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Magic, Murder and a Movie Star: Wonky Inn Book 10 by
JEANNIE WYCHERLEY
Copyright © 2020 Jeannie Wycherley
All rights reserved
Publishers note: This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and for effect or are used with permission. Any other resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of very brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Sign up for Jeannie’s newsletter: eepurl.com/cN3Q6L Magic,MurderandaMovieStarwas edited by Christine L Baker Cover design by JC Clarke of The Graphics Shed. Formatting by Tammy
Proofing by Johnny Bon Bon
Please note: This book is set in England in the United Kingdom. It uses British English spellings and idioms.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Need More Wonky? Coming Next Out Now
Also
by
Jeannie Wycherley
CONTENTS
Ipressed a finger to my lips and lifted the receiver of the old Bakelite phone on my desk.
“Whittle Inn, Alfhild Daemonne speaking,” I said, keeping my voice smooth and rich, channelling my inner Gwyn, my deceased great-grandmother. “How may I help you?”
Florence, Whittle Inn’s housekeeper, wiggled with excitement, barely able to contain herself. “Oh, Miss Alf!” she said.
“Shhhh!” hissed Charity. If she had been able to, she would probably have nudged Florence, but as Florence had been dead for well over a hundred years, there wasn’t a great deal of point.
I raised my eyebrows with mock haughtiness in the direction of the office door where the pair of them huddled together. Do you mind? I telegraphed. I’m theimportant person here and I need to havethisessentialconversation.
“Ms Daemonne?” The Boston drawl of an American female repeated my name. “I am so pleased I’ve managed to track you down at last—”
Track me down? I hadn’t been anywhere except the inn. Where hadshebeensearching?
“It’s Tammi-Jo Merrick here from The Toad and Newt Production Company.”
“Oh yes?” I feigned … not disinterest exactly … but more an air of someone who has seen it all and done it all. I haven’t, obviously.
Charity bared her teeth at me. She didn’t want me to play games when this conversation was hugely important to us for a variety of reasons. We had an inkling that the movie company wanted to lodge some of their crew with us. Earlier this morning, I’d received an email informing me that Tammi-Jo would be calling me today to discuss booking the inn for her production company. I’d read the message out to Charity and Florence over breakfast and, ever since, they’d been behaving like a pair of love-struck schoolgirls. Most of their giddy excitement could be put down to the fact that two of the biggest movie stars in the world would be starring in the film and therefore filming in our locality.
Given how poor business had been thus far this season—with the exception of the week when Kappa Sigma Granma had been in residence—we needed the bookings.
But on the other hand, I didn’t want to appear too needy, otherwise Tammi-Jo would barter the price of the rooms down to zero.
“I don’t know whether you were aware that Toad and Newt will be filming in your area in a few weeks?”
“No, I must have missed that,” I lied. Florence’s feather duster jabbed at my head.
“You did?” She sounded incredulous. “Well ma’am, we most certainly are, and it’s my job to book hotels where I can lodge some of the cast and crew—”
I winked at Charity. She opened her eyes wide, her fists gripped tightly under her chin. “Yes?”
“—so I was wondering how much availability you have there at Whittle Inn?”
“I see.” I must admit I was starting to impress myself with how calm and collected I sounded. “Let me just check my reservations. Would you mind holding for a few seconds?”
“Of course!”
“Thank you.” I carefully placed the receiver face down on the desk—that’s what passed for ‘on hold’ in the olden days, after all— and tapped the mouse. My computer screen lit up. I hurriedly closed down my game of Crones and Corridors and opened the database that allowed us to keep track of our reservations. I clicked through the spreadsheets that covered the next few weeks—all the rows and columns were empty but I made sure I tapped the keys noisily and picked the phone back up.
“Erm …” I exhaled through my nose, letting her know I had a problem, “… we’re a bit chock-a-block but … when were you thinking?”
“We’re in Exeter filming until the 22nd and ideally we’d like to have rooms ready that evening.”
“Right—” I replied, laying on an ‘I’m-trying-so-hard-to-be-helpful’ tone of voice, similar to one I’d had used on me so many times in the past.
“I should mention that we have an advance unit too. They would need to come down a few days beforehand to set up.”
“Set up what, exactly?” Now I was genuinely puzzled. “Are you intending to film at Whittle Inn?”
