A Gaggle of Ghastly Grandmamas: Wonky Inn Book 9 Page 5

  “Has anyone seen my parakeet?” A plaintive voice drifted into the bar from the door that separated us from the back passage.

  Delia, dressed in a long nightshirt, a thick pair of mustard-coloured socks and a pom-pom hat, stood in the doorway, a dewdrop glistening on the tip of her nose. Automatically I reached out to feel the nearest radiator. It was on, and I’d managed to persuade the small but vocal group of menopausal middle-aged witches to shut the windows. The main fire was pumping heat out into the bar too.

  Most of us were plenty warm enough, but not, by the look of it, poor Delia.

  “Has the parakeet gone missing?” I asked. I hadn’t seen it since I’d left it in the reception area. I’d abandoned Ned to the task of transporting the familiars to The Snug or the witches’ rooms.

  “The cage is there, but the door is open and poor Cuthbert has gone.”

  I blinked. “Cuthbert?”

  Delia nodded, her pale face a picture of misery.

  “Cuthbert Cuthbert?” I asked, carefully keeping any hilarity in check.

  “That’s right.” Delia’s eyes swam with tears.

  I moved towards her, steering her back towards The Snug. “I’m sure we’ll find him. Let me get someone to help you look.”

  Someone who isn’t me, I thought. Someone who isn’t likely to catch whatever germs you are currently harbouring. One of the ghosts would be ideal. I mean, I know ghosts get sick—okay, that’s something I hadn’t actually known until relatively recently, but I knew it now—however, as far as I understand it, sickness doesn’t cross the spiritual plane.

  “Archibald?” I called and, almost instantaneously, the ghost I’d first met at Castle Iadului appeared before me.

  “Madam?” He performed a smart bow and smiled politely at Delia.

  “Ms Cuthbert has lost her parakeet. Would you be a dear and help her find it? I’m hoping he’s in The Snug somewhere, but if not, check throughout the inn.”

  “Of course, Madam.” Archibald indicated the door to The Snug and Delia opened it and walked in.

  “Let’s hope Cuthbert hasn’t found his way outside,” I whispered.

  Archibald touched the side of his nose. “I’ll be thorough, Madam.”

  “I’d appreciate it.” I watched Archibald disappear into The Snug and pulled the door closed behind him. I didn’t want to run the risk of any of the other familiars escaping.

  “Mind how you go, Miss Alf!” Florence’s warning stopped me before I could step back. I turned carefully. A towering pile of pristine tablecloths and napkins approached me, Florence levitating them down the corridor from behind. I squeezed against the wall as the linen passed by and Florence smiled as she drew level with me.

  “I’m laying up for the evening meal, Miss. It’s going to be quite the banquet.”

  “Has Monsieur Emietter calmed down?” I jerked my head in the direction of the kitchen, my stomach growling. I’d skipped lunch when Phyllis Bliss and her entourage had turned up earlier than expected, so the two slices of toast I’d hurriedly consumed first thing had long since been digested.

  “I’d leave it a while if I were you, Miss.” Florence gave me a critical look. “Poor Monsieur Emietter is having to adapt a range of the dishes he planned. It is causing him a little anxiety, I think.”

  “Why is he adapting the dishes?” I asked. Charity and I had run through the menus with him so that we could produce menu scrolls every evening with the range of options available to our guests.

  Charity squeezed past the floating tower of tablecloths, clutching a notepad and a pen. She still had a high colour. It looked as though I wasn’t the only one being run ragged by our new guests. “He’s been inundated with last-minute dietary requirements. I’ve got a few more to add to the list here.”

  “Oooh,” Florence grimaced. “Good luck with that.” She ushered her linen pile forwards and I craned my neck to take a look at Charity’s scribbles.

  Her handwriting was worse than mine, and that was saying something. “We always check on dietary requirements when we take the bookings,” I said. “Why are they suddenly letting us know something different now?” I pointed at the page. “What does that say? Sost goof owly?”

  “Soft food only.”

  “Oh!” I nodded. That made sense. “Hmm.”

  “And here,” Charity pointed, “no salt, pepper or any spices.”

