The Sinister Secrets of the Deadly Summoner

by Constance Barker

  “What’s so important, Paize?”

  “When I was driving home, I got to thinking about what Jack said. You know, about you owning a book like that, too.”

  Grace showed her palms. “Well, I don’t.”

  “But the guy who broke into L’arts de L’occulte might think you do.”

  Giving Paisley the hairy eye ball, Grace folded her arms. “You were too scared to cross the Essex Bridge.”

  “It got dark so quick!”

  “You need a ride home.”

  “Well, that, too. But let’s take a look inside. Maybe you can tell if something was stolen. I couldn’t.” Paisley pushed open the door. “I told you you need to change this lock.”

  Grace sighed. She flipped on the overhead lights. Décor hadn’t changed since she took over, the reception area of the shop reflecting the tastes of a gentleman’s den, circa 1890. It had the smell that spaces got when they were shut too long. The reception desk needed dusting. Otherwise, the place looked the same as the last time she was here.

  “Nothing out of place.”

  Paisley’s face folded in disappointment. “Are you sure? What about the bookcases?”

  Grace shook her head, but then stopped. On the bottom shelf of the case on the left, the books had tumbled against a marble bookend. She moved closer, crouching down. “Oh, shit.”

  “A-ha.”

  Grace moved closer, raising her hand to steady herself on top of the case.

  “Don’t touch anything!”

  The sudden words nearly sent Grace on her butt.

  Paisley opened her gray case on the desk. Grace now saw that it was a fingerprint kit. The Goth took out a magnifying glass and studied the top of the bookcase, right where Grace was about to put her hand.

  “Our suspect did the same thing you almost did,” Paisley smiled. “It’s a good thing you don’t dust in here. Not that I’m criticizing. No one dusted the top of Jack’s bookcase, either. Of course, you can’t see the top of Jack’s bookcases.”

  “Paisley, you are not a cop.”

  She grabbed some powder and a brush from her kit. “C’mon, I went to the police academy. I can lift a print.”

  Grace had to admit that Paisley seemed to know what she was doing. After a few brushes, the use of some wide scotch tape, she was done. She held up an index card. The tape was centered, a swirly friction ridge visible. But Paisley wasn’t done. She took an identical card from the gray case. With the magnifying glass, she carefully studied each in turn. She handed Grace the glass. “They’re a match.”

  Grace set it down. “I couldn’t tell if they were a match or not.”

  “Okay, here.” Paisley took out her iPad. With the camera, she took a picture of the print she’d just uncovered. An app opened, something about biometrics. The younger woman played around. Two fingerprint images appeared. A red legend appeared below. Match.

  “Believe me now?”

  “That’s awesome, Paize. So who’s our suspect?”

  “I don’t know, but this is a legit clue. The same guy who busted into Jack’s work room busted into your lobby.” Paisley squinted around. “Or whatever this is. Do you know what books are missing?”

  Her bottom shelf housed books on local history. Grace was fairly certain only one book had been taken. “Legends and Lore of the North Shore by Beverly Devor.”

  “Catchy title.”

  “And expensive as hell.” Grace sighed. She unlocked her work room. There were a few reference books she used for the identification of antiques. Much more important, Longstreet Green Ledgers, the books where generations of Longstreets had recorded the discovery of cursed objects, were housed on the top shelf next to an alabaster statue of a cat. Perhaps Bastet, the Egyptian god represented by the icon, had protected these valuable records. Grace patted the sculpture’s head.

  Paisley nodded. “I couldn’t get past that lock, either.”

  “For God’s sake, Paisley, how long have you been prowling my shop?”

  The Goth started packing her stuff. “Long enough. I gotta e-mail a guy about the prints. If he’s working, we might have a name tomorrow. Maybe not until Tuesday.”

  “Then what? Citizen’s arrest for suspected burglary?”

  “Possession of stolen property, grand theft,” Grace nodded. “Maybe that cop friend of yours, Pete Whatshisname, will want in on the collar.”

  “Pete Willoughby,” Grace leaned on the name, “is a homicide detective. He won’t care about stolen books, even if it is grand theft.”

