by Emery Belle
Preston pressed a hand to his chest, looking highly affronted. “You have my word.”
I raised my eyebrows at him. “You’re sure about that?”
His face tightened. “What’s this all about, Wren? Don’t play games with me.” By now, he had dropped the syrupy-sweet tone from his voice, and I could tell by the set of his jaw that he was clenching his teeth.
The game was up.
“You forged Emeril’s signature,” I said, jabbing my finger at the page, then pointing it squarely at him. “He was telling the truth all along—you did steal his designs and try to pass them off as your own. Then you killed him when he threatened to expose you.”
Preston was silent for several long moments, and I could practically see his mind whirring at top speed as he tried to figure a way out of this. Finally his shoulders sagged and he pressed his forehead against the red lights.
“How did you know about the signature?” he finally asked, so low I had to lean in to hear him. “I used every spell in my arsenal to get it past the bank’s sensors—they’re spelled to detect forgeries of any kind and prevent them from entering the vaults. I thought I’d done a thorough job with my wandwork, but apparently I was wrong.”
“I don’t know about all that,” I said with a shrug, keeping my eyes trained on his face. “But if there’s one thing I learned in my last line of work—I was a resume writer,” I added when he frowned at me in confusion. “It’s to never turn over your work until you’ve done the most basic thing.”
I threw the contract onto the floor in disgust, then gave him a pleasant smile. “Spell check. And I don’t mean the magical kind. You misspelled Emeril’s last name when you created this sham of a contract, so I guess you aren’t as smart as you think.”
I didn’t want to add that it had slipped past me too, at least until I’d seen the autographed photos of Emeril in his office and felt a niggling sense of unease that hadn’t been resolved until I’d taken a second look at the contract and realized that Emeril’s surname, Mabel, had the last two letters reversed. The yeti may not have been the brightest icicle on the iceberg, but he’d signed enough autographs in his storied career to know how to get his own last name right.
“And,” I added to the now-crestfallen Preston, who seemed to be shrinking into himself more and more with each passing second, “I found out that the two of you used to date. I’m sure that’s a juicy tidbit of information that Kellen would just love to know as he builds his case against you.”
“Since when is dating someone a crime?” the designer demanded, his cheeks coloring with anger. “That has nothing to do with Emeril’s death, and neither do I!”
He pressed his hands together, pleading. “You’re right, I lied about the contract—Emeril didn’t sign it. But his designs were too good to pass up, and he didn’t have the brains to know how to make them jump off the page and onto the runway. I did. And it’s not like he wasn’t going to benefit from them—I offered to make him my lead model. Do you know how much money that would have earned him? That’s all he cared about anyway—everyone knows that.”
I averted my eyes from his face, my expression stony, then collected the contract from the floor and stood, preparing to leave. “Please!” he shrieked when I began walking away, throwing himself against the lights holding him prisoner. “You’ve got to get me out of here! I don’t belong in a place like this, I’ll go mad.” He gripped his hair, his eyes wild with panic.
“You should have thought of that before you sent Emeril plummeting to his death,” I said quietly. “You’re getting exactly what you deserve, Preston, and I hope you sit in this jail cell, thinking about what you did, until you rot.”
With that, I turned to leave, ignoring Preston’s wild sobs that followed me all the way out the prison’s front door.
Chapter 16
An hour later, Pierre and I stood outside Merry’s home in the island’s gnome community, which turned out to be a series of underground dwellings hidden beneath a layer of thick moss and ferns that stretched as far as the eye could see.
“How do you think we get inside?” I asked, scrutinizing the porthole that served as his front door. It was gnome-sized, which meant that I’d only be able to squeeze in as far as my bottom… and there was no way Pierre was getting in at all.
