by Willow Mason
Harriet peered over my shoulder and I tilted the book so she could read more easily. “It also doesn’t have provisions for the dead to climb out of their graves. How long has it been since the dead man’s funeral?”
“A few weeks.” As Harriet glanced at me, I shuddered, picking up her train of thought. “He might’ve spent that long trying to set himself free. The poor guy. And when I talked to him, he didn’t even know he was dead.”
“Pretty big thing not to know,” Beezley said, resting his chin on his paws. “But it probably means someone in the family was lying. Who else would organise such a spell?”
“We should talk to the daughter, Sally,” I said, closing the book and resting it on my knee. “I didn’t get the impression from Philip that it’s the kind of thing he’d go in for.”
“But if she’s not much of a witch…”
“I wasn’t either, until this.” I swirled my hand in the air, as though I could sum up everything that had happened in one twirl. “Something could have changed. Maybe losing her father reignited a love for magic. Maybe not using it for a long time meant she had reserves stored up.”
“This is interesting,” Harriet said, engrossed in her book. “It says that voodoo used to be a way to free someone from a witch’s curse. From the style of writing, I’d say it’s from the dark ages when witches were bad and voodoo was good, instead of the other way around.”
“No magic power is inherently bad or good,” I insisted, frowning. “It’s all in the delivery.”
“You would say that. It also has a large section on mind control. When someone has a fixed belief that’s wrong, this has spells and potions to alter the person’s thoughts to where it should be.”
“To where it should be…” My eye roll wasn’t equal to the task of displaying my opinion on that particular sentence.
“I should test this out on you,” Harriet said, scrunching up her nose. “See if I can bend you around to my way of thinking.”
“By force? No thanks. Where’s the challenge in that?”
“Not everyone is seeking a challenge. There’s nothing wrong with doing something the easy way, you know.”
“Well, I’d appreciate if you leave my thoughts alone and I’ll do the same, deal?”
Harriet shrugged and Beezley lunged at her shoes. She lifted her feet into the air with a squeal. “Fine. Knowing my luck, it wouldn’t work, anyway. This says you need a doll that’s a replica of the person. Where would I find a doll as ornery as you?”
“Does everything in voodoo involve a doll?” Beezley asked.
“Seems to.” I flipped back through my book. “At least, in this version of it. I’m sure there’s a lot of other practices not recorded in here.”
“Where do they get the dolls?”
Harriet adjusted her glasses and scanned the page. “This says the doll should be an embodiment of the person, whatever that means.”
Now I was the one to stare over her shoulder to read further. “It also says the creator should keep their mind fixed on the target while they make the replica. If that’s the case, it could be anything. Whittling a doll, or knitting one, or melting and reshaping a Barbie.”
“Ew.” Harriet wrinkled her nose. “But I guess anyone could make one if it doesn’t take much skill.”
“Great. That narrows it down.” I winked at Beezley. “New target. Anyone.”
“And this passage says time and distance are no bother.” Harriet giggled and curled a lock of hair around her finger. “So it could be anybody in the world, ever.”
“If investigating was easy, they wouldn’t pay us to do it.” Beezley shook himself, letting fly a cascade of caramel hairs. He sat back down and promptly started to scratch behind his ear, exposing his nether regions.
“Do you mind, Beezley?” I scrambled to my feet and replaced the volumes in library stacks. “We’re trying to perform serious business here and flashing us is just a distraction.”
“I wasn’t—”
Harriet interrupted, “We could buy you a little doggie raincoat. It would suit you just fine.”
“Is this the new fashion?” Beezley asked, poking out his tongue. “Accusing any man in sight of being a flasher.”
“Why?” Harriet crinkled her brow as she stared at me with renewed interest. “Who else have you been accusing?”
“That’s confidential. Unless you’re on the payroll, I’m required to keep silent.”
“Yeah. Good one. Like you’ve ever been quiet for more than a minute.” Harriet retreated behind the counter, picking up her phone. “If you don’t need anything else, I’ve got important business to get on with myself.”
“Checking your Facebook notifications?”
“No, it’s more crucial than that. I’m streaming the latest episode of Love Island.”
With a groan, I walked out the door, Beezley tagging close on my heels. “This is why I don’t read books more often,” I said, heading for home. “They require far too much effort for the reward.”
“Where else would you find out a melted doll could do just as well as an exact likeness?” Beezley tilted his head back to catch my eye. “Just because it didn’t tell us who the culprit was doesn’t mean the information’s useless.”
“Well, I’m into instant gratification. I’d quite like all the answers as soon as I request them. That’s what the internet’s for.”
“Philosophy now, is it?” Glynda said, appearing out of nowhere to give me a heart attack. “I’m glad to see your new partner has introduced you to higher education. Speaking of which…”
“If that’s a segue, I’ll just prepare my groan now.”
“Watch your language, Missy. I’ve found you a teacher.”
“Really?” I stopped walking in surprise. I’d thought it would be a task that took weeks, months, or maybe got lost forever. “I wasn’t expecting—”
“Obviously. The look of astonishment on your face communicates that quite clearly. He’s coming around to meet with you tomorrow so be ready.”