  “Ick. Don’t these people like to taste things?”

  “Perhaps they prefer subtlety, Alf. Maybe they don’t want to be overwhelmed with strong flavours.”

  “You can’t beat a decent curry!”

  “Not everyone needs to take a mallet to their taste buds.” She waved her notepad. “I’d better go and break the news to Monsieur Emietter that he shouldn’t season his watercress soup.”

  Watercress soup? Urgh! “I’ll take cover,” I said, and slid away in the opposite direction.

  “Thanks for your support!” Charity yelled after me.

  “You’re welcome!” I walked faster.

  Me? A coward? Never!

  “Would it be possible for me to have the garlic bread without garlic?” Mrs Cuthbert was asking.

  I placed a bowl of soup in front of her and smiled. “I will sort something out for you,” I promised, inwardly cringing at the conversation I would now need to have in the kitchen with my much put-upon chef.

  “And … my dear?” An extremely elderly witch by the name of Adelaide Greenslade beckoned me over. “I’d like my garlic bread without butter.”

  “Certainly, madam,” I nodded. “Should I substitute margarine?” Did we even keep margarine in our kitchen? I had a feeling if I asked that question I might end up wearing the chef’s colander as a hat. “Or … erm … olive oil, perhaps?” Yes, olive oil. That sounded a little more refined.

  “No, no,” replied Adelaide. “Garlic on bread will be perfection.”

  “No problem at all.” I backed away, bowing, before making a dash for the relative sanctity of the back passage. “So that will be one garlic bread without garlic and one garlic bread without butter,” I muttered. “Perhaps I can offer somebody some garlic bread without any actual bread and have the whole shebang.”

  The door of The Snug opened as I approached. Archibald floated out ahead of an increasingly disconsolate Delia.

  “Aww.” I stopped. “No sign of Cuthbert?”

  “None, Madam.” Archibald’s mouth turned down at the corners. “We have moved every cage and container and basket and unfortunately we have found no sign of him. I’m going to start looking in the guest rooms now.”

  “Alright,” I said. “Be careful not to walk in on anyone unawares.”

  “Good gracious, Madam,” Archibald’s eyebrows shot upwards. “The very idea!”

  “I’ll go with him,” Delia said.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t let you do that,” I told her, softening my voice and regarding her gently. “You have to understand that our guests are entitled to privacy. I can’t allow another guest to enter anyone’s room without their express permission.”

  Delia glared at me. “Then get their permission! I have to find Cuthbert.”

  “If he’s seeking shelter in one of the upstairs bedrooms, Archibald will find him.” I nodded at my reception manager and he apparated away, leaving Delia and me alone in the passage together. “I’m really sorry about Cuthbert. We’ll do all we can to help you find him.” I indicated the door to the main bar. “After we’ve finished with dinner I’ll ask a few of my other trusted staff to help Archibald search. We’ll leave no stone unturned.”

  Delia sniffed hard and reached inside her pocket for a tissue to mop her streaming nose. I still hadn’t been in touch with Millicent to ask her to come and diagnose whatever was wrong with Delia.

  “Why don’t you go through to the dining area and join your mother? We’ve only recently started serving—”

  “She’s already gone upstairs. And besides, I couldn’t eat anything,” Delia snapped. “Not know
ing my little Cuthbert is potentially in danger.”

  “I understand,” I soothed. “But a little soup might make you feel better.”

  “You think?” Delia’s pale eyes drilled into mine. She was not a happy woman.

  “We have two on offer this evening,” I continued, trying to maintain a positive mental attitude. “Just let Florence or Charity know which you’d prefer.”

  She snorted into her throat and glared at me for another few seconds before finally dropping her head and swivelling. I watched her mope along the passage and pass through the door into the bar. I uttered a short prayer to the goddesses of lost animals that Archibald would find Cuthbert safe and sound, and that the little parakeet would not have fallen prey to someone’s cat.

  Monsieur Emietter took the news about the garlic bread surprisingly well. Surprisingly well in the sense that the saucepan he threw at my head missed me by at least three inches.