“Perhaps a few scenes. It looks very beautiful there. I’ve checked out your website and we might use the reception area, maybe do a
couple of outside scenes. But no, our plans are more for that cute village of yours, and the surrounding countryside. Also”—this woman hardly ever paused for breath—“we thought, given that you have quite a large amount of land available, we could make use of that and set up a parkour course. The leads in the movie are doing their own stunts and they won’t have been able to practise for the previous week or so while they’ve been hanging out in the city.”
“Parker?” Ihadnoideawhatthatwas.
Charity’s mouth dropped open.
I frowned at her. What?I mouthed.
She widened her eyes.
“Oh, how adorable,” Tammi-Jo said. “You’ve never heard of parkour?”
“No,” I replied. “Should I have?”
“It’s like … when you see all those stars in the big Witchywood blockbusters? And they’re running over the rooftops and jumping from roof to roof and sliding down bannisters and things? All at high speed? Tumbling here and throwing themselves off the tops of cars and catapulting themselves from trains onto the tops of lorries?” Tammi-Jo sounded breathless with excitement.
“You want to do that at Whittle Inn?” I baulked at the idea. It was an old building. Who knew whether bits of it might fall off if someone was pretending to do their best spiderman impression while hanging from the turrets?
“We wouldn’t be using the building itself. We’d build a course in the grounds.”
“Oh, I see,” I laughed nervously. “Build it … how? Out of concrete?” I think in my mind’s eye I was beginning to imagine some kind of huge cement skateboarding park. I shuddered. There was no
way I wanted some ugly monstrosity like that on my front lawn, thank you verymuch!
“No, it would be a temporary construction,” Tammi-Jo was saying. “The crew would strike it before leaving. You’ll never know it was there.”
“Right.” What did strike it mean? Burn it to the ground? These filmpeoplewerehard-core.
“So, what are your thoughts? We’ve also been looking into accommodation at”—I heard her rustling some paper—“The Hay Loft, is it? Yes. The Hay Loft. They seem to have a large field we could think about hiring.”
“At extra cost, no doubt.” I couldn’t quite hide the derision in my voice. Lyle Cavendish, the owner of The Hay Loft, would have charged his mother for a night’s stay on his sofa.
“Money’s no object to us, Ms Daemonne. Cam Vendez has access to one of the biggest budgets ever put together in Witchywood history.”
I swallowed. Howenticing.
“You know, we have two of the biggest stars on the planet in this film,” Tammi-Jo reminded me. “Believe me, the studio is practically throwing money at us.”
“Gosh,” was all I could think of to say. I made another attempt to sound casual. “So we’d get a chance to see the actors?” I lifted my eyes. In the doorway, Charity was jumping up and down impatiently, her mouth a rigor mortis of a silent scream. Florence twirled about, creating a draught.
“See the actors? Of course. They’re not hermits.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
I could hear the smirk in Tammi’s voice. “I should imagine you’d be running into them every five minutes, given that they’d be
staying at yourinn. Assuming you have the room, of course.”
“Haha,” I replied, slightly weak at the joints. “Let me just see what I can re-jig here.”
I hit a few keys to make it sound like I was trying to organise myself. “How many rooms are we looking at?”
“The whole inn, ideally,” Tammi-Jo replied. “If that’s not possible then we could look at potentially over-spilling to The Hay Loft, and we’ll bring some trailers too. Dom and Cam prefer staying in their personal trailers rather than being forced to check in to different hotel rooms every night.”
“Understandable,” I said, impressed at the way she could just drop the first name of the hottest star in the galaxy into the conversation so casually.
DomBruise!
“So, what about it, Ms Daemonne?”
Now was the time to quit playing games. “Absolutely no problem. I’ll contact the prior reservations on my books, free up the space and reserve the inn for Toad and Newt.”
“Excellent. I’ll send you the contracts and if you could invoice me, I’ll get a twenty per cent deposit sent through within twenty-four hours.”
Wow.Thatquickly?Moneyreallywasnoobjecttothesepeople.
“I’ll also organise the advance team to visit you about a week before. They’ll advise about the parkour course.”
“Perfect,” I squeaked. All semblance of my smooth, calm and professional self had flown out of the window at the mention of money.
Bigbucks!Whatalifesaver!
“Thank you, Ms Daemonne. Bye for now. Have a lovely day.”
