Witchy Riches (Witchy Fingers Book 4) Read online

  Witchy Riches

  Witchy Fingers 4

  Nic Saint

  Puss in Print Publications

  Contents

  Witchy Riches

  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

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Also by Nic Saint

  About Nic

  Witchy Riches

  Sign up for the no-spam newsletter and get FREE reads and lots more exclusive content.

  Sign Up

  When Estrella is idly strolling along the beach, she’s accosted by the ghost of a former British Royal Navy captain, who insists that a treasure is buried off the coast of Long Island, in a shipwrecked frigate called the Albion. And since a client is a client, after all, she decides to take the captain on, and make lifting the priceless treasure from the bottom of the Atlantic the next mission for Flummox, Inc, the company she’s now running with her two sisters.

  Since they need divers to accomplish this task, they rope in Sam Barkley and Pierre Farrier, NYPD detectives, Spear Boodle, the well-known lawyer, and Johnny Carew and Jerry Vale, the well-known reformed crooks. Along with Skip Brown, former baker, this merry band of treasure hunters soon sets out to retrieve the immeasurable treasure of the Albion, but not everything is what it seems, and the endeavor might be fraught with a lot more danger than they anticipated. And when the body of one of the Flummox sisters’ neighbors is found hatcheted to death, things suddenly take a turn for the deadly…

  Chapter 1

  “Holy cow, just zip it already!”

  I looked around, but the beach was deserted at this early hour. Still, I couldn’t rid myself of the notion that the voice had been real, and not in my imagination. But whatever its source, the owner was nowhere in evidence, so I finally closed my eyes again and resumed humming the little tune I’d been practicing. Lately I’d been giving serious thought to signing up for The Voice, just to kickstart my fledgling career as a singer. Even though my close circle of friends and family—and even the not-so-close—had tried to convince me in the most gentle terms possible that perhaps this was not such a good idea, singing was my life, and had been from the moment I could carry a tune.

  As far as I’m concerned, the problem isn’t that I can’t sing, but that my very unique style hasn’t found a receptive audience yet. Each time I open my mouth, my particular brand of warbling is met with pained expressions and carefully worded requests to put a sock in it. What this tells me is that the world isn’t ready yet for what I have to offer. Like the world wasn’t ready for Van Gogh. Or Coca Cola, before they took out most of the coca. And kola.

  I just know for a fact that one day the world will recognize my genius, and I will start raking in the millions, enthralling billions with my talent. Until then, I’ll just keep yodeling away on a deserted beach like today.

  “Will you please stop that,” the voice muttered, and I looked up as if stung. This time I just knew it wasn’t my imagination. Someone was here!

  I whipped my head around, but still there wasn’t a soul in sight.

  “It’s bad enough that I’m forced to wander these shores alone for all eternity, worse that I have to listen to that terrible whiny voice of yours.”

  Thoroughly miffed, I placed my hands on my hips. “Who is this? Show yourself!” But whoever was criticizing my superb singing was a coward.

  I’d risen early, deciding to go for a stroll along the beach. My sisters and I, and our grandmother, of course, had recently taken a second home on Long Island, taking up residence in a small hamlet called Happy Bays. And even though we’d kept our house in Brooklyn, we loved coming out here for a bracing weekend by the ocean, allowing the sea breeze to whip our hair and enjoying a heartening sojourn away from the hustle and bustle of the city.

  Or I should probably say that I loved all of those things. Edelie and Ernestine, my sisters, weren’t the beach bums that I was, Edie preferring to spend her days holed up with a book and Ernestine taking care of business.

  We’d recently started our own company, you see. We christened it Flummox, Inc, on account of the fact that our name is Flummox. We’re in the security and protection solutions business, which is pretty much the same business Mother Teresa was in: helping people in need. Only we take money for our services, which will probably preclude us from ever becoming saints.

  Not that we’re very good at what we do, mind you. Like my singing, Flummox, Inc is pretty much a work in progress. We do have the added advantage that we’re witches, so when we’re running out of options we can always cast a spell, which is not something your local Pinkertons can claim.

  “Just… help me, will you?” the exasperated voice now exclaimed.

  I’d been sitting cross-legged on the sand, but now I jerked up, which is not something easily accomplished when your legs have fallen asleep. I swayed a bit, like a drunken sailor, and cried, “Who goes there?!”

  “Wait, you can hear me? You can actually hear me?”

  “I’m sorry to say I do hear you. So who the heck are you?”

  I already knew he was a music critic, and even though I didn’t like critics, as a rule, this was obviously a person in a great deal of trouble.

  “I can’t take this much longer,” he groaned, and I wondered if he was referring to my private performance or to some deeper tragedy that had befallen him. One where he would suddenly become invisible. Or dead.

  I peered in the direction the voice was coming from, but I still couldn’t see anything apart from the ocean, azure waves gently lapping at the deserted beach. The sun was giving of its best, and I shielded my eyes from the glare.

