Inkwell of Shadows 10: Mostly Murdered All Day

November 8, 2024. Moonlight Curiosities Antique Shop. Gloamstead, Alabama. Answering questions and questioning answers…

Author’s Note: Inkwell of Shadows is a serialized fiction story in Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries, set in Blighridge County, Alabama. A quiet corner of the world where old ghost linger, cursed objects refuse to stay quiet, and some secrets never stay buried—at least, for long.

New installments or chapters will materialize every Monday…

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Previously. Trying to recover from rattled nerves and being attacked in an old attic, Daniel reached for coffee and shop inventory. Neither were successful. In the end, he chewed over what happened, along with what they knew of the missing pens. But life wasn’t about to give any breathing room. A call from Daniel’s former boss—all charm and guilt-trip—tried to drag him back into unhealthy habits. It took timely intervention from Cassidy to deflect that problem for now.

But the day wasn’t entirely cruel as fate had it, one of the shop’s customers gave them a solid lead on the missing pens: a student named Vera James at nearby Laguna Bay College. It also brought a visit from Sheriff Roy Branham with questions about murder most mummified…

November 8, 2024. Moonlight Curiosities Antique Shop. Gloamstead, Alabama. Answering questions and questioning answers…

The sheriff’s serious expression told me everything I needed to know. It wasn’t going to be a fun conversation; life was about to take a hard right turn.

But I asked the obvious anyway.

“… before? What do you mean before he was mummified?” I asked warily.

“What happened?” Cassidy added, straightening slowly with a tense look.

Sheriff Branham’s dark eyes studied us before strolling across the shop, mouth pulled in a tight line. The tension at the corners of his eyes told a story I didn’t want to guess at. He joined us at the shop counter with a heavy expression.

“Well, mostly murder,” he said, deep voice drawing out the words.

“Before he was mummified?” I said incredulously. “It’s not like mummified covers up murder. Doesn’t that basically double-down on the whole thing?”

The ghost of a smile tugged at the sheriff’s lips.

“Oh, more or less,” he drawled. “Which is why I need to ask a few more questions to get some details pinned down. But before I get into all that, how are you two really doing? I’ve been meaning to come by and check on you both after what happened at your wedding.”

Cassidy met my eyes with a haunted, worried look that mirrored my own. Neither one of us were in a hurry to answer. The truth was, we’d kept it together after that night by sheer willpower and holding each other up. Just doing what two people sharing a life did in a crisis. Dorian asking us to track down those pens gave us something to focus on, instead of what happened. There’s something to be said for forward momentum with your partner by your side.

“Sheriff?” I said, rumpling the awkward silence. “I’d be lying if I said we were doing fine. It’s been…” My words staggered, losing the fight to make a coherent sentence. But Cassidy was right there, ready to back me up.

“Tough,” she said with a sigh. “Daniel’s had nightmares. I’ve had nightmares.” She shook her head slowly. “Walking away from something like that has been hard. But we needed to get the shop back in shape, and finish this job tracking down those antique pens for Mr. Callix. There were a couple of days I might’ve screamed if Daniel wasn’t here.”

I reached over, putting my hand on hers. “Same,” I said with a thin smile, then nodded at the sheriff. “So, we’re managing?”

Sheriff Branham pursed his lips, then inclined his head.

“Understood. Now, if you two need to talk about it…” He held up a hand before Cassidy or I could reply. “…I mean it, y’hear? I was good friends with your Uncle, Daniel, and still friends with your father, Cassidy. If you two need to talk it out, call me. Bend my ear.” His dark eyes shifted between us, stern and grandfatherly. “All right?”

“Yes, Sheriff,” Cassidy replied warmly. I echoed her words.

Sheriff Branham relaxed with a smile. “Good.” Then his smile stepped aside for a professional sigh. “Now for the other reason I came by…”

“The murder?” I prompted, then took a long breath. “How can we help?”

The sheriff pulled out a pocket notebook, flipping open to a page with a trim collection of questions and notes. He frowned at them, taking out a pen.

“Mostly clearing up any details you might remember,” Branham said. “Daniel? Last night, you said the person who attacked you was wearing a dark sheet or cloak and they flew at you? Start there. Fly how?”

I thought back over the fight in the attic, forcing back a shudder.

