A French Press of Murder MB#5 PAPERBACK

“Hey, Pops,” I answered my phone. My father calling me was unusual, since today wasn’t my birthday. I shrugged and watched several pixies dart above the ballroom at Castle Raven. One landed, popped to human size right next to a bar, and refilled her serving tray with drinks for the guests.

“Monkey! Love you. What are you up to?” He sounded cheery, upbeat. He always did after he completed a deal.

“You should call Logan for scoops on your property deal,” I said. 

“It’s your deal too, Monkey,” my dad said. “You said I could redirect your trust fund payment for next year into the backing. You must be doing well with your Mystery Coffee.”

“Mystic Brews, Pop,” I said, chuckling. His memory for anything not in his deals was notoriously errant. I had let him invest my trust money into the deal here in the valley. “We’re doing fine. We purchased a new dishwasher. Freed the employee who was hand washing.”

Which was true. Our old dishwasher used his paws and magic. Aunt Rose said she’d always wanted to add a commercial dishwasher. The fae variety used the demonette to heat the water and dryer. She redirected one from the large outbreak in Australia she had just returned from. I just couldn’t tell Pops that. 

“You called because you wanted info,” I said. Not a judgement. I knew how Pops was. He was a real estate developer. It was what motivated every moment of his life. 

“I need eyes and ears on the ground, April,” he said. “Who better than my best daughter? Is this going to go through?”

“Your only daughter.” I kept drifting towards the centre of the ballroom, then past the three tables, where crisp white sheets covered model buildings. The displays would be unveiled later, once Her Grace’s minister of tourism and development or such was here to witness it. 

“More than likely, Pops.” I had to be careful. There was so much he didn’t know about the magical side of the valley, the fae side. “Logan recruited two local lords as principle investors. Even Aunt Rose is on board.”

“What’s that crazy old bat got to do with the deal?”

Oops! Aunt Rose was one of those parts he didn’t know about. He thought she was just a daft tea shop owner, and the batty auntie of the crazy woman he had married forty years earlier. He had no idea she was sister to the Queen of the Fae. 

“She’s one of the oldest established local business owners, Pops. Very well-respected. Like the local Chamber of Commerce president. You want to stay on her good side.”

“Logan said he would work with you on developing a business plan to grow your Mystery coffee—”

“Mystic Brews, Pops. The shop is Mystic Brews.”

“Yeah, that one. You need a solid business plan to grow.” The sound of shuffling papers and a few taps on the keyboard drifted through the phone. Since he was calling from a mundane line and not via the fae magical network, I had to deal with the annoying seconds-long time lag. “We’re proposing both a set of villas and golf course out by the twilight bog, and the hotel in the village where you want to expand your Mystic Blues café.”

“Mystic Blues… Hmm…”

“Did I get it wrong again? Sorry, Monkey.”

“No, you gave me an idea. However, I don’t want to take something else on right now.”

“You’ll call me once you know it’s approved? I already talked to Logan, and he’ll call later tonight,” Pops said. My five minutes on his schedule must be about up.

“Logan is the better one to give you the lowdown on the business side.”

“Well… okay. Remember, Cynthia and I want to come out to visit once the building is underway.”

“You two set a date yet?” 

Yet another pixie flew above the crowd. This one doing laps, watching.

“For the wedding? Looks like this spring. Cynthia is still hammering out the details. Did you find a new boyfriend?”

“No. I’ve got too much to worry about, Pops. Tell Cynthia that I’ll probably bring Elain with me as my plus one. I’d rather have my BFF there than a generic boyfriend.”

“BFF? Oh… besties or whatever you kids call it.”

“I’m thirty-six, not a kid.” I laughed at him. “Bye, Pops. I’ll tell Logan to call you as soon as he knows anything.”

Across the room, my “uncle” Logan stood next to Ace Cudyll, another business partner of Storm Development’s newest ventures. Logan and my father went way back. 

“Hey.” I slid my arm into the crook of Logan’s arm. “Just got off the phone with Pops, and he gave me an idea.”

Ace gave me a smile. Her light-green skin and silver hair showed her orc nature. The innate glamour of an orc woman made her one of the most attractive women in the room. Beauty like hers helped offset the rugged appearance of the orc men. 

“I should leave, then?” Ace tilted her head away.

Elain joined us, and I shook my head. Ace was a partner, as was Elain’s father. This was their venture too.

“Have you signed any agencies for lounge and entertainment in the new hotel in the valley?” I let my eyes slide between Ace and Logan. Both shook their head. 

“Oh, girl,” Elain said with a laugh. “You’re more and more like your father. I suspected this wave of growth would encourage that side of you.”

“Well…” I raised my wrist. The silver gem-encrusted bracelet I wore was greener than it had been a few weeks ago. However, it still had an inch of the red to get rid of before it would release my ability to channel magic again. “There’s not much else to do, like learn magic, right now.”