  “You know I’d treble your wages,” I told him as I backed out of the kitchen, “if only I was paying you any.” As the saucepan lid clattered against the wall, I ducked and turned tail, running down the passage and returning to the bar. Zephaniah was working flat out by himself, managing the drinks orders. I noted the empty bottles of wine that were beginning to accrue behind the bar. Excellent! That would bring in some pennies for my boiler fund.

  Charity hastened towards me carrying a number of empty water jugs. “These need refilling.”

  I took them from her. “I’ll do that. Can you start clearing tables, please? The main courses are just about ready to come out and they smell delicious! I don’t want to delay Monsieur Emietter’s masterpieces.”

  “Will do.” Charity skipped off and joined Florence and several other members of the Wonky Inn Ghostly Clean-up Crew. Plates flew through the air—under control this time—to land on trays and be neatly stacked before they were cleared out of the bar.

  I flicked a finger at a bowl of lemons, and a knife sprang to work cutting them into precise slices. I dropped them into the full water jugs, added a scoop of ice to each and picked up two in each hand, intending to circulate around the tables like a German beer maid.

  “I’m surprised she’s able to fit through the gap with a behind as round as that,” I heard Phyllis Bliss say. I turned around, unsure whether to be annoyed at her objectification of me or hurt by what she’d said. I was no supermodel certainly, but curves are curves.

  “Rude,” I mumbled under my breath, glowering her way. Onnalee caught my eye and quirked an eyebrow, cooling my wrath.

  Rise above it, her expression said, and I relaxed a little. Phyllis Bliss was an elderly lady with different experiences and expectations and a stubborn mindset. I couldn’t take what she said to heart.

  “My grandson works out every day,” Phyllis was saying, “He’s as fit as a fiddle.” I turned away before anyone noticed me eye-rolling. Her grandson sounded like a complete bore.

  Silver serving platters began to appear at the side of the room, and my ghostly waiting staff congregated, ready to serve up a delicious duck confit, crispy capons, or leek and potato gratin. There were numerous side dishes too, including cauliflower cheese—one of my absolute favourites. My mouth watered at the array of fragrances. I nodded at Florence and she gave the signal to the waiters. Within moments, trays and warmed plates were being deposited on the tables along with sauce jugs and accompaniments and steaming mounds of roasted potatoes.

  I retraced my steps to where Phyllis, Onnalee and Sybil were sitting with Delia. “Is everything alright for you?” I asked, my tone saccharine sweet as I replaced their water jug.

  “Honey, this is delicious!” Onnalee replied before Phyllis could get a word in. “My compliments to the chef.”

  “I will certainly pass that on,” I beamed.

  “Phyllis, what do you have there?” asked Onnalee. “I’m trying the duck and it is so succulent. It just melts in the mouth.”

  “I have the capon,” said Phyllis, poking at its thigh with her fork. “I know capons are supposed to be small, but this is like eating a budgie or a parakeet or something.”

  Before I could even reflect on what Phyllis has just said, Delia jumped to her feet, wielding her own fork like a weapon and shoving the fully laden table away from her. Glasses and sauces, the water jug and a bottle of wine tumbled to the wooden floor with an almighty crash. The rest of the room fell abruptly silent around us.

  “What did you just say?” Delia demanded, her white face contorted in anger.

  Phyllis leaned backwards, her eyes wide. “What? What do you mean?”

  Onnalee reached towards the younger woman. “Delia! What are you doing?”

  “Back off!” Delia snapped and jabbed her fork into Phyllis’s cheek. Phyllis gasped and clutched at her face. Without thinking twice, I whisked out my wand. “Abiciendi!” I cried, and the fork whirled out of her hand, smacked against the window and fell to the ground. “Abscondam,” I followed up quickly, and the fork vanished without trace, never to be seen again and leaving Whittle Inn a fork down.

  Delia balled up her fists and leaned down into Phyllis’s face. “Have you seen my parakeet, you old witch?”

  “No, of course she hasn’t.” I reached for Delia’s arm, trying to calm the situation. She snatched it away as though I had stabbed her.

  “Get off me,” she shrieked, and swiped at her dripping nose. “You’re all in this together. It’s a conspiracy!”

