends here—are sent up to the right room.”

  The woman widened her eyes. “Don’t do that!” she screeched. “I have allergies. They’ll need to be housed in a different room.”

  “A different room?”

  “Yes. I get asthma if I share a bedroom with them all overnight.”

  “I see,” I said, although I didn’t really. “Where do you keep them at home?”

  “We have a little granny annexe in the garden and most of them have free rein in there.”

  “Right.” I scratched my head. “Did you mention that you’d need another room when you made your reservation? Only—”

  The woman shrugged. “I assumed there would be an office or something we could use.”

  I regarded the pile of cages and baskets in horror. The inn had been fully booked out in order to accommodate Gwyn’s sorority. I didn’t have a
spare bedroom to keep these animals in, the attic had been pre-allocated for the visiting ghosts, and the big shed out the back—the one that had most recently doubled as a stable for a lost reindeer—was full to the brim of Finbarr’s chopped logs. I pondered on using the beer cellar. It could get very cold down there and there were no windows.

  Which left The Snug and The Hug, both of which I’d earmarked for Gwyn’s board game championships, at her behest.

  I sighed. “I’m sure I can sort something out, Ms—?”

  “Cuthbert. Delia Cuthbert.” She snorted hard and I decided against shaking her hand. It sounded as though she had the makings of a nasty respiratory virus. I made a mental note to phone my friendly potioner, Millicent Ballicott, and see whether she could come up to the inn and subtly enquire about Delia’s health. Perhaps she could create something to ease the symptoms. I hoped whatever it was she had wasn’t contagious. The last thing I needed was an inn on lockdown.

  That wouldn’t do my profits any good. And it would scupper my plans for a new boiler.

  “I wanted to ask,” she said, hacking again and swiping at her nose, “would it be possible to walk in that forest?” She pointed in the direction of Speckled Wood.

  “Oh, absolutely!” I enthused. A walk in the fresh air might help her boost her immune system, if she didn’t freeze to death first of course. “You just need to follow the path to the outskirts, and you’ll soon pick up a trail.”

  She blinked rapidly. “I wouldn’t want to get lost.”

  “Honestly? I don’t think that would happen as long as you stay within the boundary of Speckled Wood. The trees are marked with luminescent dots, and the trails are all well signposted.”

  “Perhaps,” she hesitated. “You wouldn’t be able to show me around, would you?”

  I hated to turn her down. “I can’t really. We’re fully booked, and I have to work inside.”

  She shrugged and turned her face down to the ground. “Oh, that’s fine. I get it. Really I do.” She coughed hard and I grimaced.

  A thought occurred to me. “I could ask Finbarr. He works here and knows the forest better than anyone.”