“You’re more than halfway through your limiter,” Logan said.

“And you are a Dymestl,” Ace added. “As you so ably proved in the mire. But you’ve still got your wobblies. Neither my sisters nor I could have cast that rune of power multiple times and closed a demon portal.”

“I was only along to help on that last one. And I hiccuped. Most of what I sent in was a surge from the wobblies.”

“Perhaps it was for the best you intercepted the rune of power,” Ace added. “Without your hiccup, we wouldn’t have closed it.”

Toenails clattered on the hardwood floor of the ballroom.

“Where is that pest of a pwca when I need him?” Pierre growled.

“You need Punkin?” I laughed at the thought of Gemma Yardley’s familiar needing my overly caffeinated cat.

The Pomeranian paused and looked back over his shoulder.

“Pierre’s butler, that annoyance of a pwca, Mr Raspberry.” He jerked his nose in the air. “The Fae Times of Paree is sending their most astute reporter to write a glowing profile of Gemma de Umple Yardley’s sophistiqué familiar. Pierre must look his best.”

“A puff piece on the puffball,” Punkin said, rubbing against my ankle.

“Fortunate that you have arrived, tardy though it may be, wiper of other people’s platters,” Pierre said. “Your gauche appearance and attitude will elevate Pierre even higher once the correspondent sees the low class of other familiars in the valley.”

“Hah! We’ve got a real dishwasher now, Kibble-for-brains. A big stainless-steel one, fueled by demon magic. I’ll give you a ride through it if you need a bath,” Punkin snarled. I tapped his side with my foot and pointed a finger at him in warning.

“Who is the Times sending?” Ace squatted down and fluffed out Pierre’s cheek fur. She was one of the few fae he allowed to pet him. Must be something in the magical allure of the orc glamour.

“Claire Desroache,” he replied.

“Claire of the roaches?” Elain laughed. “She’s the biggest gossipmonger in all of journalism, if you can call what she writes journalism.”

“Day-rowsh!” Pierre pronounced each syllable in an exasperated erudite tone. 

“She’s that bad?” I raised an eyebrow. Elain and Ace both nodded. One of the overhead pixies darted down, carrying a tiny tray, and landed, popping into human size. She offered us champagne from her tray. I took one, as did Ace. Logan already had a pint of ale in hand.

“Claire is a busybody, a nosy gossipmonger,” Ace said. “She covers fae higher society with the upper echelons on her speed dial. The de Umples are on the upper rungs of what she covers. No wonder she’s here to do a puff piece on them.”

“If you will excuse Pierre, ladies and dog-man.” Pierre gave Logan a side-eyed glare, then trotted away in search of his butler.

“What? I showered today.” Logan shook his head.

“Dog noses, even snooty ones like Pierre’s, can sniff out your werewolf nature,” I said and leaned in to give him a sideways hug. 

“I’m going to watch Monsieur Ankle Biter get fluff-balled,” Punkin said. “Should be good for a few laughs.”

“Stay away from the models,” I called after him. “You are klutzy even on your good days.”

“You insult me.” Punkin flicked his tail and pranced after Pierre, trying to imitate the Pomeranian’s finicky walking style. “Things like that collapse all on their own.”

“Claire Desroache.” Logan shook his head. “Just what we need.”

“Isn’t the Fae Times of Paris”—I mimicked Pierre’s Paree pronunciation—“part of the Bentwhistle empire? Juniper Syndication Network or some such?”

“Indeed they are,” Elain said. “But Lord Bentwhistle has taken on a business partner.”

“Sort of hard times for the Bentwhistles this summer,” Logan said. “Several of their investments went belly up.”

“Rumour says Gaspar was prodding Vivian to invest in several new chefs and restaurants that failed miserably,” Elain added. “Combine that with the usual issues the Bentwhistles have… Vivian’s father had to bring in Marius Travers to bail out Juniper Syndication.”

“I heard he had to cede control of the board to Travers,” Logan said. “Claire is a favourite of Travers. No wonder she’s profiling Vivian’s loss of Pierre.”

“Ebrel Dymestl,” a familiar voice called, almost as if she were on cue to do so. I turned and forced my customer-service smile onto my face.

“Vivian, so nice to see you again.” I glanced around her. “No Gaspar?”

She shook her head and pulled a monocle, a single round lens on a chain, out of her cleavage and wiped it on the sleeve of her jacket. She held it up and peered through it, glancing around.

“Wherever did he get to?” She shrugged. “We just had a most delightful tour of the gardens here at Castle Raven. The goblin fellow and his pwcas were very informative. And the herbs they grow in the conservatory for the chefs here—Gaspar was most impressed.”

