“Who found him?” Sam asked.

  “Skip Brown, the victim’s nephew.”

  Sam jerked his head up. “Not the Skip Brown?”

  Pierre nodded. “Yes, the Skip Brown.”

  “The Skip Brown that used to work for the Flummox triplets?”

  Pierre nodded again, gazing down mournfully at the remains of Gus Brown. “The one and only.”

  “Dayum,” Sam muttered, scratching his scalp. “Talk about a small world.”

  He now saw that Skip was seated in the back of a nearby ambulance, a cup of something hot and steamy in his hand, a space blanket draped across his bony shoulders, looking sorrowful and clearly in a state of great shock.

  “Look at this, Sam,” Pierre’s voice came.

  “Mh?” He was still thinking about the odds that Skip, who’d been employed by Edie Flummox and her sisters at one time, would be involved in this heinous crime. When he glanced in the direction Pierre was indicating, he saw that this crime had suddenly turned even more astonishing. On the wall, over the dead man, someone had written in what appeared to be blood: ‘Watch Committee—when will you act? If you don’t take these predators off the streets, I will! I’m watching you, watchers… watching your every move.’

  He whistled through this teeth. “Take these predators off the streets. Do you think he means Baker Brown over here?”

  “It would appear so,” said Pierre, now kneeling down next to the murdered man. “Murdered with a very sharp object,” he said knowingly.

  “Yes, according to Patrolman Daniels he was actually gutted with a knife. Not something you see a lot around these parts.”

  “What do you make of this challenge to the watch?” asked Pierre, studying the message daubed on the wall in a crude hand.

  “Apparently some concerned citizen doesn’t think the watch is doing enough to keep the streets safe. Always accepting the fact that Gus Brown wasn’t as upstanding a citizen as we all thought he was.”

  “He was a fine baker,” said Pierre, a hint of sadness in his voice. “A regular genius with the baking pan. His scones, in particular, were to die for.”

  “We better have a chat with the triplets,” said Sam after a pause. “See if they’ve been getting other messages from this murderous freak.”

  Pierre nodded, then bit his lower lip. “Are you sure I should come, Sam?”

  “Of course you should come. Why wouldn’t you come?”

  “Well… it’s been a long time since I’ve seen the sisters.”

  “So? All the more reason to tag along. They’ll be thrilled to see you alive and well.”

  Pierre shook his head. “I don’t know, Sam. It might be awkward.”

  Sam heaved a silent groan. Ugh. He now remembered how Pierre had taken a fancy to Ernestine, and when she had proved unresponsive to his lethal charms, had transferred his affections to Estrella.

  “For your information, Stien is currently between boyfriends if that’s what’s got you worried,” he said.

  A glimmer of hope appeared in the policeman’s gentle eyes. “And what about Strel?”

  “Strel is dating some bar owner at the moment. Dunlop Bard? Runs Puppy Power over on Franklin Avenue? You know the place.”

  The hope in Pierre’s eyes died away. “Oh,” he said quietly.

  Sam frowned. “Hey, I thought you had the hots for Stien?”

  “Well, I like Stien a lot,” said Pierre. “But…”

  “But you like Strel even better, is that it?”

  Pierre nodded. “Oh, I know she’s way out of my league, Sam. Strel is on her way to becoming a star. She’s going to be the next Taylor Swift and her career is going to take her into the stratosphere, far removed from mere mortals like me.” He gave Sam a sad look. “But one can only dream, right?”

  Sam clapped a hand on his partner’s shoulder and growled, “Let’s talk to Skip, and then we’ll visit the triplets.” He crooked an eyebrow. “Unless your scar tells you otherwise.”

  But it was clear from Pierre’s mournful expression that this was not the time for levity. Whatever his scar was telling him, it obviously wasn’t a message of joy and good cheer.

  Chapter Two

  I woke up with a start. It took me a few moments to get my bearings, and to realize what had awakened me. As far as I could tell, it wasn’t my alarm clock, which was a relic from the eighties: an alarm clock radio that was tuned to an eighties music radio station and usually eased me from my usual dreamless state to full wakefulness to the tunes of popular eighties superstars such as Modern Talking, Bonnie Tyler or even The Human League.

  Now, however, another singing voice had dragged me from my peaceful slumber, and if I wasn’t mistaken it was my sister Strel’s awful caterwauling that had done the trick.

  “Ugh,” I grunted, and covered my face with my pillow in a bid to drown out the terrible noise.

  To no avail, of course.

  Strel’s shrill voice was so powerful it could easily penetrate a brick wall, or possibly even a concrete underground bunker. Scientists at the Department of Defense’s DARPA would probably be most interested in harnessing its power as a weapon of mass destruction. It could also come in handy in the interrogation of unusually shy terrorists, who would snap like twigs under the strain.

  With another tired groan, I swung my legs from between the covers and rubbed my eyes. Ever since Strel had gotten it into her head to revitalize her fledgling singing career, she’d been absolutely intolerable. She’d all but given up on her dream of being the next Katy Perry when a new houseguest had arrived at Casa Cassie, as we liked to call our ancestral home. Helmut Totti was a Belgian singer, vacationing in New York, and of all the places in this fair town of ours he could have chosen to grace with his presence, he’d chosen us.