“You too! Thank you! Bye!”
I replaced the heavy receiver carefully before looking up at Charity and Florence. They stood in the doorway, quiet now, both waiting on tenterhooks for me to say something.
I tried to look nonchalant. Tried valiantly, in fact. And failed miserably. I jumped to my feet and shrieked.
“Witchywood is coming to Whittlecombe and they’re staying here!”
Charity threw herself into the room and caught me up in a huge bear hug. “Brian Ben-Olds!”
“And Dom Bruise,” I reminded her.
“I know, but Brian Ben-Olds!”
“Yeah, but Dom Bruise.” I held her at arm’s length and gave her a stern look. “Priorities,” I said. “Dom. TheDom Bruise!”
“He’s nice,” Charity acknowledged.
“Nice?” Whatwas wrong withthewoman?“Are we talking about the same man? Dom Bruise! You know? The super-hot, heartstopping, international megastar for at least thirty-five years? That Dom Bruise!”
“He’s getting on a bit now though, isn’t he?” Charity wrinkled her nose.
“Seriously, Charity!” I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing. “In what other line of work would we suggest that thirty-five years of experience counted for nothing?”
“Well—” Charity shrugged, not entirely convinced.
“Look at Hal Cappuccino and Hobbit le Fearo. Veteran actors, still worth watching on the big screen.”
Florence’s feather duster spun wildly. “Ooh now you’re talking, Miss Alf! I love a bit of Hobbit le Fearo!”
“He’s a truly marvellous actor,” I agreed. “And so is Dom Bruise.”
“Yes, but,” Charity replied, lifting her stubborn little chin, “Brian Ben-Olds is hot.”
“He’s not that young himself,” I reminded her. “He must be forty or so.”
“I don’t care,” said Charity. “I think he’s the bee’s knees. And when he gets here, bagsy making his bed up every morning.”
“You can’t bagsy that!” Florence jumped in quickly, more than a little alarmed. “I’mthe housekeeper. Making his bed is myjob.”
“Ladies, ladies!” I held my hands up. “Surely we’re not quarrelling about who gets to make whose bed?”
“I’ll ensure I’m there bright and early.” Florence wagged her feather duster at Charity.
Charity gave Florence a knowing look. “Maybe I’ll inveigle my way into his affections and be tucked up next to him when you arrive to clean his room,” she said.
“Charity!” My mouth dropped open in surprise.
She folded her arms defiantly, gave us both a little stink-eye, then burst out laughing.
After a moment Florence and I joined in. “You had me there,” I said.
“We don’t fraternise with the guests,” said Florence.
“I know,” Charity sighed. “But it’s a shame, because I don’t meet anyone else, and Brian is so handsome, and cheeky, and funny, and everything I want in a man.”
“And very rich,” I said. “That’s always an attractive proposition when you’ve got an inn bleeding money left, right and centre.”
“There is that,” Charity said.
“Oh, I’m glad I’m past all that,” Florence said. “No need for any complicated romances here.”
“Yeah,” I said. “And me.”
“Pftttt!” Charity sniggered, while Florence rolled her eyes. “I never knew anyone with a more complicated love life than you. You never know where Mr Silvanus is from one moment to the next.”
There was a definite truth in that.
“Well, in any case,” I said, “we should start making sure this inn sparkles! It would appear that the big names are coming to Whittle Inn and we three will need to be on our best behaviour! Am I right, ladies?”
“Absolutely,” said Charity.
“You can count on me, Miss Alf,” Florence nodded.
“It’s just so quaint,” marvelled Tammi-Jo for about the thousandth time, flicking back her sleek chocolate-coloured hair and batting huge eyelashes at me.
It had transpired that the advance team consisted of Tammi-Jo and a swarthy man named Bill Fox. Bill had eyes the colour of granite and short black hair with a curl that fell over his left eyebrow. He appeared to be in charge of security, as well as the complicated advance logistics for getting the set, equipment, props and wardrobe for the film to Whittlecombe. Outside, it was pelting down with typical Devon rain, but several of Bill’s team were already out there, oblivious of the conditions, measuring the grounds for the parkour course.
Parkourcourse?ThethingsIgetmyselfinto.