My familiar pawed at the porthole, tapping his claws against it, and I took the hint and rapped sharply on it three times before pressing my ear against it to listen for signs of movement. Merry’s note had said he needed to see me urgently, and I’d come straight here immediately after leaving the jail. I planned to pay Kellen a visit sooner rather than later to explain what I knew about the fake contract, but I was in no hurry to listen to him threatening me for “interfering” with his investigation. Besides, Preston wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
My knocks went unanswered, and I waited a few more seconds before trying again, this time more insistently, feeling annoyed that Merry didn’t even have the decency to be home when I’d traversed half the island to get here. Several long minutes of continued silence followed, and I climbed back to my feet with a groan.
“Come on, Pierre, he’s obviously not here. Why don’t we stop off at Yancy’s for an ice cream on the way home?”
I had just started to walk away when Pierre let out a single sharp bark and the porthole cracked open. Turning, I saw the very top of Merry’s wrinkled forehead as he peered out, regarding me with suspicion. “What are you doing here?” he asked gruffly, looking as annoyed as I felt. “I didn’t invite you to my hole.”
I stared at him. “What are you talking about? Don’t you remember sending me a message through the sparrow network? You told me to come here as soon as…” I trailed off as he shook his head stoutly, looking bad-tempered.
“I did no such thing. Go on, get out of here. Don’t make me call the Mole Patrol to force you out. Trust me, it won’t be pretty.” His forehead disappeared back underground as he slammed the porthole above him so hard he rattled its panes.
Shaking my head, I turned to Pierre. “What in the world was that all about?”
My familiar responded by whining and pawing at the sealed porthole, and when I started walking away, I realized he wasn’t following me. I tugged at his leash, pulling on it as hard as I could, but he dug his claws into the soft earth and refused to budge.
“Suit yourself,” I said with a shrug. “But don’t think I’m going to save you any ice cream.”
I only made it another five steps before Pierre’s barking turned frantic, and with all the commotion he was making, I had no choice but to turn back. I certainly didn’t want Merry to make good on his promise to summon the Mole Patrol—I had no idea what that was, but it didn’t sound particularly pleasant.
“Come on,” I said, grabbing the dog around the middle and attempting to heave him off the porthole. His heft was too much for me, though, and I tumbled backwards, landing on my bottom beside the neighboring gnome hole.
When I got to my feet, rubbing my tender legs, I saw that Pierre was now crouched over the porthole, prying it open with his teeth. I rushed forward to try and stop him, but it was too late, and the glass came up with a loud pop. The formerly gnome-sized hole rapidly expanded to accommodate us, and Pierre scrambled inside, with me hot on his heels, attempting to grab him by his back end to haul him out.
The hole was actually a tunnel that twisted and turned downward, descending deep into the ground. The smell of damp earth surrounded me as I chased my familiar lower and lower, at one point stumbling over a web of thick tree roots partially blocking the path. I picked myself up and dusted off my hands, holding in a shriek of disgust as I plucked a writhing worm from my pants and set it back on the ground.
Eventually the tunnel evened out and I caught up with Pierre, who was standing in front of Merry’s front door, which was painted a cheerful red and adorned with a wreath made of twisted ivy and rosebuds. Was there a Mrs. Merry? I’d never bothered to find out, though I had
a hard time imagining anyone putting up with the grumpy gnome on a daily basis.
Pierre nudged the door with his nose and it opened, then he looked back at me once, as if to make sure I was following him, before barreling inside. I groaned and ran in after him, trying to figure out how I was going to explain myself to Merry. It didn’t take me long to find him—he was sitting on a wicker chair in his living room, and his hands visibly tensed on the armrests when he saw me.
“What are you doing here?” he hissed in a low voice, looking around wildly, presumably for Pierre, who was running around in circles in the kitchen with his nose pressed to the floor. “Didn’t I tell you to get out of here?”
“I’m so sorry,” I gasped, bending over to try and catch my breath from our mad dash through the tunnel. “My familiar… I don’t know what’s gotten into him—”
“I don’t care,” Merry interrupted, barely speaking above a whisper. “Just get out of here, and take your dog in the kitchen with you.”
