Chapter 8 Delia
Delia
We push through the door of The Moonlit Bakery, squeezed between Pennington Falls' centuries-old apothecary and a tourist trap hawking enchanted trinkets.
The bell above the door chimes with a magical melody as we enter.
Cinnamon and sugar hit my nose, and I can't help but linger over the display case where candied apple skulls grin next to bat-shaped marzipan and gravestone scones, all arranged in perfect little rows, screaming for attention.
People tend to clam up when badges flash, but they'll spill secrets over sugar and sympathy. At least, that's what I'm counting on as we approach the counter, my most disarming smile at the ready.
Mrs. Holloway looks up from behind the counter; her fingers dusted with flour.
Her eyes widen at the sight of us, and she smiles, quickly wiping her hands against the faded pink apron she has on as she rushes over to us.
“Delia and Jasper Nightshade! Good heavens it’s been ages since I last saw the two of you in here. ”
Five months to be exact. When I ordered that three-tiered anniversary cake with the black buttercream roses.
“What can I get for the two of you?” She asks, gesturing over to the counter.
Without consulting him, I order Jasper’s favorite dark roast coffee with a dash of cinnamon, and a maple-pecan cruller. I tack on a second cruller, my vanilla and brown sugar latte, and a tiny, coffin-shaped cookie for Whiskers, who is peeking out of my purse with all the subtlety of a periscope.
"Mrs. Holloway," Jasper takes his coffee, "While we have you…we were actually hoping to ask about your niece, Heather."
The smile on her face falters momentarily, as she looks at me and then back at Jasper, Heather?” she repeats, her voice shrinking a size. "Such a sweet girl. A credit to selkie-kind."
I reach over the countertop and grasp her hand, "Mrs. Holloway, we are so sorry for your loss." The words catch slightly in my throat as I glance at the man that stand beside me, still living, and breathing, all the while Heather remains forever still.
She squeezes my fingers, eyes glistening with a grief I can't bear to look at for too long.
"I appreciate that, dear. I really do," she releases my hand after a long moment, wiping beneath her eyes with a knuckle.
“I still expect her to walk through that door every Saturday morning, looking like she just rolled out of bed and demanding a double shot of espresso. She hated mornings, that girl.”
Jasper’s face loses its glazed detachment, the mask of irritation and fatigue dissolving beneath something much softer, “I know how difficult this must be.” he says, his voice marshmallow soft.
Mrs. Holloway's chin bobs up and down, her lips quivering before she squares her shoulders and busies herself with my latte, her practiced hands swirling foam into a delicate ghost that floats atop the caramel-colored surface. “Hard doesn’t even begin to describe what our family is going through.” she hands me the caffeinated drink.
"You were one of the last to see her.” Jasper continues. “Did you by chance notice anything unusual?”
Mrs. Holloway's hands work the edge of her apron. "She'd been acting strangely for days. Nervous. Said she felt like someone was watching her," her voice drops to almost a whisper. "Following her."
My fingers tighten around my cup, the warmth a small comfort against the cold coil unfurling in my stomach. "Did she mention who it might be? Or did you notice anyone unusual around the bakery?"
"No names," Mrs. Holloway replies, "But she said they always seemed to be around when she was alone. Never when she was with others."
"Smart," Jasper mutters. "Less witnesses."
I shoot him a look before turning back to Mrs. Holloway with a gentle smile. "Thank you. This helps more than you know."
As we leave, I nudge Jasper’s elbow. “What was that?”
“What was what?”
“The ‘less witnesses’ comment?” I parrot, falling into step beside him. “You sounded like you were analyzing a scene, not talking to a grieving aunt.”
Jasper shrugs, eyes fixed on the sidewalk. "It's just an observation," he mutters.
"You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, you know." I bite into my cruller, the brittle sugar glaze cracking under my teeth.
"Last I checked, we're hunting a killer, not insects," he replies coolly.
Mr. Finch's antique shop is our next stop—a dusty, cramped space filled with centuries of magical and mundane artifacts. Mr. Finch jumps at the sound of the bell, his ancient fingers clutching the edge of the counter until the blue veins beneath his papery skin stand out like rivers on a map.
"We're just here to ask about Thomas," I say, naming the vampire who was the first victim.
Mr. Finch's eyes dart between us, never making direct contact. "Don't know anything," he says quickly. "Barely knew the fellow."