We were in The Throne Room, the most impressive suite in the whole of Whittle Inn and one that I was immensely proud of. It had a large four-poster bed with red walls and drapes. Along with gilt mirrors—and a specially commissioned portrait of my great-great-
great-great grandmother, Rosahilde Medusa Daemonne—velvet had been heavily utilised everywhere.
Dusting it kept Florence busy for hours.
I glanced out of the window. Was it my imagination or did Bill’s team all look like special forces operatives? They were built like brick outhouses, with neatly trimmed beards and glittering eyes. They all wore tight-fitting black clothing and despite the atrocious weather, there wasn’t a cagoule in sight.
I’d seen their kind on the television, hiking across the wilds of Scotland or climbing Everest and, although they could probably have killed a man with a well-placed thumb, I must confess they were easy on the eye …
Bill caught me looking and I flushed. “They don’t mind the weather?” I asked, trying to cover my fluster.
He raised one eyebrow. “They’re game for anything, Ms Daemonne.”
I laughed nervously, my face undoubtedly the colour of an overripe tomato. “That’s useful.”
“It certainly is, in our line of work.” Tammi-Jo sidled up beside Bill and smiled, a little icily I thought. She was older than she’d sounded on the phone, curvaceous and immaculately made up. Those huge fake eyelashes of hers dominated her face like spiders let loose on a blank canvas. “Isn’t it, Bill?” she placed a proprietary hand on his arm.
His eyes never left my face. My knees trembled. “It is,” he replied, and there was some hidden meaning in those flinty eyes of his.
Washeflirtingwithme?
I grimaced inwardly. That would never do. I conjured an image of Silvan to the forefront of my mind, the dastardly witch who had
my heart, and cleared my throat. I gestured vaguely around at the room. “So, erm … what do you think? This is the pick of the bunch.”
Tammi-Jo nodded. “It’s gorgeous. What do you think, Bill? We could put Medea in here?” She tapped something out on her little Palm Wizard—like a mobile phone—but with the capacity to do more. “I think I told you that Dom and Cam prefer to stay in their trailers, so we’re really only looking for space for Medea and Brian
“What about Brian?” Bill asked her. “Where are you thinking of putting him?”
“I haven’t seen anything that would suit, so far,” she widened her eyes at me, the lashes brushing her fringe.
What did she mean? How hadn’t I shown her anything that would suit? I’d shown her everything.
“I … erm …” What could I say? That’s it?
“There’s a room in the corner?” she said. “Overlooking the grounds? While we were outside I noticed the window was open.”
“That’s probably my room,” I said. “I have a suite there next to my office. It has a mini kitchen, not that I ever use it—”
“That sounds perfect!” said Tammi-Jo.
“—but—”
“Can we see it?” She moved towards the door.
“I … it’s …” Flummoxed, I regarded the two of them in horror. “I don’t think that’s possible—”
Tammi-Jo fixed me with a withering glare. “If money is the issue?”
“Gosh, no! It’s just I haven’t decorated it since I moved in. It’s a mess.”
Bill laughed. “Let’s see it, anyway. Nothing we can’t fix up, I’m sure.”
I led them down the corridor to my corner, worrying about what they’d think of my personal space and not entirely sure I wanted my room ‘fixed up’.
Pushing the door open, I stood back to let them in. Fortunately, it wasn’t too untidy. I hadn’t made the bed because I’d been up at five thirty, as usual, and I probably hadn’t dusted for a few weeks because, you know, dusting, but apart from that there were minimal belongings on the floor or draped over chairs or bedsteads.
The thing was, my furnishings were all a bit tired. The wardrobe was an enormous monstrosity, something from the nineteen forties, all utilitarian and cheap-looking. Plus the walls were tatty. I’d peeled the wallpaper off to expose the plaster underneath … then lost interest and, sort of, abandoned the decorating at that stage. The door into the en-suite had been sanded but never repainted, and the gigantic radiator looked like something that wouldn’t have been out of place in a school in the 1960s.
Bill smirked.
“I’ve been a bit busy,” I explained, defending myself.
“I’m sure you have,” he said, with the air of a man who could remodel and redecorate an entire English inn before breakfast and still have time to run the marathon with a three-thousand pound Devon bull on his back. “We could paint it for you. What would you like? Pink? Peach?”
Pinkorpeach!Ugh!WhatdidhethinkIwas?
“Mmm … I’m not sure really,” I replied, resisting the urge to curl my lip in disgust.
