Inkwell of Shadows 9: Murder Most Mummified

November 8, 2024. Moonlight Curiosities antique shop. Nothing like that feeling when you know you missed the obvious…

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…

Missed a chapter? You can find the full list here.

Previously. Daniel discovers both a dead man and a live attacker in the attic. A mad scramble sends his mysterious attacker running for the second floor with Daniel close behind—only to lose them seconds later. Outside, footprints hinted they slipped away unseen. Leaving Daniel, Cassidy, and Dorian to answer questions to the sheriff about the mummified dead man in the attic…

November 8, 2024. Moonlight Curiosities antique shop. Nothing like that feeling when you know you missed the obvious…

Yesterday stalked me so closely into tomorrow, I thought I had a second skin. It was close to noon before I shook it off with a cup of black coffee and a half-hearted inventory check.

Which worked—until it didn’t.

A few minutes later, it dawned on me that I had read the same entry for ‘1989 Calendar Plates’ five times. Groaning, I gave up, setting the tablet on the office desk.

“I need a break,” I muttered, taking a sip of coffee.

My eyes wandered to the open notebook next to me, then to the antique Waterman fountain pen in its wooden case. Overhead lights gleamed along the pen’s metal shell, turning it to fool’s gold. The pen’s decorative veins wavered like lines of fresh blood.

They were mesmerizing—a little hypnotic.

I dragged my eyes away. Feeling a mild headache, I rubbed my temples, then pulled over the open notebook. The current page was filled with almost everything Cassidy and I knew about the pens so far. A lot of notes—but not enough to explain why I’d come face to face with a dead body.

“A mummified, dead body,” I mused. “But the dead guy in Dorian’s attic might have nothing to do with the pens. It could’ve been a coincidence.”

But was it?

I picked up a pen—not the antique one—tapping it against the notebook. Then I wrote ‘Fred Spivey’, circling it with a question mark. After staring at the name, I added what else I remembered from the attic.

“There was the beige velvet cloth lining the safe, a bundle of papers, an ink stain, and old grocery store receipts.” I frowned over that last one, tapping the notebook again. “That ink stain meant the pen had been there, but why the grocery receipts?” I drew a slow breath, chewing that over. “What if they weren’t just receipts?”

I jumped when I felt hands settle on my shoulders.

“Hey, what’s this? Fred Spivey? Grocery receipts?” Cassidy asked, leaning over my shoulder. “Doesn’t look like inventory,” she teased.

“Well, this stuff with the pens and what happened in the attic wouldn’t leave me alone,” I said wryly. “Especially the dead man.” I shook my head, glancing up at her. “Other than being mummified, it feels odd that he was right there next to that safe.”

Cassidy nodded, idly massaging my shoulders. “Yeah, it does. Mummified…” She paused, looking into the middle distance with concern.

“What is it?”

She shrugged. “Not sure. It reminds me of something, and it bothers me I can’t think of what. It’s from when I was little.” Cassidy shook her head, sighing. “Wish I could remember.” Then her green eyes sparkled. “Oh! Hey. Remember we talked about your uncle having a safe?”

I turned in the chair, halfway facing her.

“You found one?” It was hard to keep the hope of sorting out this mess from my voice.

Cassidy grinned, squeezing my shoulders.

“Maybe?” she replied. “I think so, but I’m not sure. We’ve checked this place from top to bottom. But your uncle loved puzzles. So I looked around again this morning, and I think it might be in the stairwell leading upstairs.”

I frowned, picturing the dull wooden stairway with its brown walls. It practically screamed boring.

“There? Can’t be. It’s just a stairwell,” I replied. “How?”

Her grin widened.

“The walls.” Cassidy pushed the notebook aside to perch on the edge of the desk, facing me. “Think about it, love. Your uncle mostly helped build this place—literally. It’s an enclosed, interior stairwell, but the walls are made of antique doors.”

I turned that over in my mind. The walls were all six-paneled, chestnut privacy doors that my uncle once told me came from an old library. He said they had too much history to let rot, so he used them in the stairwell like wood paneling. I pursed my lips.

“Cassie, I’m not sure. We could be reaching here.”

She inclined her head. “We could. But think about it. Sure, the doorknobs were plugged with wood, but what a great place to hide a secret door—right in plain sight.”

My eyebrows reached for my hairline at the implication.

“So, if one of those doors is an actual working door—” I shook my head. “That’s Uncle Elias’ sense of humor right there. But if there is a room there, it’d have to be pretty narrow.”