  I held the palms of my hands up and backed away. “Nobody wants to harm Cuthbert, I promise.”

  “Your promises are meaningless! You promised to help me find him, but you haven’t.”

  “Delia.” Sybil reprimanded her. “You’re making a scene.”

  “What’s she talking about?” Phyllis asked the women seated at her table, her confidence returning now that Delia’s anger had been redirected my way.

  “Her parakeet,” hissed Onnalee. “He’s gone missing.”

  “Well, I don’t have him,” Phyllis boomed.

  “Try the familiars’ room,” Sybil suggested.

  “We’ve searched the familiars’ room,” I said. “From top to bottom.”

  “Twice,” Delia added, her shoulders sinking and the fight ebbing from her. She burst into tears and I reached for her, not caring about her snotty nose and her germs. This was a woman in severe distress, worried about a bird she evidently loved.

  “Come on,” I said. “Come with me. Let’s get you somewhere private.” She allowed me to lead her away as Florence descended on the table to help clear up.

  I created a phone with my finger and thumb and gestured at Charity. “Can you phone Millicent?” I mouthed and she nodded.

  “I’m very sorry about that,” Gwyn was saying. “The poor girl obviously has quite a temper.”

  “Oh, don’t blame yourself,” Phyllis placated her. “These things happen. Although I have to say, I’m sure my grandson would have nipped that in the bud more quickly than your great-granddaughter. I’m lucky I didn’t lose an eye!”

  I flashed a look at the clock behind the bar. Twenty to nine. Today had been a long day. I resisted the urge to reach for the cherry brandy and instead stuck a mug under the coffee machine.

  Charity, loading wine glasses into the dishwasher, handed up a chipped glass for me to dispose of safely and whispered, “What time do you think they’ll all retire to bed?”

  I turned around to observe our guests. Most of them were still sitting around chatting. The remnants of the cheese course littered their tables, whilst a mix of glasses and cups and saucers vied for space. Florence moved dutifully around the room, making a start on fully clearing the tables and checking everyone had eaten their fill.

  “Not too late, hopefully. I mean, they’re all getting on a bit, aren’t they? Won’t they need a lot of sleep?”

  “Maybe,” Charity sounded doubtful. “My nan was the reverse. She used to stay up late. She said she didn’t sleep so well.”

  “Is that right?”
In the corner of the bar opposite me, Luppitt Smeatharpe, Robert Wait, Napier Harrow and the other members of the Devonshire Fellows were setting up, ready to play some jolly Elizabethan tunes to the gathered witches. “Oh look, Luppitt’s arrived. If that doesn’t send them running to their rooms, nothing will.”

  Charity giggled. “You are mean, Alf. The Devonshire Fellows have been working on new material for the last few weeks.”

  “I’m aware of this,” I told her. There couldn’t be a living—or dead—soul within a five-mile proximity who hadn’t heard them rehearsing. “It all sounds great until the crumhorn kicks in.”

  “You love it.” Charity slammed the door of the dishwasher closed and pressed the button. As if on cue, the Devonshire Fellows launched into their first number, a cheerful little ditty about elves dancing. A number of witches turned around to listen and bobbed their heads in time to the music.

  To be fair, one or two did stick their fingers in their ears.

  “I think I might take this opportunity to grab a little dinner, if there’s anything left over,” I said and snatched up my mug in one hand and the broken glass in the other.

  “Did you want me to stay here and keep an eye on things?” Charity asked.

  “Goodness me, no. Are you crazy? I’m not venturing into that kitchen alone. I need a witness in case Monsieur Emietter takes a carving knife to my innards.” I motioned towards Zephaniah. “Ned and Zephaniah can manage here for a while. We won’t be long.”

  We walked away from the music and down the passage, passing first The Hug and then The Snug. I paused. The door to The Snug had been left ever-so-slightly ajar. Had I left it open? I thought I remembered closing it. I threaded the stem of the wine glass under the thumb of the hand holding my coffee mug and reached out with my now-free right hand to pull the door shut. Something stopped me, a slight feeling of unease tugging at my insides.