“T-Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. I can’t have you tearing up graveyards and exploding buildings with impressionable youngsters about. How’re you doing on the zombie front?”
My mouth was so dry I had to clear my throat before speaking. “We’re tracking down the culprits. That’s why we were at the library.”
“Mm. Don’t spend all your time in there. I don’t want you leading Harriet astray.”
A poof and she disappeared into thin air, leaving me standing with my mouth agape and my legs feeling wobbly.
“Come on.” Beezley nudged in behind my knees to push me forward. “Get a move on. If you’re spending tomorrow in training, then we need to get cracking tonight, or we’ll lose momentum.”
Training. Tomorrow. I breathed in gulps the rest of the way.
Chapter Ten
Back at home, I phoned Sally Anderson nee Sloan to take my mind off the upcoming lesson. Ten minutes into the call, I knew she had nothing to do with her father’s unexpected resurrection. It took that long to get through all the introductions and pleasantries and into the meaty bits.
“I haven’t had anything to do with witches since I left Riverhead,” Sally explained, apparently happy to chat with a total stranger. “My talents don’t lie in those areas, but I found a sweet gig in accounting. Did you know most companies can save five percent of their gross profit just by handling their own travel arrangements?”
No. I did not. My brain hurt just listening to the fact. “You’ve never dabbled on the other side of the magic equation, have you?” I asked, wincing at how coy the question sounded.
“You mean am I a… Homosexual?”
“No! I meant sometimes when a witch doesn’t have luck with white magic she might—”
“How dare you! I might be weak on the magic front but that doesn’t mean I’d ever dabble in the black arts. I don’t go to coven meetings any longer, but I can assure you, my membership is in good s
tanding.”
Sally sounded so strait-laced my head ached when I tried to imagine her lying. “What about by accident?”
There was a shocked silence then she cautiously asked, “Is that possible? I mean, I’ve heard of bad witches using black magic on purpose, but I’ve never considered one would use it by mistake.” She clicked her tongue a few times before gasping. “It isn’t like sleepwalking, is it? Could I do awful things and not even know?”
Miss foot-in-mouth strikes again. “I’m sure it never happens. Sorry I said it.”
“You know,” Sally said after a thoughtful pause. “I have heard something on the grapevine.”
“Really?” I downplayed my interest, not wanting to scare her into silence.
“Yes.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Apparently, there was a witch in Riverhead who used her magic to raise a frog from the dead. It was another witch’s familiar, but she turned it inside out. That sounds like black magic to me.” She gave a delighted shriek. “She was excommunicated but I wouldn’t put it past someone like that to—”
“Thanks for speaking to me,” I interrupted, realising she was talking about me. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“Oh, it’s not—”
I hung up the phone, closing my eyes and pressing my fingertips to the lids. Exhaustion swept over me like a wave. I knew I was fodder for the gossips in town, but hadn’t known my notoriety extended any further than that.
Hopefully, I’d learn some skills tomorrow and become notorious for something better and brighter.
The sirens in attendance at the lodge explosion might have fallen silent later in the evening, but that didn’t mean the police had left the scene. A plus in our case, as once I logged Beezley onto the police website using his old password, we could see in real time all the information they collated about the blast.
‘Terrorist incident’ had been the first theory thrown into cyberspace. Soon enough it was followed up with ‘show-off suicide’ before landing on ‘faulty gas line.’
The lodge had gas for both heating and cooking inside its facilities. It was a reasonable assumption that an empty building might have a connection mistakenly left in place while the hotel shut over summer. Even a small leak could build to combustible levels when it was in an enclosed space.
Thanks to our blackmailer, the bedding and foodstuffs inside the hotel would point to an intruder fiddling around with services he shouldn’t.
Not that it mattered. Whatever conclusion the Riverhead emergency departments landed upon for the cause, it wasn’t going to be accidental witchcraft. I could bet Glynda already had feelers out to the supernatural council ensuring they never took a second look our way.
The neural network performing its magic again.
“We have a list of employees,” Beezley said, following it up with a snuffle of satisfaction. He was far more in his element here, with a logical progression of people and events to explore before adding or discounting from the pool of suspects.
Throw magic into the mix and he became downright uncomfortable. We made a good team since I was exactly the reverse.
“I might give Sally a call while you’re exploring those,” I said, heading into my bedroom and kicking the door shut. I’d keyed in the first three numbers when I saw my reflection and the phone dropped out of my hand.
Had no one thought to tell me I looked an absolute fright?
No, they hadn’t. I ran a hand through my hair and hissed air out from between my clenched teeth. Soot was smeared across my forehead and halfway down one cheek, like a warrior going hunting. My hair had tangled, knotted, and tangled again. The skin under my eyes puffed out like I’d been sucker-punched in a fight.