“Flew. At least, it looked like it.” I waved both hands, miming cloth flapping in the air. “Flying. Whatever they had on flapped like some dark sheet or hooded long coat in the wind. You know, like one of those cheap Halloween ghost decorations. Creepy as hell in a dark attic.”

Sheriff Branham nodded, writing. “Probably the point.” He raised his eyebrows at me. “Anything else?”

“Not sure what else to tell you,” I replied, shaking my head. “It was dark, and they went straight for my throat. There’s only one bulb in that attic and it wasn’t all that bright.” I pursed my lips, glowering at the middle distance and memory. “They were taller than me by a few inches, but hunched?” A sigh tumbled out of me. “That seems right. Other than that, I remember the really pale hand with the long fingers when they grabbed the attic opening on the way out.”

Branham nodded again, adding more notes. “Not a lot to work with, but it’ll have to do. Might be something we can get off the attic entrance.” He glanced up from his notebook. “Cassidy? You told my deputy that you were in the basement, then came upstairs. Still sure you didn’t see anything?”

She shook her head. “Just Mr. Callix in the hallway. He was as rattled as I was when we heard Daniel yelling. Like I told Deputy Keene, that’s when we raced upstairs—” Cassidy squinted at the countertop “—there was a window open on the first floor off the library. It wasn’t like that when I went into the basement.” She looked between myself and the sheriff. “I just assumed Mr. Callix opened it, but now when I think about it, that seems odd.”

Branham raised his eyebrows slightly. “Odd how?”

“Just odd,” she replied, lightly biting her lower lip, frowning. “A déjà vu feeling or something. Feels important now, but didn’t last night? Things are still a little blurry.”

The sheriff’s eyes narrowed, then added a few entries to his notes. “Hm, first floor off the library,” he muttered. “Thank you. Any odd smells? Sounds?”

“No, not that I remember,” Cassidy replied. “But I was running hard up the stairs as Daniel was yelling. I was really surprised when he said someone had attacked him, then raced out of the attic right before we got there. The second floor landing and stairs were empty. I didn’t see anyone.”

Sheriff Branham tapped the pen against his notebook. “Hm, good to know. Thank you both. That helps shift some things around.”

“You’re welcome, Sheriff. Wish I could remember more. It was just so dark in that attic,” I sighed.

Cassidy tapped a finger on the counter. “Sheriff? This is probably pretty nosy, and I understand if you can’t tell us, but how did Fred Spivey wind up mummified? How did he actually die?”

Branham closed his notebook, slowly putting it away in a pocket. He didn’t reply at first, just narrowed his eyes a little. Then he looked down as if rolling some thought over in his mind, before meeting our eyes.

“I probably shouldn’t say, but seeing as it’s you two…” He hooked his thumbs into his belt. “No one’s really sure how he wound up like dried up beef jerky. Though my CSI team has a few wild ideas with embalming fluid that they’re excited about.” He shrugged. “As for how he really died? Looks like he was hit in the back of the head.” Branham raised his eyebrows at me. “Might even have been with that fireplace poker.”

“Which I grabbed up and swung around like a baseball bat,” I said, blowing out a breath. “My fingerprints are all over the handle.”

The sheriff chuckled. “True, there’s that. You might’ve smudged a few things, might not. Come by tomorrow, and I’ll get someone to take your prints, so we can compare against anything pulled off the metal. Now, you didn’t see any blood on it, did you?”

I shook my head. “Sheriff, I was too rattled to notice anything about it, other than it was solid and kept whoever that was in the attic away from my neck.”

He chuckled softly. “Trust me, I understand. This case with the dead body in the attic is an odd one. Maybe not as odd as that serial killer who crashed your wedding, but it’s damn close.” He reached out and lightly patted the counter with a hand. “Well, I’d best be going. Oh, if you two come across anything about Fred Spivey while tracking down those missing fountain pens, you let me know, y’hear?”

“Of course,” I smiled.

“You know we will, Sheriff,” Cassidy added.

Branham grinned. “Good. You two have a good day.”

Cassidy and I were quiet long after the sheriff had left. The shop suddenly felt too small to contain recent events, from our wedding to the grisly discovery in the attic. Cassidy squeezed my hand, and I hers. The ticking of an old teak grandfather clock in the corner was deafening in the silence. I think even the dust went still. It was Cassidy who broke the silence first.