“Okay.” I frowned, then turned to look at Pierre, who was now waddling around the dining room, poking his snout under Merry’s china cabinet. “Let me just grab him and we’ll—”
“I don’t need any arguments from you,” he said through gritted teeth. “Just take your dog away from the kitchen and leave. Now.” He tilted his head toward the kitchen and widened his eyes meaningfully.
Staring back at him suspiciously over my shoulder, I walked toward the kitchen, noticing for the first time the photos spread out on the table. As I got closer, I saw that they were all taken at the Snow Bunny Fashion Show—Merry must have just developed them and been choosing the best ones to go alongside the column I’d be writing for The Islander Gazette.
I thumbed through them, remembering the twinkling fairy lights, the stunning white runway, and the massive ice castle that served as the stage’s backdrop… and also the place where Emeril had plummeted to his death.
In fact… Merry had managed to capture several shots of Emeril performing his routine on the castle balcony, his gold and purple fairy wings shimmering in the overhead lights. I smiled sadly as I studied his face, recalling how excited the crowd had been when the famous yeti took the stage. One of the photos even managed to capture the moments leading up to Emeril’s last swan dive—his arms clasped above his head, his face serene, his feet poised to jump while the castle glowed softly in the…
Wait a second.
There, in the castle window. What was that?
I held the photo up to my face, practically pressing my nose against it to get a better look.
It was a face, staring down at Emeril as he prepared to jump from the balcony for the final time—waiting, watching. And it wasn’t just any face, it was one that I’d recognize anywhere.
Pierre began barking madly, and I whirled around, still clutching the photo, my heart pounding out of control as my gaze landed on Merry. Or, more accurately, at who was behind Merry, his hands wrapped threateningly around the gnome’s throat.
“I’ll take care of that, Wren,” Wendall said calmly. He pointed his finger at me and the photo ignited in my hand. I yelped and dropped it to the floor, where it curled in on itself, edges blackening, until it was reduced to a small pile of ashes.
Then he turned his attention back to Merry. “Now tell me where the camera is and no one needs to get hurt.” His fingers flexed automatically, and I could see Merry struggling to breathe, his eyes locked on mine. In them I saw the truth—he’d been trying to protect me by refusing to let me into his home when I’d first arrived, because Emeril’s lead brownie had been here all along, biding his time. Somehow, though, Pierre had known that Merry was in trouble.
Speaking of which… I heard a low growl and turned to see Pierre standing behind me, his teeth bared, his fur raised as he stared at Wendall, who curled his lip. “Call off your beast, or the gnome dies.”
“Pierre, stay,” I said, pointing a shaking finger at him and praying he’d listen to me just this once. Then I turned back to the brownie, shaking my head in disbelief. “Why?” I asked, meeting his gaze. “You seemed to idolize Emeril.”
The brownie’s bottom lip trembled for the briefest of moments before he composed himself again. “I did. All the brownies did. When we first came to work for Emeril, it was a dream come true. A beautiful island, a comfortable home, a master who was gone most days of the year. We were well fed, well paid, and treated with respect.”
His eyes darkened and he flexed his fingers again, and Merry’s eyes bulged. “But that all changed three years ago.”
“What happened then?” I asked, quickly casting my eyes around the room in search of a weapon and hoping that the brownie wouldn’t notice. There was a floor lamp that might work, but it was all the way across the room… How would I ever get to it in time? I’d seen the brownie’s power firsthand; I’d never forgotten how he’d bound Merry and thrown him across Emeril’s office simply by pointing his finger.
“Emeril’s sister racked up tens of thousands of dollars in frivolous charges on his credit cards, and he claimed he was plunged so deep into debt that he could no longer pay us,” Wendall said. “We all agreed to work for free for a time, hoping he would get back on his feet, but he never did... or so he said. Finally, we told him we were leaving. He begged us to stay, promising that the money would come, but we never saw another penny. This happened time and time again, until finally we all packed our bags. But then the next morning, I woke to find I was still at the estate, but no longer seemed to care. In fact, I was delighted—I worked harder than ever, as did the rest of my team. This went on for the next three years, until…”
“Until what?” I prompted, still trying to figure out how Merry and I were ever going to leave this gnome hole alive. Wendall could promise all he wanted that he wasn’t going to harm us, but we were the only two people on the island who knew he was a murderer.