  I dragged my hands through my red mane in an attempt to tame it, smoothed down my Simple Minds T-shirt, and pushed myself up off the bed.

  Swinging my door wide, I stalked over to Strel’s room, where the racket seemed to originate.

  Without bothering to knock, I barged in and yelled, “Strel! Will you please cut it out?!”

  Only then did I see that Strel wasn’t alone. She was accompanied by a young man with a slight hint of peach fuzz on his chin—Shaggy Rogers style—and a goofy expression on his face—Scooby-Doo style. The young man was clutching a guitar and was obviously doing the honors of accompanying Strel.

  “Oh, hey, honey,” said Strel in her usual chipper way. “Did we wake you?”

  “I’m so sorry, Edie,” said the young man who was, of course, none other than Helmut Totti himself. He was smiling apologetically. “We thought it would be a nice treat to wake you guys up with a pleasant little song this morning. You know, put you in a good mood before starting your day.”

  “Trying to put Edie in a good mood in the morning is hopeless, Helmut,” said Strel. “She’s Miss Sourpuss and nothing we do will ever change that.”

  I planted my hands on my sizable hips. “If you learned how to sing, I might wake up in a good mood for once, and not ready to commit murder.”

  “Oh, here we go,” said Strel with an expressive eyeroll. She pushed at her long blond hair, which was draped across her slender shoulders. When I looked closer, I saw that she was actually wearing a flower in her hair, as if channeling Joan Baez or Joni Mitchell, about to conquer Woodstock.

  “Why don’t we sing you a nice ballad?” Helmut suggested, and before I could stop him, he struck a chord on his guitar, and the both of them launched into a harrowing and painfully bad rendition of Bridge Over Troubled Water.

  I pressed my hands to my ears and removed myself from the room as fast as I could, haunted by twin wails of ‘When you’re weary, feeling small.’

  Well, they sure were right about that. I was feeling pretty weary right now.

  “Why?” I muttered as I hurried out. “In the name of everything that is holy, why, oh, why?”

  I almost bumped into my sister Ernestine who had also come out to trace the source of the terrifying noise.

  “Is that Strel singing?” she asked as she pushed her glasses further up her nose. Stien is the brainy one in our family. She’s also the legal beagle.

  “Yup. She’s found a partner in crime, apparently.”

  Stien frowned, her default expression. “A partner in crime? I didn’t know Strel was into crime these days.”

  “It’s an expression, Stien. She’s doing a duet with Helmut.”

  “Oh,” said Stien, understanding dawning. “I thought I heard a second, even more awful voice dueling with Strel’s.”

  I nodded somberly. “We’re doomed. He’s encouraging her, Stien. After everything we did to discourage her, he’s simply adding fuel to the fire.”

  Stien shrugged. “Maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe he can finally teach her how to sing properly.”

  We both listened to the dueling caterwauling for a moment. It sounded like two cats fighting in a back alley for possession of the same white mouse.

  We both shook our heads. “No, he can’t,” I said. “No one can.”

  Chapter Three

  Cassandra Beadsmore—Cassie to her friends and Gran to the triplets—was busily enjoying the early morning in her precious garden. Ever since she’d retired from running a national chain of flower shops to take care of her granddaughters, she’d transferred her love of flowers to her own garden, and had managed to turn it into a feast of floral delight.

  She had a greenhouse, where she kept her most precious blooms, and the garden itself was now crisscrossed by small cobblestone pathways that took visitors past every flower, shrub, perennial and tree that would grow in the New York climate and even some that wouldn’t. But such was the power of Cassie’s green thumb that she managed to make even those grow abundantly.

  Neighbors up and down Nightingale Street often wondered how she did it, and regularly sought her advice on how to deal with some tricky issue like aphids chomping on their flowers, or weeds threatening to break down the fragile eco-structure of their backyards. She was always happy to help, and had become the go-to person for Gardening First Aid.

  She was now knee-deep into yanking out some pesky weeds that were threatening to choke the life out of her rhododendrons, and as she worked, her knees on one of those colorful memory foam kneeling pads, she hummed a pleasant tune.

  If she could spend her every waking hour in her beloved garden, she would. Unfortunately she hadn’t been able to resist the siren song of creating another business, and had recently turned her home into an Airbnb, taking in paying guests. And since paying guests also like to pay to enjoy a meal at regular intervals, she’d become an innkeeper in these, her golden years.

  This week her guests included a moderately famous Belgian singer, who seemed adamant to teach Strel the finer points of his chosen profession. Then there was the Middle Eastern prince, who was in town to learn all he could about America. And of course Jerome Cursons, who was in New York for more prosaic reasons, as he was preparing to go to trial against a large pharmaceutical company.

  And Cassie was still humming a happy tune, drowning out the loud ‘singing’ Helmut and Strel were engaged in inside the house, when suddenly a slithery creature appeared in the undergrowth, and reared up to attack her!

  She quickly retracted her hand and stared down at the small green-brown snake. “Now what are you doing here?” she asked a little sternly.

