The Witching Hour: His Ghoul Friday, #2

By Morgana Best

When Australian journalist, Misty Friday, receives a mysterious letter summoning her to England, she expects to find her elderly relative. Instead, she has a witch of a time, stumbling across danger, a cat, bad coffee, and the enigmatic John Smith, who might have his own reasons for being in Britain.
The murder of her relative brings more questions.
Can Misty solve the murder before she becomes the next victim? Will she survive her new cat's attitude? And, more importantly, will she find good coffee before it is too late?  Or is that simply witchful thinking?

Book 2 in this charming paranormal cozy mystery series from USA Today Bestselling Author, Morgana Best.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Best Cosy Books
• Release date: Jan 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781925674934

Morgana Best

After surviving a childhood of deadly spiders and venomous snakes in the Australian outback, bestselling author Morgana Best writes cozy mysteries and enjoys thinking of delightful new ways to murder her victims.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Iawoke with a start. Someone was shaking me gently.

Misty, wake up! It’s morning.

Cordelia had stayed overnight. We had binge watched The Wicked Adventures of Sabrina for most of the night. At some point in the night we had fallen asleep.

I can’t believe I slept on the sofa all night, I said to Cordelia as I stretched and yawned.

She rubbed her neck. Well, I slept on the chair. We’d better hurry so we’re not late for work. We have a lovely day to look forward to with Skinny. Every syllable dripped with sarcasm.

Skinny was Daisy, the editor of the magazine where Cordelia and I worked. She did everything she could to make our lives a misery and filled the boss’s ear with tales of our incompetence. Daisy constantly commented on what Cordelia and I ate, which led to us calling her Skinny, not to her face, of course.

Things couldn’t get any worse, I said with a laugh.

Cordelia headed to the kitchen, presumably to make coffee, but she was only gone a minute or two before she hurried back, minus the coffee. It’s that nosy mail lady! I just caught a glimpse of her coming up the path.

In my small country town, Julie delivers the parcels from her van direct to people’s doorsteps and her husband, Craig, delivers letters and small envelopes into letterboxes on his motorcycle. I apparently have one of those faces that encourages people to speak to me, and for months now, Julie has told me all her marital problems as well as all the town gossip, real or imagined.

I tiptoed to the nearest window and peeked out. To my horror, Julie was waving a letter at the front door.

It’s not a bill for once, she screeched. I know you’re in there, Misty!

I sighed and opened the door. Julie made to push inside, but I kept my weight firmly against the door. Thanks, I said as I took the letter from her. Where’s Craig?

I told him I wanted to deliver this letter to you, seeing that it’s from England. Do you know anyone in England?

No. Bye, Julie. See you next time. I pushed the door with my shoulder and locked it. I waited for a while until she was out of earshot.

Has she opened your mail again? Cordelia asked me.

I inspected the letter. I don’t think so. If she has, she’s done a better job than usual of gluing it back together. She’s right though, the postmark is from England.

Maybe somebody died and left you a sizeable inheritance, Cordelia said hopefully.

I wish! Oh, not that someone died, I added lamely. I turned the envelope over, but water damage had ruined the return address.

Cordelia looked over my shoulder. What does it say?

I ripped the letter open. The letter was handwritten in a flowery scroll. I read it aloud.

My dearest Misty, I fear I am not long for this world. I am writing to you because I would like you to collect items pertaining to the family history. I have something very important to give you. I also have photos and charts, some back to the Domesday Book. These are too valuable to send to you, so I need you to visit me to collect them at your earliest convenience.

What else did she say? Cordelia asked.

I handed her the letter. It was overpowered by the scent of violets with a hint of naphthalene. Nothing else. Aunt Beth writes as if I can simply pop across the other side of the world to collect whatever she wants to give me, I said with a laugh.

We both shrugged and staggered to the kitchen to make coffee. I wouldn’t have given it another thought or even replied in any hurry. It’s not as if she had left an email address.

It’s only that, as I was throwing the letter down on the kitchen table, I saw the return address at the top of the letter, High Wycombe.

CHAPTER 2

My boss narrowed his eyes and glared at me. No, of course we won’t pay for you to go to England! What do you think our budget is? Red splotches appeared on his neck.

I avoided his gaze and looked at the cheap print of sailing ships covering a large portion of the wall behind him. I only want the airfare. Return airfare, I added for good measure, just in case he got any ideas. The accommodation won’t cost you anything. Surely you can claim the flights as a tax deduction?

He opened his mouth, so I spoke quickly. "My accommodation’s already arranged in High Wycombe, and it’s right next to West Wycombe. You could do the whole magazine as a UK feature. You’ve already assigned me to work on the Hellfire Club for the Haunted issue, but I could go there in person and make it a much bigger feature. You could do a whole issue on it."

His face turned from bright red to a paler pink, which gave me enough encouragement to press on. West Wycombe is home not just to the Hellfire Club, but to West Wycombe Park and the Dashwood Mausoleum. Oh, and nearby there’s Medmenham Abbey and the Green Man of Fingest. I could do a whole bunch of articles for the one feature.

I said it all in one breath and then sat down in the rickety blue chair opposite his desk. I vaguely thought that the budget must be bad if the magazine couldn’t afford better chairs than this. And don’t get me started on the painting.

My boss’s expression was continuing to improve, and I took him sitting back in his chair, tapping his pen, as a good sign. Keith was the managing editor of the biggest (not that that’s saying much, there weren’t many) paranormal magazine in Australia.

Straight after my university degree, I had landed a job as a journalist on one of Australia’s most prominent newspapers. Unfortunately, at the same time I had started dating Steve, then a postgraduate law student. For the entire three years we dated, I had to pay for both of us at restaurants and even at coffee shops. Lending him money was a regular occurrence. When I finally complained, Steve said I was selfish and thinking only of myself.