  “A collar’s a collar. Now, about that ride home. I can give you three bucks for gas.”

  Chapter 7

  Grace didn’t wake as early as she normally would on Clam Fest opening day. All the running around she’d done the previous day didn’t bring the sleep she expected. Morning light did not rouse her. The sky was slate gray and roiling. Still, there were clams that needed eating. She showered and dressed. After a moment of study in her full length mirror, she decided to ditch the ratty sneakers, worn jeans and Red Sox T-shirt she normally wore. Instead she opted for an oatmeal colored wrap sweater and brown tights with a subtle stripe and waterproof boots that were on the dressy side.

  She loved the big brass buttons that decorated the sweater, and found some circular earrings to match. In the bathroom, she reached for her makeup. But stopped herself. This was Clam Fest, not a date. What next, dye her hair blue and spackle on some pancake? Three minutes with an eyebrow pencil and lipstick, and she was dressed for the fest.

  The breakfast crowd at Judy’s had cleared out, the lunch crowd, probably hungry for fried clams, had not yet filed in.

  “Hi, hon. The usual?”

  Grace made a face. “If the usual is the clam special with onion rings, then yes.”

  “Medieval some pissers, crying bride in the alley,” Judy called to the cook.

  At the sound of hissing oil, Grace smiled. “I’m glad you got some clams.”

  “Won’t be the same. Not as fresh. That’s the thing, you know, from mud to table.” Judy poured Grace a cup of coffee. “Still, even with this nor’easter, we’ll still get customers. Even with no bands or clam bake or the rest of that crap. You look nice today, Grace. What’s the event?”

  What was the event? “Just trying something new.”

  “My ass.” Judy looked over Grace’s shoulder. A moment later, a man with bristle-short black hair and a chiseled chin took the stool next to Grace. She almost didn’t recognize Pete Willoughby out of a suit and tie. He looked good in well-fitting chinos and a plaid shirt.

  “Hey, Pete, here for Clam Fest?” Grace smiled at Pete. He didn’t smile back.

  “Your friend Paisley around?”

  “Uh-oh. No, she’s not here. I dropped her off last night, and her scooter’s parked by the shop. I’m not expecting her. What did she do?”

  Pete sighed, staring at the ceiling. “You aren’t working on a case involving a homicide, are you?”

  “What? No. A stolen book.”

  “I guess this means a trip to Salem.”

  Judy horned in. “The usual, Pete?”

  “Yeah, I’d better.”

  Judy shouted through the pass. “Two dots and sweep the kitchen!”

  Grace asked, “Is she in trouble?”

  Pete pressed his lips together for a moment. “I don’t know. I’ll just have to talk to her.”

  “You want to give me a hint?”

  “Not really.”

  “Oh, c’mon, if Paisley’s involved in something, I need to know.”

  Judy slid him a cup of coffee. Pete sipped, expression thoughtful. His sky blue eyes met hers. “A body washed up on Lighthouse Point, in Marblehead. The ID goes to a local kid, or at least, a local address. Kid’s got a record, penny ante stuff. At the same time, a guy at Boston PD received a call, a favor to ID prints from a crime scene. The request came from a private party, not a sworn officer.”

  Grace got it all at once. “Oh, no. Our book thief.” She gave Pe
te the short version.

  “Why are you two investigating a burglary?” Pete asked.

  “I’m not. Paisley is. I told her it isn’t our job.”

  “You got that right,” Pete’s voice went hard.

  Grace didn’t like his tone. “It’s not like you guys did much about it.”

  “A stolen book? C’mon, Grace, we have all sorts of crime in the county, and about ninety-nine point nine percent of it takes precedence over a robbery. If you’re involved, then the owner is insured, right?”

  “Maybe if the guy who stole the book ended up dead, it’s maybe higher up there than point one percent.”

  Pete’s features lightened in concession. “You’d better give me the whole story.”

  At that moment, Judy sat a plate of steaming fried clams and onion rings in front of Grace. Grace held up a finger. Although really too hot to eat, she forked a clam into her mouth, waved a hand to cool the food as she chomped. She felt her eyes roll back in her head. “Mm, so good.”