  “Are you dead, sir?” I now asked, for the only way a disembodied voice would be addressing me would be when it belonged to some dead guy.

  “Yes, yes, I’m dead,” the voice confirmed, sounding a little peeved. I’m not known for my tact, and it occurred to me he might not like to be called out on the fact that he wasn’t amongst the living anymore.

  “I mean, are you a ghost?” I asked.

  “What do you think?” he asked acerbically.

  “If you’re a ghost, then why can’t I see you?”

  “How the hell should I know?” he grumbled.

  “Hey. It’s a fair question,” I said, holding up my hand.

  “Can you believe you’re the first person to talk to me in two centuries?”

  Two centuries? The plot thickened. “Who are you?”

  He cleared his throat noisily. “My name is Captain Hayes Suggur.”

  And suddenly, I saw a shimmer in the air before me, and then, as it solidified, out of the nothingness appeared a human form. The form of a man with noble, elongated features, light brown eyes, Mick Jagger lips, and dressed in an embroidered blue frock coat, white waistcoat and fancy gold epaulets, a Napoleon-type hat with two pointy ends perched on his head.

  “Hey, I can see you!” I said, relieved that the voice belonged to an actual r
eal live person, and wasn’t just rattling around inside my own head.

  “And I can see and hear you,” said the person, and he seemed annoyed.

  “So you don’t like my singing, huh?” I asked, deciding to thresh this thing out once and for all. “Well, I’ll have you know that I’m a professional singer.”

  “Things have certainly changed since I was alive,” he said, staring at me from beneath lowering brows. “In my day singers had to be excellent at what they did. But these days standards seem to have lowered considerably.”

  “Hey! I think it’s time you zipped it, buddy!” I cried, deeply offended.

  Though I’d gotten used to criticism, that didn’t mean I had to like it.

  Now it was his turn to hold up his hand. “I’m sorry. That was rude and uncalled for. It’s just that I’ve been roaming these shores for so long without anyone to talk to that I guess I’ve become a little… short-tempered.” He now gazed at me with a hopeful expression. “Will you help me, young lady?”

  I stared at him. I wasn’t in the habit of encouraging haters and trolls, but this man seemed in serious need of assistance. So I nodded. “Tell me more.”

  He gazed out across the waves, a faraway look in his hazel eyes. "The storm took me—my crew and me—and I've been stuck out here ever since."

  “So you are a ghost,” I said, well pleased I’d been proven right.

  “Once I was a living, breathing human being, just like you, but now I’m just struggling to be heard.” He sighed. “Where once upon a time I commanded a fine crew, nowadays I can’t get anyone to listen to me. People are so busy with their own dramas that I simply cannot seem to get through to them. And once I lose connection with the living completely I’m afraid it will be the end of me. I will simply… cease to exist entirely.”

  “Well, I’m listening,” I said. “I can definitely hear you loud and clear.”

  “That is very gratifying,” he said. “You are the answer to my prayers.”

  “That’s nice to hear. So what can I do for you, Captain Hayes Suggur?”

  “You are my last hope, Miss…”

  “Flummox. Estrella Flummox, but my friends call me Strel.”

  “And my crew used to call me Captain Suggur.”

  I could see he used to be a big cheese back in the day. “So where is your crew now?”

  “All gone. The proud ship I captained, the Albion, was lost with all hands in 1776.”

  “Well, at least you have company,” I said. “All those hands,” I explained when he frowned at me. “Your old crew. You must really have bonded over the past two centuries, right?”

  “They’re all gone,” he said moodily. “They all moved on the moment our ship was hit by the storm and sank like a stone. I’m all that’s left of the crew.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” I said sympathetically. “And lonely, too.”

  He gave me a pained look. “Will you not do that, please?”

  “Do what?”

  “That song?”

  Only now I realized I was softly singing ‘All by myself’ to myself. I gave him what I hoped was a contrite smile. “Sorry about that. It’s just a habit.”

  “The lyrics are remarkably poignant and appropriate.”

  “They are, aren’t they?”

  “Miss Flummox, will you help me?”

  “Sure. What can I do for you, Captain Suggur?”

  “My ship was carrying a rather important treasure. Suffice it to say I never fulfilled my sacred oath to deliver it into the hands of its designated recipient. And as long as I don’t, I’m stuck here on this wretched beach.”

  As he spoke, he solidified more and more, as if talking to me provided him with the mass he’d been shedding over the years. He had a haunted look in his eyes, and his nice uniform was soiled, as if he’d been in the water too long.

  “Treasure, huh? Destined for someone on these shores?”

  “That’s right. Will you help fulfill an officer’s oath, Miss Flummox?”

  I probably shouldn't have said yes straight away, but hunting for treasure was one of those things on my bucket list, along with singing the national anthem at a presidential inauguration, so I nodded eagerly. "Of course."

  “By Jove,” he said with a sigh of relief. “Finally I found someone.”