“What do you think, Tammi-Jo?” Bill asked.
Tammi-Jo looked me up and down. This morning I’d dressed in my black jeans—unusually clean for me—and a black jumper with a V-neck. This was about as smart as I could manage. I hadn’t been
clothes shopping for absolutely ages. I’d been relying on my heavyduty witch’s robes for a long time.
I withered a little under her scrutiny, until I remembered I’d had far more important things to do over the past eighteen months. Like run an inn and rescue ghosts and facilitate baking competitions and track down a time traveller and kick the backsides of The Mori … and not forgetting sorting out the vampires.
I shuddered.
“Ms Daemonne doesn’t look like someone who appreciates pastels and girlie colours,” Tammi-Jo ventured.
She’d read me right. I was a little surprised.
“No,” I agreed. “I have a few ideas for décor, but I haven’t been able to settle on what I want in here yet.”
Tammi-Jo paced to the wall, mostly devoid of wallpaper, and slipped the edge of her immaculately painted pale-blue thumbnail under a slither of a wallpaper remnant. She gently peeled it away and dropped it to the floor. “Do you know what, Bill?”
Bill and I waited for Tammi-Jo to bring forth her wisdom on interior decoration.
“I think Brian would love this room just the way it is.”
I crinkled my nose. Seriously?
Bill caught my expression and lifted the corner of his mouth in a half-smile. “He’s a tad unconventional, is Mr Ben-Olds.”
“I see.” Glancing around doubtfully, I said, “Well if you’re quite sure …”
“This will be perfect,” Tammi-Jo nodded. “Trust me.”
Where would I sleep? Maybe I’d have to bunk up with Charity. It was just as well Silvan was elsewhere attending to whatever it is dark-witches-for-hire attend to.
“I’ll get it cleaned up and move out,” I said.
“By all means, clean the room,” Tammi-Jo nodded, pulling open one of the wardrobe doors, “but don’t go overboard emptying it out. He’ll only need it for a few days so it will be a kind of home from home for him.”
I watched her poke through the robes hanging there. All exactly the same, made by a dressmaker on Celestial Street. They had a variety of rips, tears and rents thanks to my adventures. I was reminded again that I needed to go shopping.
I mean, Dom Bruise was going to be staying at my inn and I’d look like a proper ragamuffin! That would never do.
“A bit different to what Brian Ben-Olds is used to,” I ventured.
“A novelty,” Tammi-Jo agreed.
Bill snorted.
I frowned at him, and his eyes sparkled in amusement. He and Silvan had evidently been cut from the same cloth.
“Could we go and meet the chef, now?” Tammi-Jo asked, and, with relief, I led the way out of my humble bedroom and down the back stairs to the kitchen.
Gwyn, my deceased great-grandmother, met us in the kitchen as previously arranged. I needed her to translate for Monsieur Emietter, my French chef, another of my ghosts—this one with a short temper.
The good thing about working with a Witchywood or Witchflix company like Toad and Newt was that they didn’t blink twice at the existence of ghosts, although to be fair, not everyone—not even every witch—can see ghosts. The ghost has to want to be seen, and you have to be open to the idea of seeing them. Fortunately, the
majority of my ghosts were perfectly happy to be seen by all and sundry. In that sense, they were a sociable bunch.
I guess Tammi-Jo and Bill had both been around the block a bit, given their interesting and varied experiences of working on movies, because neither of them was even remotely perturbed by Monsieur Emietter.
I greeted the chef cheerfully with a loud, “Bonjour!” which was still pretty much the limit of my French. He twirled his impressive moustache at me and nodded at the newcomers. Gwyn had obviously prepped him in advance, for he stood by his stove, an almost-transparent notebook and pencil in his hands, ready to scrawl down instructions.
I’d been a little wary of this part of the tour. Gwyn’s sorority event had pushed the inn’s kitchen to its limits, thanks to demands for all manner of odd foodstuffs. It had turned out that some of her witchy friends had few or no teeth, which meant that they couldn’t handle food that needed to be chewed.
I could imagine that movie stars would be even more finicky.
I shuffled together a sheath of emails I’d printed out earlier. Tammi-Jo had sent me pages and pages of requests and buried somewhere amongst these were her requirements.