  The snake stared up at her with its yellow eyes, its forked tongue stealing out of its mouth, then hissed, “I’m coming for you, Cassandra Beadsmore. I’m coming for you and your family.”

  She smiled. “You’ve said that before, and yet all you can do is send snakes into my garden. As threats go, not very convincing, wouldn’t you say?”

  “This is only the beginning. Just you wait and see,” the serpent hissed.

  Cassie couldn’t help but shake her head in abject bewilderment. “If this is the best you can do, permit me to have a good laugh, oh sneaky one.”

  “Laugh all you want, Cassie, but I’m here to tell you that your days of lording it over the rest of us are finally over.”

  Her smile disappeared. “What do you really want?” she asked.

  The snake seemed to grin. “I want to put you down a peg or two. For far too long the Fallon Safflower strand has dominated this town, but no longer. I’m taking my rightful place again.”

  “You forfeited your rightful place when you tried to murder Fallon, remember? So please remove yourself from my house before I do it for you.”

  She’d gotten up and was now towering over the small snake.

  “Oh, feeling all high and mighty, are we? Well, not for much longer. Your days are over, Cassandra Beadsmore. Yours and those of your filthy brood.”

  “Oh, just go away,” said Cassie, and flicked her fingers just so.

  A thin stream of sparks emanated from her fingertips and flashed down in the direction of the snake.

  “Mark my words, Cassie. I’m coming for you!” the snake whistled, then jumped when enveloped with the sparks, and vanished without a trace.

  “What was that?” suddenly a voice sounded behind Cassie. She turned, and found herself gazing into Edie’s green eyes. As usual, her granddaughter was dressed in black from head to toe: black T-shirt, black jeans and black combat boots. Even her eyes were gunked up with too much black eyeliner.

  “Nothing,” she assured Edie. “Just some pesky weeds.”

  But Edie wasn’t fooled. Her expression darkened. “Was that a snake?”

  Cassie waved an airy hand. “Of course not. Like I said, a nasty little creeper. I took care of it.”

  “Oh, Gran,” said Edie with a sigh. “It’s Tisha again, isn’t it? What’s with her and snakes?”

  Cassie was back to pulling out weeds. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, honey. Now can you start breakfast? I’m sure our guests would like to eat.”

  But it was obvious Edie wasn’t ready to let this go, for she gave her one of her trademark grave looks. “Gran,” she insisted. “We have to talk about this.”

  Start Reading Witchy Wishes Now

  About Nic

  Nic Saint is the pen name for writing couple Nick and Nicole Saint. They’ve penned 70+ novels in the romance, cat sleuth, middle grade, suspense, comedy and cozy mystery genres. Nicole has a background in accounting and Nick in political science and before being struck by the writing bug the Saints worked odd jobs around the world (including massage therapist in Mexico, gardener in Italy, restaurant manager in India, and Berlitz teacher in Belgium).

  When they’re not writing they enjoy Christmas-themed Hallmark movies (whether it’s Christmas or not), all manner of pastry, comic books, a daily dose of yoga (to limber up those limbs), and spoiling their big red tomcat Tommy.

  www.nicsaint.com

  Also by Nic Saint

  Washington & Jefferson

  First Shot

  Alice Whitehouse

  Spooky Times

  Spooky Trills

  Spooky End

  Ghosts of London

  Between a Ghost and a Spooky Place

  Public Ghost Number One

  Ghost Save the Queen

  Box Set 1 (Books 1-3)

  A Tale of Two Harrys

  Ghost of Girlband Past

  Ghostlier Things

  The Mysteries of Max

  Purrfect Murder

  Purrfectly Deadly

  Purrfect Revenge

  Box Set 1 (Books 1-3)

  Purrfect Heat

  Purrfect Crime

  Purrfect Rivalry

  Charleneland

  Deadly Ride

  Final Ride

  Neighborhood Witch Committee

  Witchy Start

  Witchy Worries

  Witchy Wishes

  Saffron Diffley

  Crime and Retribution

  Vice and Verdict

  Witchy Fingers

  Witchy Trouble

  Witchy Hexations

  Witchy Possessions

  Witchy Riches

  Box Set 1 (Books 1-4)

  The Mysteries of Bell & Whitehouse

  One Spoonful of Trouble

  Two Scoops of Murder

  Three Shots of Disaster

  Box Set 1 (Books 1-3)

  A Twist of Wraith

  A Touch of Ghost

  A Clash of Spooks

  Box Set 2 (Books 4-6)

  The Stuffing of Nightmares

  A Breath of Dead Air

  An Act of Hodd

  Box Set 3 (Books 7-9)

  Standalone Novels

  When in Bruges

  Once Upon a Spy

  The Whiskered Spy

  The Ghost Who Came in from the Cold

  Enemy of the Tates

  Short Stories

  Felonies and Penalties (Saffron Diffley Short 1)

  Purrfect Santa (Mysteries of Max Short 1)

  Purrfect Christmas Mystery (Mysteries of Max Short 2)

  Purrfect Christmas Miracle (Mysteries of Max Short 3)

  Copyright © 2018 by Nic Saint. All rights reserved.

  Published by Puss in Print Publications.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval without permission in writing from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.