Italian Roast and Wedding Ghosts: Mystic Brews, #6

By Alyn Troy

A wedding, an Italian resort full of Fae, and a decades-old murder!

 

A family holiday isn't all that's brewing for Ebrel and her friends in the quiet seaside Italian resort. Ebrel's human father is getting married, and the new in-laws are as mundane as possible. Amidst the wedding bells, a missing broach pulls April and her friends deep into a murder from the past.

 

With a hotel full of Fae, frolicking familiars, and a barista throwdown, Ebrel and Elain have their hands full keeping the human family from discovering the truth about witches. Their plans go sour in a hurry, when rivalries and a second murder froth up even more trouble.

 

Can Ebrel keep trouble from spilling into her father's new marriage, and pull the lid off a crime of the past century?

 

Italian Roast and Wedding Ghosts is the latest book in the delightful Mystic Brews cozy mystery series. If you like sassy heroines, colourful characters, and a side of spells with your cuppa joe, then you'll love Alyn Troy's otherworldly adventure.

 

Get your copy of Italian Roast and Wedding Ghosts to explore the whodunnit fun!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mystic Brews Mysteries
• Release date: Jan 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9798215784587

Book preview

1

E brel, wait up! Elain’s voice, combined with the sound of her boots clunking on the wooden railway platform, told me she would make our train, but barely.

"Typical Welsh Now in a minute arrival," I said.

Beggin’ your pardon, milady, the gnome conductor said. He was only about three and a half feet tall, wearing a dark-blue uniform. Probably that height in his skivvies too, but I didn’t want to ask. I’d just assume. We’d definitely wait on Lady Elain. Should have told me up front, you should have. His accent was almost American, but not quite.

My apologies. I shook my head. Here in Misty Valley, I had gotten used to everyone knowing who I hung out with. You’re from Canada?

You’ve got good ears, my lady. Your first time on the FA&E express? The conductor stood with a yellow flag in his hand, then stick horizontal with the yellow cloth hanging loose in a signal to the engineer to hold prior to departure.

Yes, it is.

Punkin poked his head out of the black leather backpack I wore. He insisted that the bag sport a small cloth pirate flag with a cat’s skull and two crossbones under it. He had to nose his way past the flap to lean over my shoulder towards the conductor. She forgets who her auntie is.

Your name alone would have held the train, milady. A hint of a smile cracked the conductor’s aged face. Wrinkles, which gnomes seemed to get early in life, were deep on his face. With Lord Ioworth on board two days ago, and now another Dymestl.

Elain sucked in a deep breath, her green ticket in hand.

Sorry, she said and shrugged.

Those your ninja clothes? Her black slacks and blouse, covered with a black jacket, were rumpled but presentable.

Just got back from work, she said with a wink at me. No time to change.

Ah, but did you catch the baddie, milady? The conductor used his punch on her ticket. The MI-13 types never tell, do they, lass? Right! On board with both of you. Lady Ebrel brought your bags already. You’re in cabin A-7. Welcome aboard, ladies.

The cabin was in the middle of our carriage. Bench seats, with several pillows and a lap blanket.

Do you mind? Elain asked and pointed to the pillows and folded blanket.

Not at all. Late night?

A week of them. Neirin forgets that I need to sleep occasionally. She dropped her handbag on the floor, placed her passport and ticket in the small rack under the windows, and curled her legs up on the rear-facing bench. Train travel is so relaxin— A yawn interrupted her.

All aboaaard! our conductor called from outside. Steam hissed from the brake lines. I heard the thunks of cars moving before feeling our car jerk forward.

This is much more ornate than the commuter rails back in the States. I dropped onto the bench facing Elain and set Punkin’s bubble backpack next to me. He hopped out and put his front paws on the window ledge.

The gnomes love a good steam engine, and an old carriage, Punkin said. They’ve got most of the vintage carriages from Europe and America. Did you see the name on this one?

Something Builder? I shrugged and slid the latest copy of Bean and Roast magazine from the pack.

Empire Builder, our conductor said. He had doffed his thick jacket. His name badge, with G’Willie etched on it, gleamed gold above his breast pocket. Gnomes always began their names with a G and pronounced it as a syllable. A gold chain hung from his button and stretched to the watch in his hand.

This is one of the trains from America, lass. Ran on the Great Northern line from Wisconsin to Seattle. Dining car and lounge to the rear. You’ll pass the loo on the way if you head out.

Dining car? Punkin said. I’m famished.

Shush. Later, I said.

Ladies, just tap your wand on the door handle. G’Willie pointed to the latch and handle on the inside. That will key the lock to your wand. The blinds will stay down unless you tap this here. Again he pointed to a metal plate. No worries, the windows to the passage stay opaque. You can see out, no one can see in.

How long of a trip is it? Elain asked and repressed a yawn.

Around two hours to the Channel Tunnel, milady. Another four after that. He steadied himself by habit as the train lurched forward. We move faster than mundane trains, but we have to change track gauges in Europe. Take the rail gang about half an hour to check the enchantments on all the coaches. Italy has a narrower gauge of track than most of Europe.