“Cam and Dom prefer high protein, low-fat diets. They only take carbs with their evening meal,” Tammi-Jo began, and Gwyn translated. Monsieur Emietter nodded and scribbled that down on his notepad. “Brian is a vegetarian but not a vegan, so if we can make sure his dishes are prepared separately, we’d be grateful.”
“That’s not a problem,” I told her, feeling confident we could handle that, at least. “We always have vegetarian options on the menu.”
“As long as there’s no cross-contamination,” Tammi-Jo nodded. “Mr Ben-Olds gets very upset about that.”
Gwyn levelled an icy gaze at Tammi-Jo. “I can assure you Monsieur Emietter runs a tight ship, young lady,” she said. “He knows what he’s doing.”
“Oh, of course, of course.” Tammi-Jo waved away the tension. “Then there’s Medea. She’s a pescatarian—”
Herewego, I thought.
“And finally—”
I pricked my ears up. Was thatit?I’d imagined pages and pages of pernickety requirements.
“There’s the crew.” Tammi-Jo hesitated. “I hate to say this, but most of them eat like philistines.”
Gwyn halted her interpretation to Monsieur Emietter. “Like—?”
“What I mean to say is, they like pizza and pasta and curry … things of that ilk.”
I couldn’t hide my delight. “Like ordinary people, you mean?”
Gwyn translated and Monsieur Emietter frowned. He began to address Tammi-Jo directly, speaking rapidly and gesticulating wildly.
“He says he doesn’t do fast food—”
“I’m sure he could run to pasta,” I interjected hurriedly.
Gwyn mentioned this to him, and he threw his pencil at me. Fortunately, it being a ghost pencil, he didn’t take my eye out.
“He’s French, Alfhild, not Italian.”
“I know, but—” A thought suddenly occurred to me. “Wait, it’s fine.” I held my hands palms up. “Tell him he should do upmarket fast food—”
“Really, my dear—”
“Grandmama, dress that up somehow with fancy words! Use your imagination!” I urged her. “I’ve got an idea.”
Gwyn arched her eyebrows. “Do tell, Alfhild?”
“Monsieur Emietter could produce his usual array of amazing French food, and I could see whether Rob Parker and his van are available to supply”—I nearly said proper food but just caught myself —“more common fare.”
Tammi-Jo looked quizzical. “Parker’s Porky Perfection,” I explained. “Rob does the best sausage and mash you’re ever likely to have.” I licked my lips. “Mmm. Cider and apple pork sausages with a rich onion gravy—”
“That certainly sounds like the sort of thing the crew would eat. The more of it the better.” Tammi-Jo twisted a delicate lip, evidently disapproving.
“I could ensure Rob is available for a little … erm … extra.” I had my business head on. These people could afford it.
“You’re making me hungry,” Bill said, and I grinned.
“Are you hungry, sir, did you say?” Florence apparated out of nowhere. “Shall I put the kettle on?” A large cake tin spun through the air and landed on the scrubbed kitchen table in front of us. “I baked an upside-down rhubarb and ginger cake this morning if you’d like a slice?”
The lid flew off and Bill leaned over to gaze inside the tin. “That looks—and smells—delicious,” he groaned, inhaling the fragrance, “but I really shouldn’t—”
“Oh, nonsense,” said Florence, her cake knife plunging savagely into the centre of the sponge.
The scent of rhubarb tickled my nostrils. My tummy rumbled.
Florence smiled at Bill. “I’ve half a pint of clotted cream in the cold store too. Unless you’d prefer custard?”
Bill surrendered. “Cream would be lovely.”
“Miss, Alf? Don’t you think it’s funny how folk always say they ‘really shouldn’t’ when you offer them cake, but then two seconds later they’re snatching your hand off?”
Charity, Florence and I were standing together in the main entrance, sheltering from the rain and watching the advance construction team build the parkour course on my lawn from planks of wood, scaffolding and old tyres. It was mid-March and the ground was sodden, so they’d rolled out great lengths of some kind of rubber flooring with blisters that helped you grip as you walked on it. The flooring would protect the ground from being churned up. The lawn beneath would quickly discolour, but at least at this time of year the grass would grow back again soon enough.
“When they say they really shouldn’t, they mean they shouldn’t really,” I told her. I could distinguish between the two although I’m sure others would have struggled. “They also mean they’re weakwilled and they want allthe cake.”