“How’s the relationship working out?” I wasn’t sure how a living person could date a ghost. Especially one they could neither see nor hear.

“Oh, ups and downs,” Vivian said. “It would be nice to have a physical side, but Father’s gift was a godsend for us. Before all that trouble with finances, and Travers coming in, Father purchased this spirit lens for me. It surprised him to see Gaspar when he first looked through it. He and Father hit it off very well. At least until this summer, when the restaurants failed. And the winery warehouses caught fire. And… Oh dear, it was a terrible summer.”

A ball of light zoomed over Vivian and me, then exploded in a silent flash. The click of a camera shutter sounded.

“Ah, Mademoiselle Bentwhistle,” another French accent sounded. A younger man who held a fae camera smiled at us. “Who is your accomplice in society today?” He let the camera drop to hang from its strap. The apparatus was different than the mundane cameras that Jake had owned. The fae version had a normal lens attached to a black body, but with a variety of smaller lenses jutting out all around the main one. Some seemed far too bent to be functional.

“Ebrel, this is Tristan Morel, one of Juniper Network’s best photojournalists,” Vivian said. The young man bowed towards me. “Tristan, may I present Lady Ebrel Dymestl, daughter of Jasmine, niece to Lady Rhosyn, and owner of a fine coffee and tea house here in Misty Valley.”

“A pleasure,” the photographer said. His eyes crept up towards Vivian. “My apologies, but I am scheduled to photograph someone this hour, and I cannot find him.” He paused and swallowed his nervousness. “Have either of you seen Pierre of Paris?”

“That trollop?” Vivian almost exploded. “I should expect he’d have his nose in here.” She stepped close to Tristan and patted his arm. “Sad to say, you will have to experience the unfortunate miasma of his presence. Why on earth are you photographing him?”

“Claire is writing a society series on notable familiars of fae high society.” The photographer looked my way. “She is very keen to ask Lady Ebrel to be the centrepiece of her series.”

“No, I’ll take a hard pass on that,” I said. “My familiar is too notable already. That would just make his head swell.” Fluffy movement caught my eye. “Oh. Your subject is over by the display tables, getting pampered.” 

“Deloused is more likely,” Vivian said and turned away. She kept muttering as she headed towards the exit. “I must powder my nose and hurl a few obscenities into the night sky. Please excuse me. Whatever is that lousy excuse for a journalist thinking? Father should have fired her before he ever hired her…”

Tristan bowed at the neck one more time, then hurried off to find Pierre.

“At last. Pierre’s moment has arrived,” the Pomeranian called, loud enough to carry throughout the ballroom.

“This should be interesting.” Elain pulled me towards the scene. 

Another of Tristan’s light balls exploded in the air above the Pomeranian while Raspberry combed his fur. Then another flash. A tube atop the camera where a flash unit would sit puckered up, then spit out another dim ball of light. It zipped towards the Pomeranian. Pierre turned for a profile. Tristan pressed the shutter button, and the ball exploded in a flash. Pierre made another shift in pose. The tube puckered and spat another ball of light.

“Which side looks best for monsieur? This side? Or this one?”

“If you need me,” Punkin called, “I’ll be outside with Vivian, hurling insults into the void. I might toss my lunch if I stay in here.”

“Perhaps you wish to get a portrait of me in front of the village itself,” Pierre called out.

“He wouldn’t,” Logan muttered, stepping in next to Elain and me.

Pierre did. He jumped over to the display table that Logan was to unveil later in the evening. 

“Pwca! Raspberry! Help Pierre remove this.” The Pomeranian tugged at the sheet and uncovered half the display.

“Yes, Master Pierre,” Raspberry said. He took a delicate hold of the sheet between his thumb and forefinger. He didn’t move once he had the sheet. Pierre didn’t notice. The Pomeranian dragged the sheet to the edge, then nosed it off. 

“Here, the perfect setting for Pierre’s portraits.” He stood next to the model of the proposed four-story hotel that Logan and Ace were going to pitch to the gathering tonight. At the other end of the display, I spied the small model of Mystic Brews, next to Barti Ddu’s pub. 

“Sacré! Remove this local rag from our display.” Pierre flipped a copy of The Mystic Mystery, our local newspaper, from the display. It was folded in thirds and curled, as though someone had carried it in their jacket pocket. 

The onlookers gasped as the paper flipped and landed on the floor. Only the sounds of Siggy’s jazz band flitted through the air.

The Pomeranian glared at Tristan. His flash ball popped again, and then again. But the camera wasn’t aimed at Pierre.

“I am up here, silly monsieur.”

A pixie swooshed towards the paper. Her spirit looked at the tiny body smooshed on the paper, then at me.

“I am very dead, aren’t I?” her high-pitched French pixie voice wavered. “Whoever would swat me like that?”