  “Grace…”

  She swallowed, and washed it down with some coffee. “Sorry. Clam Fest. So who is the vic, anyway?”

  “You know I can’t talk about a case in progress.”

  Paisley shoved into Judy’s Java. She wore a black rain slicker as a mini-dress, with a matching foul weather hat and red Wellington boots with black skulls. Her tights were black and white striped, her eye makeup in shades of purple, her lips blue. She flung out her arms and sang. “Junior, oh Junior Polaski-ee—ee!”

  Pete put a hand over his eyes as Paisley did a little twirl and curtsy. Then she launched herself on the stool to Grace’s left. She gave Grace a back-hand in the shoulder.

  “See? I did it. Now, we just need to roust ol’ Junior and get the books back.” She leaned past Grace to look at Pete. “What’s wrong with your detective friend?” She whispered.

  “It’s gonna be tougher than just rousting ol’ Junior,” Grace whispered back.

  Paisley’s brows lowered. “Why?”

  Pete took the hand away. “Because we fished Stanley Polaski, Junior off of the rocks at Lighthouse Point last night.”

  “I have an alibi,” Paisley pointed at Grace.

  “Go sit on Pete’s other side,” Grace said. “I’m eating.”

  Paisley changed seats. Judy eyed her. “The usual?”

  “Yes please, cat poop coffee and Adam and Eve on a raft, and wreck ’em.”

  “I heard,” a voice wafted from the kitchen.

  Paisley had recently acquired an addiction to kopi luwak, a coffee that was partially processed by passing through the digestive system of the cat-like civet. It cost over fifty bucks for a French press-full. Two dots and sweep the kitchen landed in front of Pete—which turned out to be sunny side eggs and hash.

  “Spill, Paisley,” Pete said, digging in.

  Grace half-listened to Paisley’s report, devouring the pile of fried clams. Judy was right. Something about the clams coming fresh out of the mud made them special. Still, these store-bought clams were just as good as any North Shore beach shack provided.

  “How do you have biometrics software on your laptop?” Pete asked when she was finished. “I don’t have biometrics software on my laptop.”

  “It’s a three-ninety-nine app,” Paisley said. “What’s the big deal? I’m not paying for the database part. It’s pretty useless to me.”

  “Well, it was very solid basic police work,” Pete said.

  The French press landed before Paisley. With reverence, she pushed down the plunger. “Thank you, Detective.”

  “Work that should’ve been left to the police.”

  “Hey, I actually caught the guy. What did you do about it? Nada.”

  “I’m getting tired of hearing about what we didn’t do. You didn’t actually make a collar. Polaski’s in the morgue, and you still haven’t recovered the stolen books. You ID’d a suspect who won’t talk. Ever. Maybe if you would’ve clued the actual investigators in on your evidence, we could’ve hauled Polaski in and he wouldn't be in the morgue now.”

  Chapter 8

  Grace pushed her plate away, patting her stomach. First batch of Clam Fest clams down. Many more to go. Hopefully.

  “Maybe not,” Paisley argued. “What was the time of death?”

  “I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”

  “What was the cause of death?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Pete. I told you everything!” Paisley said.

  “So it’s Pete now.”

  “Well, yeah, since we’re associates.”

  As the hour neared noon, people entered Judy’s, ordering fried clams. Soon the place would be too busy, and too full of ears, to talk. Which was fine with Grace. She didn’t want to hear more.

  Paisley went on. “Think about it. My investigation puts Junior Polaski in this area within the past day or so. That helps narrow things down.”

  “It does,” Pete admitted.

  “So how did Junior die?”

  “Like I said, I can’t say. Not until after the autopsy. When we found him, it looked like every carnivorous fish between here and Marblehead took a sample. Hardly any meat on him at all when he got caught on the rocks. Thankfully, the crabs and sharks only went after the left hand. The right was partly intact.”

  Grace felt a lurch in her stomach.

  “So, he wasn’t in the water long enough for his fingertips to get gooshy and masticated.”

  Now Grace had to fight to keep the clams down.

  “Macerated,” Pete corrected. “And you’re right, the ME’s guys got prints at the site. Apparently everyone has a biometrics scanner on their laptop except me.”