What’s a rail gauge? Punkin asked, and I wondered too.

Space between the rails, G’Willie said. We try to avoid the mundanes’ heavily trafficked lines that are all standardised to the same width. That means we pass through some old sections and have to adjust the wheel gauge. Slide the wheels in on each carriage. Her Grace’s minister of transportation requires that the change be inspected and measured by hand, ever since his coach derailed. No one was brave enough to tell him he was casting while he dozed and he accidentally switched the wheel gauge on his carriage. Poor fellow has a bad habit of muttering while he snores. S’wonder he didn’t turn hisself into a chicken.

G’Willie tipped his hat and stepped into the narrow gangway along the cabins, ignoring the jerking of the carriage as we rolled forward.

"Well, did you get your bad guy?" I asked once the door shut.

Elain kept her eyes shut, dark curly hair in stark relief against the light tan of the pillow her head lay on. Mission accomplished, barely. She yawned again. I left Neirin to do all the paperwork. Couldn’t leave my bestie to brave her father’s wedding by herself.

Italian coast, here we come! Punkin said. Such a change from a dreary Welsh winter.

Oh, that’s where we’re going… Elain muttered, her voice drifting off. Maybe we’ll see Io. He’s at his gathering in… Italeeeshhh…

I poked Punkin’s side and raised my finger to my lips.

What? I didn’t—

Shush, Elain muttered. Fuzzbum no talk.

We rode in silence for about half an hour. Elain drifted off into quiet snores, barely audible over the clack of the wheels on the train. I flipped through my magazine but found myself staring out the windows as the countryside rolled by. I was surprised to see the farm and pasture land turn to a metropolitan area.

That was fast, I thought. London.

Punkin tapped me with his paw, then waved it at the sliding door. He sat up and rubbed his belly with a paw. Figures he’d be the first one hungry.

I touched the door latch with my wand, and felt a small jolt as the latch set itself to my magical signature. As the door opened, Punkin darted into the narrow passage. Another touch of my wand, and I willed the door to lock. Not that I was worried about assassins taking out my bestie, but if there were any ninjas on the train, I’d make their work harder before she took them out.

Dining car? I pointed to the rear of the train. Hungry already?

Famished! He trotted ahead of me.

Six cars later, I had my train legs, or so I thought. The swaying of the coach, the clack of the wheels, and the faint lingering odour of brimstone from the engine ahead reminded me I was on holiday for the first time since I had arrived in Wales seven months before.

Only two passengers sat in the lounge car. Mahogany and oak seemed to be the flavour of the decor. Plush chairs around small tables. A few long padded benches lined the walls across from the bar. I was pleased to see an espresso machine at the bar.

Café mocha, please. I said. A pixie male, tall and thin with dark hair, did a double take when he saw me, but smiled. The highlights in his hair shifted to a brighter shade of sea green to match his eyes.

I’ll do my best, Lady Ebrel. May not be up to your standards.

Punkin jumped up next to me on one of the round wooden stools atop a brass pole. Double-shot latte, and a plate of the assorted biscuits, he said.

Make his a half shot, and pour the other half into mine, I ordered. The barista pixie entered the order. I glanced at the total and tapped it with my wand to pay.

Since we’re slow, I’ll bring it out to you, the barista said.

Ah, Lady Ebrel, said one gent seated in the carriage. He rose, gave a slight bow, and waved a hand at the chairs by his small table. He had a newspaper folded over to the crossword, with only a few boxes filled in. If you have no other plans, I would be delighted if you’d join me.

Say yes, Punkin hissed. Do you have any idea who that is? I want to meet him.

Shush. I poked his side and took the few steps toward the man. My eyes narrowed, and my memories darted back, flipping amongst faces of old. Aren’t you…? I extended my hand, remembering the etiquette Elain and Rhian had been coaching me on. I always forgot that amongst fae, I had royal blood. He took my hand, turned it, and raised it to his lips. I had to fight the urge to blush. I wasn’t used to formal British manners and etiquette.

Apologies, my lady. Please sit. I’d much prefer conversation to the parsing of syllables with the cruciverbalist of this periodical.

Do you always use fancy words? Punkin jumped up on the chair between us.

Only when matching wits with the purveyor of clues, he said. Please, I forget my manners. Siarl Parsons, he pronounced his first name as Sharl, and gave another snappy nod of his head, with a slight bend at the waist.

You are him, I said.

Sir Siarl, the pixie barista said, and set another pot in front of the man. He laid a plate of cookies, then cups in front of me and Punkin. Half of your familiar’s shot is in your mocha, Lady Ebrel, as requested. He nodded and drifted back to the bar.

Charles Parsons, I said. Star of silent movies. You played the Klutzy Hobo.

Told you, Punkin said. He flicked his tail, and a cookie slid over to his plate.

You’re too young to have seen my moving pictures when they premiered, Sir Siarl said.

My father is a fan, I said.