  “That’s just great.” I saw he was watching me wearily, and realized I’d softly started singing ‘I finally found someone.’ “Sorry,” I muttered. “So where’s this treasure of yours buried?” He pointed out to sea and my heart sank. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” So much for X marks the spot.

  “We were surprised by a phantom storm that struck us out of nowhere. The Albion sank like a stone not three hundred yards from shore. We never had a chance.”

  “And the treasure… is buried inside the ship?”

  He nodded, his pointy hat moving gracefully with each gesture. “Along with the bodies of myself and my crew, the treasure went down with the ship. So can you salvage the chest and deliver it to its rightful owner?”

  “To be honest I don’t have a lot of experience in the salvaging business,” I said, but when I saw his mournful expression, I quickly added, “but I’m sure we’ll be able to figure it out. I mean, how hard can it be, right?”

  “Not hard at all,” he said. “I’ll tell you where to look, so all you have to do is find a boat and dive. In a matter of hours the thing will be in the bag.”

  He made it all sound so simple, and maybe it was. Rent a boat. Check. Dive down to the shipwreck. Check. And pick up a treasure chest. Check. Easy peasy! Which only left one small detail to be taken care of. “So where do you want this chest of yours delivered? Who’s the designated recipient?”

  “The British governor who rules this colony. Lord Dockland.”

  I blinked. Of course. The guy had missed a big chunk of history. “Um… You do know that the British were kicked out a long time ago, right?”

  His face fell. “Kicked out? What on earth do you mean?”

  “I mean that we declared our independence. The British were sent packing and haven’t been back since, except as tourists, of course. We still welcome their tourist moolah. Their presence as our rulers? Not so much.”

  “Oh, dear,” he muttered. “I was under strict instructions to deliver this treasure chest to the governor of New York, the Honorable Lord Dockland.”

  “Well, Lord Dockland’s relatives might welcome it,” I pointed out.

  He shook his head. “No, my instructions were very strict. Lord Dockland was to receive the chest in furtherance of his struggle with the rabble.”

  “Um, the ‘rabble’ is now firmly in charge,” I told him. “So the treasure won’t do the Docklands any good, if there are any Docklands left, of course.”

  “I see,” he said thoughtfully. “Are you quite sure about this?”

  “Pretty sure.” I was starting to feel sorry for the guy. He’d waited more than two hundred years to deliver Lord Dockland his little pot of gold, only to discover that the British had lost the war. “Why don’t we give the treasure to the museum?” I suggested. “I’m sure they’ll be glad to have it.”

  He fixed me with an intent stare. “No. It has to be Lord Dockland. It was stated thusly in my contract and I’m nothing if not a man of my word.”

  “Right,” I said, seeing Captain Suggur was one of those mulish men. “I’ll try to figure out who the rightful heir to the Dockland throne is, and we’ll deliver the treasure together. How about that?”

  Captain Suggur smiled, albeit a little wintry, which wasn’t hard to understand after having been dead for so long. But it was still a genuine smile, indicating his gratitude. “I’ll be forever in your debt, Miss Flummox.”

  I waved a deprecating hand. “That’s all right. Anything I can do to help. So… once we FedEx this treasure to the Docklands, will you find peace?”

  “FedEx?”

  “It’s what we use to deliver a package in the mail.”

 
“Oh, you mean the royal postal services? A splendid system.”

  “Well, it’s not exactly royal, though those FedEx guys are pretty cute.”

  He stared at me, confusion written all over his features, which didn't surprise me. If I were stuck on the same strip of beach for two hundred years and then met a native, I'd probably be confused too. In two hundred years there mightn't even be any FedEx guys left, or guys in general. Robots would probably take over everything, including the task of populating the earth.

  “Well, as long as that treasure ends up in the hands of the Docklands, it is fine by me. I will finally be able to rest in peace, my mission accomplished.”

  “You got it, buddy,” I said, well pleased now. Captain Suggur might not be much of a client, but he was a client all the same, so I extended my hand in the general direction of his ghostly paw, and made to shake it. He stared at me dumbly, then seemed to get the gist and rose to his full height, snapped his heels together and gave me a salute. It wasn’t exactly the same as drawing up a formal contract and having him sign on the dotted line, but it was good enough for me. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Captain Suggur.”

  And thus started one of our weirdest adventures. If only I’d known then what I know now, I probably would have walked away without so much as a by your leave, and left this Suggur guy to clean up his own mess.

  Chapter 2

  “So don’t you think we should help the poor man?” I asked. I’d just finished telling my sister Edelie all about my recent encounter with Captain Suggur, but she hardly seemed interested. When Edelie is engrossed in a book it’s extremely hard to get her out of it. She kinda turns into one of those nocturnal creatures, the ones who were so popular when Twilight was the big thing. I swear she and Robert Pattinson would have hit it off amazingly.

  I’d found her holed up in the attic, one of her favorite places, but when I tried to interest her in the sad tale of the ghostly captain, she merely shrugged and returned to her book, which was apparently a lot more interesting.