I remembered then that my training wand was still in my bag, which I’d dropped by Merry’s front door in my haste to get to Pierre… Did I dare try to use it again? In a choice between letting Merry—and most likely myself—die or getting kicked off the island, I realized I really had no choice. But could I reach it in time?
“Until one day I awoke, as if out of a trance, and realized what was going on!” Wendall squeaked, his pointy chin quivering with rage. “Somehow, Emeril was keeping us under his control, forcing us to remain at his estate as slaves, working our fingers to the bone without any compensation. I tried to convince the others what was happening, but they wouldn’t believe me, wouldn’t listen. He had us under some kind of spell—I never did figure out what it was. I can only surmise that I was somehow able to overcome it, but the others weren’t as fortunate.”
“It was a potion,” I said, feeling indignant on his behalf despite my current predicament. “He had it commissioned from a powerful potioneer named Helga to gain control over your minds. Which must be why when Merry drank it, he began cleaning like a madman—that’s what the potion was designed to make you and the other brownies do.”
“Well, it worked,” Wendall said, bowing his head briefly. I noticed that he was still wearing his bellman uniform, though several of the buttons were in the wrong holes, as if he’d thrown it on in haste. “And you can imagine how helpless I felt. I was so desperate for help that I confided in Emeril’s assistant, a vapid young woman named Isla, thinking she might save us. But she only used our pain for her own gain, forcing Emeril to pay her for her silence.”
His eyes gleamed. “So there was only one way out. And I would have remained on the Frozen Island, living in peace with the other brownies once they emerged from their trance, if you hadn’t come along and ruined it. Fortunately, in my younger days, I worked in the home of the Star Island police chief, and there I learned a thing or two about tracking spells.”
He glared down at Merry. “As soon as you showed up at the estate, I recognized the gnome from the fashion show; he had been taking pictures onstage after Emeril fel
l. How could I be sure he hadn’t captured one of me? When I got my hands on the camera in Emeril’s office, I was able to spell it so that if he ever developed any photos with my face on them, I’d be automatically summoned to him… that way I would know if you’d discovered my secret. Which, as it seems, you have.”
Then he addressed the gnome once more. “Now for the last time, give me the camera so I can destroy it and ensure all evidence of the photo is gone forever. If you do, you have my word that you’ll never see me again.”
“Never!” Merry shouted, trying to wriggle out of the brownie’s grip, but Wendall was surprisingly strong for someone so tiny. “You’ll never put your filthy hands on Sweetpea, so you might as well just kill me now and get it over with.” He covered his eyes with his hands, and I could see his knees quaking.
I stared at the gnome in disbelief. Was he really going to lay down his life—and almost certainly mine as well—for a camera? Then I remembered him lovingly wrapping Sweetpea in a scarf to keep her warm during Emeril’s reckoning, and the dozens of not-so-secret sloppy kisses he’d planted on her—what was I saying; it, not her—and realized that he was.
“Wren?” Wendall turned to me, his voice almost pleading. “Please give me the camera. This is the last time I’m going to ask nicely.”
“I-I don’t know where it is,” I stammered, and Wendall, finally losing patience, let out a cry of rage and swept his hand through the air, sending me flying into the corner. I banged my head against the wall and slumped over onto the floor, dazed. Pierre charged forward with a roar, but Wendall immobilized him with another sweep of his hand, and the dog froze in place, struggling against the invisible ties that bound him.
Now that the brownie’s hands were no longer around his throat, Merry took the opportunity to launch himself at Wendall, grabbing him around his tiny waist and sending them both crashing to the ground. I watched from my corner as they rolled around on the ground, fighting each other tooth and nail—quite literally, since Merry had latched onto the brownie’s uniform with his teeth while Wendall was digging his clawed fingernails into the gnome’s eyeballs.