The previous year, Steve had landed a position with a prestigious law firm in Australia’s capital city, Canberra, and at the same time left me for a younger, thinner version of myself, but managed to turn it all back on me, as usual. Within a month I was fired from my newspaper job, which I found highly suspicious, and I’m sure Steve had a hand in it. After living on noodles and rice for some time, I finally managed to find a journalism position at the paranormal magazine.

Keith’s voice brought me back to the present. I’ll call the accountant and then call you later. Don’t get your hopes up.

With a wave of his hand, Keith dismissed me from his office.

In my excitement about wanting to go to England and having someone else pay for it, I had forgotten to consider whether or not it was a good idea. I decided to consult the Oracle, a mysterious book given to me by a self-confessed vampire. I wasn’t even sure if vampires existed, but I had seen mermaids with my own eyes and so I had to keep an open mind. Besides, the Oracle book was miraculous in itself. The pages were blank unless I asked the book a question, and then writing appeared.

As soon as I got home from work, I hurried to my desk and unlocked the single big drawer. I kept the Oracle book hidden there, wrapped in dark blue velvet. I picked it up and took it to the kitchen table, carefully unwrapping the velvet. I stared at the book with its ornate gold writing. I simply asked the book, Should I go to England?

The book opened by itself, the pages flipping as if a strong wind had blown into the room. Of course, there was no wind. All the windows were shut, and the fan was not on. When the pages stopped flipping, I popped on my reading glasses and bent over the book. I gasped at the words.

Yes. Someone will die.

I scratched my head. The book said I should go to England, but also said someone would die. I sat down on a dining chair and considered the matter. Would there be a death if I didn’t go to England? Was there a deeper meaning to the prophecy? Or did the book simply mean I should go, and was merely mentioning in passing that someone would die?

It put me in a head spin. I would have dearly loved to ask the book another question, but I figured it was like tarot cards—it wasn’t a good idea to consult the cards twice in a row simply because I wasn’t satisfied with the first reading. I wrapped the book back in the velvet cloth and returned it to my drawer.

A knock on the door made me jump. I wasn’t expecting anyone. I flung open the door to see Aunty June. This is a shock, I said, followed by, A nice one, though.

Aunty June was dressed all in red, as usual. I caught a flash of bright red jeans and a bright red shirt before she enveloped me in a big hug and pushed past me into the house.

I hardly ever see you, Aunty June, and now I’ve seen you twice in quick succession.

Your life is getting more exciting now, Misty, she said. You used to lead such a horribly dull, boring life. She smiled and nodded as she said it.

Err thanks, I think, I said. Would you like some coffee?

Yes, and I bought some wine to wash it down. She waved a bottle of wine at me. It’s Moscato, your favourite. Now what news do you have?

I was about to ask her what made her think I had any news, but I thought I might as well come straight to the point. I’m hoping my boss will pay for me to go to England.

Aunty June narrowed her eyes. And why would your boss do that?

Because, as luck would have it, I was about to do a story on the Hellfire Caves in West Wycombe in England. And then yesterday I got a letter from my Aunt Beth. Do you know her?

You know I’m not a blood relative, Misty, Aunty June said.

I had a strange feeling she was fielding the question. I wondered whether to press her on it, but decided not to. She clearly didn’t want to tell me. Aunty June was nothing if not mysterious.

And what did your Aunt Beth say? Aunty June asked me.

She said she has some family items she wants me to collect.

Aunty June raised her eyebrows. Does she now! She looked up at the ceiling and tapped her chin. After a moment, she added, I don’t have a good feeling about this. I’m afraid I can’t come with you this time.

But I wouldn’t have expected you to, I began, but she interrupted me.

I would like to, you understand, but I simply can’t. Please be on your guard. You know I’m psychic, and something about this concerns me. Now fetch some wine glasses.

I did as she asked and presently returned to the room with two wine glasses. Aunty June poured the Moscato into the glasses. She drank the wine quickly and then poured herself another glass. Misty, I really don’t like this.

Do you think I shouldn’t go? I asked her.

I can’t interfere in your life, she said sadly. It’s not for me to say whether you should go or whether you shouldn’t go. The decision is entirely yours. Please be careful. I’ve already told you that there are big changes ahead for you, but you need to be on your guard. Trust no one.

I sipped my wine. It might not be my decision at all, I told her. My boss hasn’t agreed to send me yet.

Your dreadful boss, Skinny?

I shook my head. No, it’s Keith, the big boss. He said he’d think about it and call me sometime this evening with his decision. I looked at my phone once more. Keith hadn’t called me yet, but the Oracle book seemed to think I was going to England.

Aunty June pointed to my phone just as the call came in.

Keith came straight to the point. The accountant says we can claim it on tax, but Daisy doesn’t think it’s a good idea. I’m overriding her this time, but make sure your stories are really, really good, first rate. We’ll book your flight for next week, if that suits?

I made up my mind on the spot. I had always wanted to see England. Great news! What about a small travel allowance?

Keith hung up.

Perhaps I could broach that subject later.

CHAPTER 3

The plane ride

Reviews for The Witching Hour

[jetangen4571 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

verbal-humor, situational-humor, england, witchery, danger, ghosts Misty received a letter from England asking her to come immediately but the reason is not really clear. So she talks the head of the paranormal tabloid magazine she works for into paying the airfare so that she can stay with the relative and write some articles he wanted. But when she gets there, she finds a cantankerous cat and the recently deceased body of her Aunt Beth. And then the confusion began! Historical mischief, odd happenings, misdirection, and more! And more laughs than ever!