Cassidy shrugged. “True. But if it’s just for a safe, does it have to be that big?”

I thought back to the hidden safe in Dorian’s attic.

“You know, probably not—”

My phone rang, scattering my thoughts like loose leaves. I pulled it from my pocket and went still at the caller ID on the screen; a cold chill teased my spine.

It was my former boss, Kevin Thorpe.

Cassidy’s expression melted into a dark thundercloud the second she saw his name. I exchanged an uneasy look with her, then tapped the speaker button as I set the phone on the desk between us.

“Dan! How’s it going?” Kevin’s voice rang through the phone, oozing charm.

“Fine, Kevin. What—”

“Great!” he pushed on. “I read about that mess with the serial killer. Nuts, right? The news media said your little shop got wrecked. Anyway, look. We’ve got some system documentation that needs some details. Also, we could use a second pair of hands for a little system stability.” There was a microsecond pause before he added, “I mean, given everything going on, I figured you could probably use the real income, right? Just to get back on your feet.”

“No,” Cassidy hissed low enough for the phone to miss it. “Daniel, no. That’s what he said last time, when he guilted you into working six days a week, thirteen-hour days.”

I rubbed my eyes, hands trembling as workaholic memories warred with emotion. An old reflex tried to kick in—just say yes, fix the problem, and move on. Only the problems never stayed fixed.

“Kevin…” I paused. My voice sounded ragged in my ears. After I swallowed, I tried again. “Kevin, I appreciate what you’re saying, but no. We’ve got too much going on right now…”

“Really?” he said, sliding into a gap between my words. “Okay… well. Hey, how about instead of no, why don’t you sleep on it? Dig a little deeper into the idea. Talk it over with Cassidy. Run the numbers, right?”

Cassidy softly punched the desk, eyes blazing.

I was saved by the shop’s front door before I could fumble another rejection. Cassidy swept up my phone, giving me a quick kiss on the side of my head.

“Go be charming,” she whispered, then took the call off speaker.

“Kevin? Hi,” she said, voice all rose-thorns dipped in honey. “Yeah, this is Cassidy. So, we should talk…”

I knew a potential verbal flaying when I heard one, so I eased out from behind the desk and left the office in search of customers. Our shop isn’t large, so I tracked them down pretty easily. One gentleman was interested in the antique books, while two ladies were inspecting the lamps and Mason jars. Two of the customers I didn’t know, but I recognized one of the ladies right away.

“Mrs. Adelyne, it’s good to see you again,” I said, smiling. “Thank you for the squash casserole, by the way. It was fantastic.”

Naomi Adelyne beamed, adjusting her wire-rimmed glasses along the thin bridge of her nose. I swore she blushed. But behind that, I saw a tremor of nerves in her piercing hazel eyes.

That got my attention. Mrs. Adelyne—never ‘Ms.’ despite being a widow—was usually the picture of proper. She was always impeccable from posture and speech, to clothing and the practical bun of her gray-brown hair. Only today, some of that practicality looked a bit frayed around the edges. Her hands tightly gripped the small blue purse in front of her, like a tiny cloth shield. Almost as if what she wanted to say warred with her inner nature.

“Mrs. Adelyne? What’s wrong?”

Her mouth pressed into a flat line before she let out a thin sigh. After a sharp look to either side, she leaned a little closer, voice hushed.

“Daniel, I’ve a delicate matter to talk about. I didn’t want to bother you, but my Issac said you or Cassidy could help me like your uncle did.” The worried look in her eyes flickered like a poked fire. She snapped open her purse, digging out a small, dirt-stained, gray canvas bag, heavy with something inside. Mrs. Adelyne held out the tiny, rosemary-scented bag to me. “My favorite pen is acting up. I just know it’s haunted.”

The bag did hold a pen—just not the one Cassidy and I were after. It was an antique Sheaffer ballpoint pen, not a fountain pen. A blue-black stain decorated the tip of the sterling silver shell. I glanced from the pen back to its owner with a hopefully comforting smile.

“Well, sure looks like it could be leaking. Come up to the front counter, and I’ll… er… see what I can do about the leaky spirits.”

Relief flooded her face. “Thank you so much, Daniel. I wasn’t sure, but Issac said you could handle it.”

Cassidy was there, my phone flat in front of her, arching an eyebrow at the two of us. I held up the canvas bag.