I’m not all that vain but a girl had to maintain some standards. Ten minutes in the bathroom and I looked tired, like I’d had a hell of a day—fancy that—but also vaguely presentable. The white blouse I’d donned that morning went into the laundry hamper. If it came out the other side of the washing machine anything brighter than grey, I’d count it a win.
The interview with Agnes Templeton felt like it had happened a year ago rather than just that morning. From the moment the bag went over my head, my sense of time had lost its bearings, stretching like mozzarella cheese on a fresh pizza.
I sat on the edge of the bed, gripping hold of the coverlet. The news about finding a teacher excited me, but it scared me as well.
If I couldn’t get my magic under control, I’d have to give it away. For the last few weeks, I’d pretended it was something I could have without using it but today’s events had shown that wasn’t possible.
No witch could walk around with the power to destroy buildings with a single blast. Not when the magic reacted in the moment, without giving reason a chance to apply the brakes.
I’d operated without magic for a short time and it would scare me to go back. For a start, I’d lose the ability to communicate with Beezley. The fledgling steps I’d taken to become a private investigator who actually knew what she was doing would be for nothing.
“Look at this!” Beezley shouted, interrupting my maudlin self-pity party. When I opened the door, he was jumping up and down on his seat, as happy as a brand-new puppy. “I found him!”
“Found who?” I stared at the screen and gave a cry when I recognised the face. “The blackmailer. Where is he?”
“I don’t know, just that he’s an employee of the Grand Valley Lodge. No wonder he knew how to break into the place. He was on their casual staff roster for the past two seasons.”
“But doesn’t the lodge have a permanent address for him?”
“Sure, but I’ll hazard a guess he’s not living there any longer. Not if he’s been holed up in the hotel for a while.”
I pulled up a chair and sat down, quickly reading through the information on the screen. Kevin Hollard, aged twenty-four. He’d received a burglary conviction as an eighteen-year-old but had otherwise kept his nose clean.
No known associates recorded. Nothing cited on his probation.
“His family don’t live nearby either.” I puffed out a breath in frustration. “If we just blew up his current home, he might be anywhere.”
“Less of the ‘we’ business, I didn’t explode anything.”
With a click of my tongue, I sat back to think. “There are plenty of winter-only rentals in town. He might be shacked up in any of them.”
“Or he might’ve gone to ground in the camping area. Somebody with a tent could hide in a half dozen locations without raising an eyebrow.”
“What about his scooter? We could drive around Riverhead looking for it tonight.”
I was so tired it hurt to put forward the suggestion but the knowledge I’d be out of action the next day weighed on my mind. Beezley would once have run an investigation on his lonesome, siphoning out the irrelevant details until he narrowed in on the guilty party.
Now, he had to rely on me for so much it put a dent in his detecting. He’d hired me for exactly that purpose but still, I could see it ate at him.
I could tell Beezley to just chill and be a dog for a while—run, eat, sleep and take joy in doing nothing more—but I could imagine the reception. Frosty with a hint of ice.
To my everlasting relief, he shook his head. “I’d prefer we wait until we have a game plan. The note for Agnes says he’ll be back in touch. Now we know who he is and what he looks like, it’ll make it easier to track him if he does make contact.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then he’s a strange man who sent a letter threatening a crime, which he never followed through with. A nuisance at best. Agnes Templeton can go back to her normal life.”
Having met the lady in person, I doubted that suggestion would go over too well. She seemed the type to fixate on a problem until it was sorted. If we didn’t catch the blackmailer, Agnes might never rest again.
“Who else did he work with? If there are other staff members still in Riverhead, they might know where he ha
ngs out.”
Beezley nodded in appreciation. “Or even someone he might be couch surfing with for a few days now his accommodation has gone boom.”
I turned back to the computer, clicking through a few different files while Beezley stiffened behind me. He wasn’t a dog used to letting others take the lead. I could imagine what fun his previous self must have been as a back-seat driver.
“This is weird,” I said pointing to a female staff member, Jacki Sosa. “She left work just before the end of the season.”
“So? It’s casual work.”
“They get paid a bonus for sticking out the whole four months and a signing bonus if they agree to the contract for the following year. Cuts down on HR costs. But she scarpered with only ten days to go.”
While Beezley posed all the reasons that was normal, I typed her name into the search engine and clicked through the results. “Oh, no.”
The dog jumped up beside me and stared at the screen. “She died?”
“Yeah. While working at the lodge, too.”
I clicked through into her social media, checking out the public photos displayed in her feed. “She doesn’t look sick.”
Beezley barked out a series of orders, taking me back into the police files and checking until her name appeared. “Death by misadventure,” he read off the coroner’s report. “Drug overdose.”
“Doesn’t look like a druggie either,” I said, then bit down on my lip. Lots of people didn’t look like they had problems. They swam through life with serene expressions while underneath their feet were paddling a mile a minute.
“People can overdose the first time.”
I went back to my previous search, scrolling through the images in Jacki Sosa’s feed, then gasped. “It’s the blackmailer!”
“Kevin?”
“Yeah, look. Here he is again.” I pointed at another photograph with the two of them tagged. “They seem friendly.”