Jasper steps forward, his presence somehow filling the small shop. "Town gossip says otherwise. You two argued publicly the week before his death."
A tremor runs through Mr. Finch's thin frame. "That was nothing. A disagreement over a pocket watch."
I move closer, placing my hand near his on the counter, not touching but offering proximity. "We're not accusing you of anything, Mr. Finch. We just want to find who's doing this before anyone else gets hurt."
The old man's facade collapses like a house of cards.
"I'm afraid," he admits in a whisper. "Vincent said someone had been in his house while he slept.
Things moved. Nothing taken, just…disturbed.
I told him he was being paranoid. You know how the vamps can be—but now—now I know I should have believed him.
I haven't slept properly since the bastard died, and I keep wondering if I'll be the next one they find with an empty chest."
"You're not next," I assure him, though I have no way of knowing this is true.
Jasper leans forward, his shadow falling across the counter. "Did Vincent ever describe the intruder? Any details at all?"
Mr. Finch's teeth worry at his lower lip until a spot of white appears.
"That's just it," he whispers. “Vincent never actually saw anyone. He noticed on a couple occasions that things moved in his house. He woke up to his reading glasses moved from their normal spot on the coffee table, his welcome mat had slid over an inch to the left, yet he said he hadn’t been home all day.
Little things most might overlook, but he kept a tidy house and was very particular about his things.
I remember him saying that it was like being watched by the dark itself. "
It’s not much to go on, but we at least have a piece of information we didn’t have before…the killer isn't just murdering; they're stalking their prey first, studying them.
After thanking Mr. Finch, we leave his cluttered shop behind. The bell jingles our departure as we step into the crisp October air, dead leaves crunching beneath our feet as we make our way toward the last stop on our macabre tour.
We reach the edge of town where the Moonlit Inn looms—a sprawling Victorian with gabled windows that wink in the afternoon sun. Inside the parlor, Mabel's usual bright smile has dimmed to a shadow of itself as she waves us toward the velvet settee.
"Dan was such a good friend," she says, referring to the werewolf who was the third victim. “His house had been going through renovations, and he needed a place to shift for the harvest moon.”
He was staying in one of the underground rooms?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
The Moonlit Inn's basement suites are legendary among Pennington Falls' supernatural community—concrete-reinforced sanctuaries where werewolves, berserkers, and others with control issues can transform without endangering anyone.
Mabel nods. "The Mauder suite. Completely soundproof. That's why…" She swallows hard. "That's why no one heard anything."
Jasper, leaning against the ornate fireplace, crosses his arms over his chest, “Who else had access to the room besides yourself and Dan?”
Mabel runs a trembling hand over her coral-pink sweater set, worrying the pearl buttons like they’re prayer beads. “Just myself, and the staff.”
"Do you know who else was working the night Dan was murdered?"
“The night clerk, Mattie. And Ruth and Elsa, the housekeepers. That’s it.
We keep a log of everyone with a passkey,” Mabel says, “Anytime a key card is swiped anywhere in the Inn, there is an electronic time stamp of which key unlocked what door, and when, along with whichever employee it was assigned to for each shift.
The whole point of it is to protect our guests.
" She sighs, "Fat lot of good it did poor Dan.
I handed all those records over to the deputy after they found him. "
I make a mental note to visit the sheriff's office tomorrow to check those key card records. Jasper catches my eye, and I know he's thinking the same thing.
“Is there anything else you can think of?” I urge her, grasping at straws. “Anything at all, Mabel. Even something that seems insignificant?”
She shakes her head, then stops and blinks, her eyes flickering with uncertainty.
“Well, this probably isn’t important, but now that you mention it, several guests reported seeing a shadow moving past their windows," Mabel says.
"I assumed it was just pre-Halloween jitters.
This town does encourage the imagination after all.
" Her expression crumples. "I should have checked on him sooner. "
I reach across and squeeze her hand. "Even with all your precautions, Mabel, there was no way to predict this. The blame lies with whoever did this terrible thing, not with you."
Mabel’s watery smile breaks my heart a little. “Thank you, Delia. If there’s anything else I can do—”
I cut her off with a gentle squeeze of her hand. “You’ve done plenty. Take care of yourself, all right?” She nods, her gratitude sincere, and I promise we’ll check in soon.