Your human side? Even he would be too young. He raised his cup. Still, I am grateful that my work could bring smiles to your face and his.

My favourite, Punkin said, "was your film Train to Bangladesh. How many trains did you wreck for that movie?"

Only one. A sly grin played across Sir Siarl’s face. Our production company was fae owned. We shot in India. We pulled in gnomes from both India and China to help. They and the pwcas spent every night rebuilding our trains. The director would have me knock a bolt loose in my tussles with the conductor, or the passengers—

Or the bandits. Punkin snorted, looking up from his cup. A bit of cream clung to his whiskers. I loved how you didn’t know there were bandits on the train. Trying to find that treasure. Then you on that pump-car, with the treasure chest, pumping like mad to protect it and the girl. That actress was your wife?

Ah, yes, Luce, Sir Siarl said, his face flicking into an expression of sorrow for a moment, then back to jovial. Only his eyes betrayed the pang of loss and longing.

Tell him, please, my lady, said a girl’s spirit with a light Italian accent. I still love him. And I’m sorry I lost it.

You do look like you’ve seen a ghost, my lady, Sir Siarl said. I hope my brief flicker of emotion didn’t cause you concern.

Luce is… I said, your wife?

Yes, of almost a century. We were thespians together, he said. Then when the moving pictures began, and I made my name in your American Hollywood, she was always my love interest in every movie. Until her death. You remember her from the moving pictures?

Vaguely, I said, and let my eyes slide to the aisleway, where Luce’s spirit hovered.

Sir Siarl’s face slid back into the look of longing and pain.

It is true, he whispered. "You can see spirits."

2

S he loves you, and is sorry, I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

He stared out the window and rolled his lower lip under his upper teeth. After a moment, he turned and lifted his cup.

To my one true love, he said, his eyes fixed on my face. To Luce. All is forgiven.

I raised my cup with him, and he clinked them together.

Please let him know I didn’t mean to lose it… Luce’s whisper broke with sorrow.

She seems worried, I said. Distraught that she’s lost something of value.

He was most irate that it disappeared, Luce said. Parsons stared out the window.

She doesn’t want it to cause you any distress.

Nonsense, my dear, he replied. She was not to blame. My anger was at myself for not protecting her. I raged so when we found her body. My anger… He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. His face slid back into the actor’s mask of a happy man, pleased to greet his fans.

I can only be mad at myself for leaving her unprotected on that beach while I took that meeting. I lost not only my family heirloom, but the love of my life that day.

What was the treasure? Punkin asked.

Insensitive little pwca. I poked his side, biting my lip.

No, it is all right, Sir Siarl said. The Hartstone Gem had been in my family for years. A diamond as large as my thumb, with a single flaw. A bit of red in its heart. The flaw looked like an antler from a deer. The Hart. Luce wore it as a broach.

I’m sorry for your loss, I said. Both of them.

Thank you, lass, he said. Fortunately, I will have time this week to search the island for them. Bloody conferences. Meetings with no real purpose. No wonder my mother makes me attend in her stead.

Ah, Charlie Parsons, a male voice said. Oh, and the newest celebrity from the Dymestl line. You’re rubbing elbows with Hollywood’s first superstar, girl. His American accent was both energetic and simultaneously grating.

Siarl Parsons rolled his eyes, then slid his teapot and cup over to make room for the newcomer. I wasn’t sure either of us welcomed this intrusion.

Rex Roddy, the man said. He set his martini on the table, then extended his hand. I rose and took it. Better to be polite until he proved my suspicions correct. You’ve probably read some of my tell-all books about the mundane Hollywood stars.

You… uh… look younger than when I last saw you on television.

Aging spells. He gave a dismissive wave and plopped down into the vacant chair on Parsons’s side of the small table. Being fae in the midst of mundane land. Of course, I can’t reveal the secrets of the fae performers, or Her Grace, your aunt, would have me shovelling rocks at one of the Roberts’ excellent stone-resizing camps.

You mean a prison?

Where the orcs decide which rock they want pounded into smaller sizes. Of course, no one ever gets the size just right, so the guards give you another rock to pound on. Roddy shifted to a sombre tone. I need to get my next book lined up for the new me. Alas, Rex Roddy has to fade from human society. He’s too old. I’ll return as my nephew. Should I do Rick or Roger as a name this time?

Rick, Punkin said. You don’t look very Roger.

Roger that, Roddy said with a grin. The familiar has spoken. Rick it shall be. I’ll lie low for a year while I put the finishing touches on this book. Charles Parsons is in the clear this time. I’m working on stars of the 1950s and 60s.

Your stories about Luce’s murder left much to be desired, Parsons said, then pointedly turned and stared out the window.

Is this shifting of names a common thing? I glanced between the two men. I’ve only been in Misty Valley. Everyone there seems the same.

You’re still young, Parsons said. You’ll need a few more decades of not aging as mundanes do to understand. He paused and finally nodded. You’ll watch your human friends age and wither, while you stay fresh and young.

"I keep trying not to