Charity glanced down at the cake stand she held in her hands. “That’s true,” she said. “And anybody who says, ‘I really shouldn’t,’
also means they’re going to at any second.”
We had arranged a table here in the vestibule so that Bill and his men could have tea and coffee—and cake of course—out of the rain without having to divest themselves of boots and jackets when they came inside. They’d trotted over at my first call, wolfed down practically everything on offer in seconds, glugged their drinks and disappeared back out into the rain, intent on finishing the job.
I reached out for the last remaining slice of lime marmalade and coconut cake that had been left forlorn and alone on the plate, but Charity snatched it away. “No, youreally, reallyshouldn’t,” she said.
I pouted. She had a point though. Any day now and my wonky inn would be swarming with handsome men and I wanted to look my best. I’d even booked a hairdressing appointment down in the village and ordered some new robes from a new dressmaker I’d found online.
“Fair enough,” I grumbled and poured myself a cup of tea from one of the near-empty flasks, hoping it would keep the hunger pangs at bay till dinnertime.
I squinted through the rain.
“I didn’t realise this thingummy would be so big,” I lamented.
“Who?” Charity asked, barging up next to me.
“Not who, what.” I tipped my head in the direction of the course.
“I meant that parkour thingie.”
“Oh, I thought you meant that tall chap, there,” Charity grinned impishly. “He’s enormous.”
Florence slipped between us to take a peek at a man the others had referred to as ‘Manc’, probably on account of the fact that he hailed from Manchester in the north-west. “Ooh, he is a big boy, Miss Charity. He looks like a Viking.”
“Or a bear,” I said.
Standing well over six foot, he had a broad build too. He had long hair, a kind of sandy-blond colour, currently pulled back in a neat ponytail, and a trimmed beard. On account of his size, he wasn’t as fast as the others when he ran—and they all seemed to do a lot of running—but he was still more nimble on his feet than I was. And strong!
All of these men were strong.
Bill, Manc and another four men, dressed almost identically and sporting identikit facial hair although of varying colours—were lifting a large wooden pole into place. It stood vertically, almost like a totem. It was wider than the rest of the supports they had raised into place so far, perhaps a foot wide and a foot deep, but it was easily twenty feet high. There appeared to be hand- or footholds screwed into the wood.
“What is that?” I wondered. They had joined everything else on the course together, like some gigantic game of Mousetrap, but this stood alone in the middle of the circuit.
“Who knows?” Charity said, her gaze fixed firmly on Manc.
“Put him down,” I said, joshing with her. Charity had never had a lot of luck on the boyfriend front and I could never understand why. She was a pretty young woman with ever-changing hair colour currently short and a vivid pink—but more than that, she was practical, no-nonsense, compassionate and a wonderful friend.
Movement along the tree-lined part of the drive caught my attention. A large white wagon of some kind. As I watched, an enormous campervan drove slowly and carefully onto the gravelled area of drive that separated the inn from the grounds. About the size of a coach, but taller if anything, it took up an awful lot of room.
“What the devil?” Charity’s mouth dropped open. “That’s huge!”
“I’ve never seen a campervan that size before,” I agreed.
Florence folded her arms. “American,” she said, all-seeing and allknowing thanks to Witchflix. “I’ve seen them on the television. They do everything bigger and better over there. That’s for the big stars.”
“Oooh,” Charity said, clapping her hands in excitement.
As we gawped, another one, equally as large as the first, pulled in behind it. Bill stopped what he was doing and trotted towards the vehicles.
I craned my neck. “Who’s driving? Anyone we know?”
“It won’t be Mr Bruise, Miss Alf,” Florence told me. “He’ll have his own drivers.”
“A fleet probably,” Charity agreed.
I put down my cup of tea and grabbed my mackintosh. “I should go and investigate.”
“Shall I come?” Charity asked.
“No, no.” I waved her away. “I can handle this.”
Tammi-Jo had sent me a load of bumf and if I’d read it all through properly, then I’d have known what to expect. Within three hours of the first trailer arriving, I’d had to direct fourteen of these massive campervans to the open green space, something that I often referred to as a field or a meadow although it was neither, that lay in the direction of Speckled Wood.
Just two of them parked side by side were larger than the combined area of the main bar and dining room inside the inn!