“Mrs. Adelyne needs some help with a leaky pen,” I explained. “She said Uncle Elias used to help with this.”

“Both with the spirit bothering it and the ink,” Mrs. Adelyne added primly, stopping at the end of the counter.

I swapped a questioning look with Cassidy, who replied with a faint shrug. It seemed Uncle Elias got up to a lot we didn’t know about. I glanced at my phone. Cassidy gave a slight shake of her head and a very pleased grin.

“Later. Kevin’s got a lot to think about,” she said in a low voice, then plucked the bag from my fingers. “So, let’s see what we’ve got.”

“Excuse me?” It was one of the other two customers. He was a broad-shouldered older man, in his mid-50s, wearing a Laguna Bay College sweatshirt and jeans. In his hands were a pair of antique Mason jars and a 1938 cookbook. His slightly weathered face had the sunny disposition of someone used to smiling.

Cassidy lightly touched my arm. “I’ll help Mrs. Adelyne, Daniel. You help Professor Barnes.” She gave the man a grin. “Good to see you again, Professor.”

Professor Barnes tipped an invisible hat. “Likewise.”

That’s when I remembered him. Cassidy had mentioned a Halcomb Barnes she knew from Laguna Bay College in the next town over, who was fond of vintage cookbooks.

“Find what you were after, Professor?” I asked as I rang everything up. He shrugged.

“Maybe. That cookbook might have the fig preserves recipe I’m after. We’ll see.” He gestured to the back office. “Well, that’s a familiar sight. Looks like a fountain pen I gave to a student last semester.”

I paused mid-tap on the tablet screen and glanced into the office where I’d left the antique Waterman pen on the desk.

“That pen?” I asked, surprised. Hope rose up, shooting fireworks off inside me, while logic yelled to keep the noise down. It was a long shot that would be one of the missing pens. Pen makers shamelessly copied each other’s styles, both then and now.

Barnes nodded. “At least one a lot like it. Why?”

I shrugged. “That was part of a four-pen set. Cassie and I are chasing down two that are missing.”

A woman, the third customer I’d noticed before, tapped the professor on the arm. Her blue eyes flicked between myself and the professor, before settling on the professor’s two Mason jars. With a bright smile, she brushed a strand of raven-black hair with a snow-white streak behind an ear.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said, tapping one of the Mason jars, eyes lingering on the glass. “Just where did you find those? I’ve a collection, and that’s the style I’m looking for.”

Professor Barnes smiled, face warm as sunshine. He pointed back across the rows of shelves, over to the far wall near the stairs up.

“Oh, well. I saw plenty like this on that last aisle. At least ten.”

I nodded, bagging the jars and cookbook for the professor. “Ma’am? If you don’t see what you’re after, just let me know. That’s only a part of what we have in stock.”

The woman beamed. “Thank you!”

Once she hurried off, Professor Barnes collected his purchase, then inclined his head at the Waterman pen.

“Daniel, is it? Well, if you’re looking to track down those pens, the student I gave one to was Vera James. She’s still taking classes at Laguna College. I should see her on Monday. Want I should ask her to call you?”

I handed him a business card, not wanting to count this as good luck yet—just hope for some. “Please, if you don’t mind.”

Barnes pocketed the card. “Sure thing. See you later, Daniel. Give my best to Cassie?”

I nodded, smiling. “Will do.”

A few minutes later, more Mason jars were bought, and Mrs. Adelyne was mostly satisfied her pen was at rest for the moment. Now, with a lack of customers, I filled Cassidy in on what Professor Barnes had said.

“Do you think it could be one of the pens?” she asked skeptically.

I glanced through the office door at the Waterman pen. It might have been my imagination, but the pen looked slightly out of place, as if it’d been moved when I wasn’t looking. I frowned at the decorative red veins along its surface, glimmering a dark red in the filtered sunlight.

“Maybe?” I replied. “We know two pens found their way here to Gloamstead. What if one was taken from a safe and sold?”

It was Cassidy’s turn to frown as she slouched against the counter.

“Seems weird to sell one after all the doom, gloom, and ‘burn it’ in those hidden messages we found.” She reached over, gently clasping my hand. “But still, stranger things have happened.”

As if on cue, the front bell rang and Sheriff Branham stepped inside, pulling off his hat.

“Stranger things? That’s one way to put it,” he said. “You two have a minute? We need to talk about that dead body you found, and what happened before he was mummified.”

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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.