  “Four bucks, Pete,” Paisley chided.

  “What else do you know about Junior Polaski?”

  She shrugged, making her raincoat dress squeak. “He’s got a record, or he wouldn’t have popped up in the system so quick.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’m guessing that Junior was involved in some kind of drug dealing. Because what else is some dubba from the New Carfax mudflats going to be into? Speaking of which, did Bob Beaumont narc on me?”

  “No, we saw the hit automatically,” Pete said. “Although now I know whose supervisor to call.”

  “Oh, don’t, please? He was just doing me a favor.” Paisley poured herself a cup of coffee from the press. Expression was washed away by a look of pure ecstasy.

  “We’ll see. So, you found the prints when you visited your client. When did he report the book stolen?”

  “Yesterday late morning,” Paisley said. “He took one of Grace’s books, too.”

  “Oh?”

  Grace started to feel a little less green now that they weren’t talking about half-eaten corpses. “I haven’t been in the shop in weeks, so I don’t know when the theft occurred.”

  “I know you probably can’t reveal the client’s name, and that’s fine for now. But can we assume a time the book was stolen?”

  “Probably late Thursday night, early Friday morning,” Grace said, calculating by the hours L’arts de L’occulte operated, which was sunset to sundown. She imagined Jack Stoughton not noticing the book was taken when he locked up, discovering the theft when he awoke.

  Pete took a small notebook from his back chinos pocket and pulled a pencil stub from the ring binding. He scribbled for a few minutes. “You’re right about Polaski. Four months ago, the sheriff’s drug task force brought down a ring of Fentanyl dealers. Junior Polaski got caught in the dragnet. But the task force was looking for the top guys. Junior opted to turn state’s evidence to avoid jail time. Not like we had much on him anyway. But until this book theft thing, my theory was that one of the top guys offed him and dumped him in the drink.”

  Paisley closed her eyes and sipped again. “What’s your theory now?”

  “Now I don’t have one. Maybe Junior was in hiding, and the book thing came up. It must’ve been a job for someone else. I doubt Jun
ior Polaski and the crowd he runs with can read.”

  Grace thought for a moment. “Hang on a second. Maybe Junior was here for Clam Fest.”

  Paisley remained in her coffee trance. “Oh, Grace, not everyone loves Clam Fest like you do.”

  “No, no. The people who own the flats go clamming with their kids, their grand kids. What if Junior was here to dig clams and make honest money while he was hiding out.”

  “But with the clams gone, maybe he needed to do some crimes to feed his drug habit.” Paisley’s eyes opened. “Does Junior have burglaries in his jacket, Pete?”

  Pete held his cup up to Judy. After the refill, he shook his head. “Other than the Fentanyl thing, he’s got a few DUIs, marijuana possession, drunk and disorderly, the usual punk-ass crap. I haven’t looked at the burglary report our guys took. So you tell me. Was this his first B&E?”

  “No forced entry,” Paisley said. “He knew how to get past a lock. Nobody saw him. Still, he left his prints. No gloves.”

  “Everyone in the world has seen a police drama on television,” Pete said. “Everyone in the world knows to wear gloves so you don’t leave prints. I’m sure the natives of Papua New Guinea know to wear gloves if the commit a crime. So maybe he’s got some burglary skills, but is still dumber than a bag of oysters.”

  “Crowd of Medieval pissers and frog sticks, give ’em legs,” Judy called.

  Tables filled, and a line formed at the counter.

  “I gotta run some things down. Grace, stay in touch if anything comes up. Paisley—”

  She looked at the cop expectantly.

  “Hell, I don’t know. Don’t get Grace in trouble.” He reached for his wallet.

  “Your money’s no good here, Detective,” Judy waved him off. “Bridge party of Medieval pissers, two brides crying in the alley, two frog sticks.”

  Chapter 9

  A few minutes after Pete left, Paisley finished her scrambled eggs on toast. She got a to go cup for her coffee. Above, the sky turned mean, wind whipping down Orchard Street. “Supposed to be a nor’easter rolling in,” Grace said.