Jeannie Wycherley [Wycherley - Fearful Fortunes and Terrible Tarot: Wonky Inn Book 4

Fearful Fortunes and Terrible Tarot

Wonky Inn Book 4

by

JEANNIE WYCHERLEY

Copyright 2019 Jeannie Wycherley

Bark at the Moon Books

All rights reserved

Publishers note: This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and incidents are either products of the authors 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.

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Fearful Fortunes and Terrible Tarot was edited by Anna Bloom @ The Indie Hub

Cover design by JC Clarke of The Graphics Shed.

* * *

I s that a death threat?

I crushed the letter in my hand as Charity rocked back on her heels in shock. Seriously, Alf? Is that what I think it is? Let me have a look at it.

Its nothing, I said, trying to laugh it off.

How can you call it nothing? Charitys forehead creased with annoyance as she reached for the ball of paper. Reluctantly I handed it over. It was my fault. I should have opened the envelope in the privacy of my bedroom. Here in the office nothing was sacred. My Wonky Inn Clean-up Crew were forever in and out and of course Charity had full access.

Not to mention Gwyn, my great grandmother, who was no respecter of boundaries.

Charity had snuck up behind me as Id pored over the letter, rubbing my forehead in despair. She glanced at it, then snatched the paper from me in shock. Moving a mug and a stack of papers from my cluttered desk, she smoothed the paper out, pressing down on it, as hard as she could, to iron out the creases. It was a plain white sheet of A4, with letters cut out to create a message.

Somebodys been watching too many old-fashioned murder mystery movies, I quipped in a half-hearted attempt to ease the tension.

Its not funny, Alf, Charity said quietly, examining the paper and not looking at me.

Well you have to admit, someone has gone to absurd lengths to try and scare me. All that cutting out and sticking things down with glue. A print-out of a letter would have been anonymous enough. I mean, why bother? I indicated our own printer and the pile of invoices in the tray. Surely, these days no-one can tell the difference between one printer-thats-been-used-to-produce-a-death-threat and any other? I picked up the invoices, shuffled them neatly and then plonked them down on top of a leaning pile of admin on the corner of the desk. Charity caught them as they began to topple to the floor. She and I were like chalk and cheese. She liked to work in a clean and orderly environment, while I felt my creativity was hampered if I wasnt allowed to express myself through sheer confusion and untidiness. Somehow, between us, we muddled through

My point is, its not like the old days when the police could identify a culprit through the typewriter theyd used. I threw myself into my chair in exasperation.

I can tell youre rattled, Charity said, drawing her lips together in a thin line.

I am not. I studied my nails, in need of a file and a tidy-up. Black nail varnish covers a multitude of sins.

You are so, Charity said, prodding me hard with a finger. I swear, at times she was capable of being the annoying younger sister I had been fortunate enough never to have.

Its not the first letter Ive received, I told her, and could have bitten my tongue off.

Charity rounded on me, her mouth a round O of astonishment. Well how many have you had?

I decided it was probably prudent to remain deliberately vague. A few. Obtuse, she would have called it.

Why havent you told me before?

I slumped back in my chair like some petulant teenager. Presumably, because I didnt want to be grilled about them.

I see. Charity sounded hurt. She dropped her head and I felt an instant pang of remorse.

In the ensuing silence I admired her hair, dyed bright green as an homage to the season of spring, which had been making itself felt and heard in the grounds outside Whittle Inn.

Sorry, I apologised. That was out of order. Its just thatI didnt want you to worry.

Have you told George about them?

And I didnt want you to nag me to tell him either. George has enough on his plate without sorting out my little problems. She meant DS George Gilchrist, a local detective and my romantic interest.

Is that how you see this? As a little problem? Charity smoothed the paper out again. Truth be told, I tried hard not to think of it at all.

I shrugged noncommittedly and Charity twisted her face up. Sighing in exasperation she read out the message, Time to leave, or time to die. Make your decision. Or we make it for you.

We stared at each other, Charitys eyes wide, me grimacing slightly. Thats bleak, Alf. Horrible.

Sticks and stones, Charity. I smiled, attempting to be cavalier about it all, but unsure whom I was trying to fool; her or myself. Dont let it worry you. I reached for the message, but she snatched it out of my grasp. Id have to wrestle her to get it back. I couldnt be bothered. I slipped down into my chair.

Where are the other letters?

I binned them, I lied. Which is what I want to do with this one. So give it back.

Absolutely not. I think George needs to see this. Honestly, she could be such a mother hen. Perhaps I should call Gwyn and ask her what she thinks?

No, no. I shook my head. Dont get Gwyn involved. Id never hear the end of it.

Charity placed the paper on the desk once more and glared at it. The person sending this has to be local.

Local? How do you figure that out? I frowned. I couldnt see any clues as to whom it had come from or where. The postmark on the envelope simply said Exeter. That covered the vast area of East Devon and beyond.

Charity stabbed the page with her finger. See these letters? Look at how theyve been done.

Every letter each about 2cm high, had been meticulously cut out and shaped to form itself. None of the words had been cut out whole, from a newspaper or a magazine, or other printed source. The overall effect was colourful.

Very jazzy, I offered, and Charity gave me her best withering look.

I recognize the colours and the style of the paper used to create this, she explained patiently. I know exactly what has been used to form these letters.

I was impressed. Go on.

Its from a leaflet or a poster for an event thats happening in the village. Ive seen it in the window of the caf and on the noticeboard outside the post office. I dont think weve had any delivered up here so you may not have seen it yet.