Bill and his crew had lain down temporary iron grids to prevent the trailers’ tyres becoming bogged down in the mud which, fortuitously, would also save me having to re-landscape the grounds after the production crew had left. They directed each van into an
allocated space and then, noting my curiosity and probably fed up with me hovering at his elbow, Bill had offered to show me into one of the trailers.
I jumped at the chance, not least because I knew it would turn Charity green with envy.
I carefully wiped my feet and Bill took my arm to help me up the high step into the first trailer. “This one’s for make-up,” he explained as I looked around.
The leather chairs, like tall comfortable stools, had all been screwed into place. Large, square mirrors were secured on the walls too, each surrounded by lights. I pulled open one of the cupboards. Make-up in bottles and jars, emblazoned with bright logos, and plastic containers with cellophane seals had been carefully strapped into place. Everything was neat and clean.
“Ingenious,” I said. “Nothing can get loose and rattle around.”
“That’s the idea.”
I pivoted. “So, no-one sleeps in here, then? I imagined these trailers would all be for the actors to hang out in.”
“This one is for the make-up team.” Bill gestured to the rear and I followed him. He twisted a knob and pushed a door open. Inside were four bunks. Each was neatly made up and awaiting an occupant. A door in the corner opened onto a small workshop. Wigs hung from hooks and under the narrow counter, there were several gadgets and machines, safely stowed in plastic containers. “I have no idea what they are,” Bill said. “But I think Cosmo, the head makeup artist, uses this area to colour his wigs.”
A second door off the bedroom opened into a tiddly bathroom tucked away with a shower and a loo.
“Does the shower work?” I asked. Spot the witch who had only ever stayed in a caravan once in her life. I’d consigned that memory
to the furthest recesses of my mind.
“Of course,” Bill said. “It’s not hooked up to the water yet. My boys will sort that out later.”
I raised my eyebrows, impressed, and patted the bunk nearest to me. “The beds look surprisingly comfortable.”
Bill smiled, his teeth white and even. “Do you fancy trying one out, Ms Daemonne?”
I laughed at his little joke—well, I hoped it was a joke—and backtracked out of the bedroom. Bill followed me, amused by my slight discomfort, and opened another door. “There’s another shower in here in case any of the actors need to wash off the blood and gore make-up that gets used quite frequently on these movies. This trailer is only for the main stars of the film. The extras and walk-ons have to make do with a marquee that we’ll probably get around to erecting tomorrow.”
“What about the other trailers?” I asked as I jumped back down onto the soft grass outside. The rain had let up a little, which was good news.
Bill came after me and beckoned me to the left. “This one is Cam’s trailer. I can let you have a quick peek, but if you don’t mind, I won’t let you in.”
“No, of course not,” I said and craned my neck to get a good look. Cam Vendez wasn’t the tidiest of souls. It seemed he liked his home comforts. There were numerous books and magazines on the floor—probably all dislodged as the trailer made its way down the narrow lanes to Whittlecombe from Exeter—as well as a large television on the wall and a posh stereo system tucked beneath it. It was a homely looking space, with lots of cushions and blankets and even a silk rug spread over the plush carpet.
“I’ll get you a set of keys so that you, or your staff, or whoever, can clean the trailers for us every morning. Is that doable?”
“Oh, eminently,” I replied, cheered by the thought that everyone could have a closer look. “I have a team of ghosts who just love cleaning.” It wouldn’t be me. As if he’d ever catch me cleaning the trailers for a bunch of mega-rich movie stars. Hell would freeze over first.
Not even for Dom.
“I must remind you that all cleaners must be your most trustworthy—”
I jumped in quickly, channelling my inner Gwyn. “I think you’ll find allof my staff are trustworthy.”
“I’m sure they are,” Bill winked and, without further ado, walked away.
I fanned myself, my face suddenly unseasonably warm.
Love him or loathe him, Bill had a way of getting me hot under the collar.
I hadn’t been back inside the inn for ten minutes when Archibald, who was keeping an eye on reception, notified me that another trailer was making its way down the long drive. I reluctantly forsook my place by the warm fire in the bar, where my clothes had been steaming as I dried off, and headed back to the front door.
I pulled my wellies on once more and, given that my own mackintosh was still sopping wet, I pinched Charity’s instead. I have to confess it was a little too twee for my tastes—pink with rainbows and unicorns—but it would serve a purpose. I stomped through the puddles, taking great delight in acting like a six-year-old as well as
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