“The bloodleech attack, just all in a week? It’s been a lot,” she murmured, her emerald eyes meeting mine. Then she drew a long breath, holding harder to my hand as she smiled. “We got this.”

I gave her a soft, lopsided grin. “We absolutely do. I refuse to think life can out-weird us.”

Cassidy snorted a soft laugh, and I leaned on the checkout counter.

“Fred Spivey is something else that’s really weird.” I slowly drummed my fingers on the counter, pursing my lips. “It’s funny how he was murdered and mummified next to that safe in Dorian’s attic.”

Cassidy wrinkled her nose, almost shuddering. “It is. Coincidence?”

I shook my head. “You know, I really don’t believe in those.”

She looked off at the dust drifting through late afternoon sunbeams that slid in through the unbroken shop windows. I could see the wheels turning behind her eyes, her sharp mind working at a million miles an hour.

“Neither do I,” she admitted. “Especially since he was mummified.”

I squinted. “Okay. I’m not sure I follow. Sure, the fact that the guy got his head knocked in before someone dried him out like an old sponge is… well… disturbing, but—”

Cassidy shook her head, lightly waving a hand at me.

“No. That’s not what I meant,” she replied, then grimaced, tilting her head. “Not entirely. I mean the mummifying part.” She glanced over, searching my confused expression. “Fred Spivey was mummified, love. Withered. Just like Henry Vanil. That bookkeeper who owned one of Dorian’s fountain pens, remember?”

I slowly straightened, raising my eyebrows.

“Oh. Him. The one from Sleepy Hollow, New York, who was found withered with dark ink stains on his fingers,” I said, soft as a mourner. “But Fred Spivey didn’t have ink stains on his fingers.”

“Are you sure?” Cassidy replied with a level look, eyebrows knitted. “Really?”

I let the silence and the ticking grandfather clock answer for me.

“So,” I said slowly, my mouth dry. “Earlier we were talking about Uncle Elias’ safe? That you thought it was hidden in the stairwell to our apartment?”

Cassidy straightened her back, rubbing the top of a shoulder as her eyes brightened. A sure sign she wanted a distraction as badly as I did from all the death and doom.

“Right, yes.” She gave me a hopeful smile. “Want to close up early for lunch and go safe hunting, love?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” I grinned.

We put the ‘out for lunch’ sign in the last intact bay window, then headed for the stairs. The stairwell was—doors used as wall panels aside—brown and ordinary at first glance. But the longer I stood there staring, the more I realized it was interesting. Life had just kept me too distracted from paying attention until then.

The antique library doors were a golden teak with the rough edges smoothed away, blushing with a light chestnut stain. I remember my uncle taking great pains to sand, saw and fit them against the wall like so many puzzle pieces. He took care to restore each door to as close to the original condition as he could. The result was wooden walls that looked as soft as satin under the overhead lighting. Just seeing the result of his careful handiwork felt like a reassuring hug I’d overlooked.

I blinked when Cassidy touched my arm.

“What’s wrong?”

I shook my head, giving her a tiny smile. “Oh, nothing. Just remembering when my uncle first got these doors to put them in. So, you take the left side; I’ll take the right?”

“Deal.”

We moved between the doors, poking and prodding every crack, edge, or the faded marks left by forgotten hinges. Just for good measure, we even checked if any of the stairs were actually a lid for a storage compartment. No such luck, other than it reminded me, we needed to dust the stairs.

At the top of the staircase to our apartment over the shop, we stood together, frowning at everything.

“I was so sure it was here,” Cassidy breathed with a sigh. She waved a hand at the walls. “I mean, it just seemed like something your uncle would do. We pushed and searched every inch of these doors. I guess they really are just unusual wall panels.”

“Yeah, I guess.” With a sigh, I studied the walls once more. “Your idea did make a lot of sense.” I shrugged, rapping my knuckles on the nearest door twice. “At least they’re solid.”

The knothole I tapped, slid into the door with a soft click. A second later, the entire wall-panel door whispered a soft groan as it opened into the wall. Then a weak, yellowed light sputtered to life like a resurrected forgotten bulb, inviting us inside.

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Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. To be honest, it’s a bit creepy, if not spooky, when is isn’t beside itself with nerves. It tends to be a little shy. Did I mention it likes to needlepoint because there’s lots of stabbing? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. Which means, really, he gets all the blame.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, undead, or why-aren’t-they-dead-YET is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot. Like daily.