Death Retires

by Cate Lawley

  We all turned to the small sculpture still lying on the floor. I’d seen the blood and hair, but only as I approached it did I see that the statue was an oddly proportioned, hunched figure with a grotesque face: a small gargoyle, possibly iron.

  The bits of blood and hair that had been stuck to it were conspicuous by their absence, replaced by a fine, ashy powder that speckled the carpet next to it.

  I reached for it, but stopped myself. “May I?” I asked Lilac. When she nodded, I picked it up. It felt solid, hefty. It was a good weapon, but not something I’d expect to bring down a construct when wielded by a small woman. “And you didn’t use any magic? You just hit him—it—with the gargoyle?”

  “Magic, right.” Her freckles stood out sharply against her pale features. “No. No, Geoff, I did not use any magic when I whacked the intruder in the head with my bookend.” Then she sank onto the nearest non-ashy surface, which was the edge of her computer desk.

  I considered another alternative. “The gargoyle was a gift?”

  “Yes,” Lilac said, surprised. “From my father. How did you know that?”

  “Just a hunch.” I placed it gently on her desk. “Maybe keep it handy for the next few days, just until all this has settled down.”

  She considered the gargoyle for a moment, then hopped down from her desk and retrieved it. “Done.” She rubbed her collarbone, not touching the bruises.

  “We’re supposed to call Tamara and update her, right?” I asked, thinking, Who better to have a healing salve on hand?

  “Yes, that’s right.” Lilac squeezed her eyes closed and wrinkled her nose. “I forgot. I was supposed to remind you about your date. I forgot, what with all the blessings and the dousings . . . and everything.”

  “Date?” I pivoted slowly to Lilac. “She called it a date?”

  Tired, pale, and certainly overwhelmed by all that she’d seen this night, Lilac still managed a teasing smile. “She did. You’re meeting your neighbor, right?” She glanced at the wall clock. “In fifteen minutes?”

  “Yeah, I have to go or she’s going to get to the house before me.” Which would be mortifying. Maybe I should get one of those cell phones—just for emergencies. “Can you handle the call to Tamara?” When Lilac nodded, I said, “Tell her I’ll come by in the morning, if that suits. I’d like to offer my thanks in person. Oh, and ask her about something for your neck.”

  Tomorrow gave me a little time to come up with the appropriate bouquet for a witch. I didn’t want to accidentally offend her, even if she claimed she didn’t have a temper.

  “Will do. And Geoff? I’m really sorry about the way I acted earlier. You know, with the cat, with Clarence.” She smiled, making her beautiful in a way that runny mascara and red eyes simply couldn’t diminish. “I’m glad I called you and not the police.”

  “I’m honored to have been of service.” I poked Clarence in the ribs with my toe.

  “Yeah, what he said. Happy to help.” Then Clarence muttered, “Even if you can’t remember my name.”

  As I buckled Clarence into his carrier, he said peevishly, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was a redhead.”

  “What’s your issue with Lilac? Just because she calls you ‘cat,’ you have a problem with her?” I didn’t comment on the fact that, given her green hair, she certainly could be a redhead. And with her pale skin, deep blue eyes, and the faint dash of faded freckles across her nose and cheeks, I’d say odds were almost even on blonde or redhead. But best not to taint Clarence any further against Lilac. She’d done a smashing job in a difficult situation, something that Clarence would surely recognize—at some point.

  The entire ride home, I had to listen to Clarence moan about the evils of redheads. Even as we turned onto our street, he still wasn’t done.

  It wasn’t until he caught sight of the flashing red and blue lights in front of Sylvie’s house that he stopped complaining.

  18

  “Slow down!” Clarence wailed from the backseat. “I can’t see anything. I always miss all the best stuff.”

  “If you don’t hush, I am going to do something—I don’t know what, but something—that you will not like. Put aside your obsessive need to be entertained for two seconds and think about Sylvie.” I whipped into my drive and jammed the gear shift into park.

  “I’m sorry, boss. I’ll wait in the car while you check on her.” His tone was contrite enough for me to pause for a split second before I slammed my car door shut and consider if he might actually be experiencing remorse.

  As I jogged across the street, I made up my mind: I was buying a cell phone tomorrow.

  A police officer parked at the curb stepped out of his vehicle.

  Since he looked like he was going to stop me, I preempted him. “I had a date this evening with Sylvie Baker, the homeowner. Can you tell me if she’s all right?”

  “She didn’t call you?” He took out a small pad and pen from his pocket.

  Ignoring the implication that she would have if she wanted me here, I gave him a chagrined look and said, “I don’t have a cell phone.” As his eyebrows rose, I lied, “On me. Just lost it.”

  The officer clicked his pen. “Your name?” He glanced at his watch and scrawled the time on the pad.

  “Geoff Todd.” I even spelled it for him.

  Once he’d written down my name, address, and landline number—since I’d “lost” my cell phone—he escorted me to the front door. “Hey, Ernie,” he called inside. “I’ve got a Geoff Todd here.”

  Ernie must have given me the stamp of approval, because the officer waved me through and then returned to his parked cruiser.

  Sylvie and a tired-looking plainclothes cop who didn’t look nearly old enough to be out of a uniform were sitting in the living room.

  “Geoff, I’m so sorry about this evening.” Sylvie stood up, and I couldn’t help an appreciative look. Her dress wrapped around her neck—called a halter dress, if I remembered correctly—and cut into a deep V in the front. It was a pattern of blues and reds that I was sure would normally flatter her skin, but she was pale as a ghost.

  I hadn’t a clue if she’d smack me or thank me, but I closed the gap between us and pulled her close.

  She leaned into me, wrapping her arms around my back and pressing her cheek to my chest. The delicate scents of vanilla and cinnamon tickled my nose. I rubbed her back, wishing that whatever the hell had happened to upset her hadn’t.

  She took a deep breath and then stepped away. She had a little more color in her cheeks. “Thank you.”

  For coming over when I saw the police? For comforting a distressed woman? That was just what one did, when—Ah, just the thing to do. I cleared my throat. “What happened?”

  Sylvie’s gaze drifted to the detective.

  “Ms. Baker interrupted a burglary.”

  My blood pressure shot through the roof. I felt the tips of Sylvie’s fingers on my arm. If I didn’t want to give the impression of being a hothead—and I wasn’t one—I needed to offer a reasonable response.

  While I worked on that, Ernie gave me the basics: “Ms. Baker did exactly the right thing. She avoided confrontation and immediately called the police.” He turned to Sylvie and said, “You kept yourself safe, which is really smart thinking.”

  “I don’t think he knew I was here,” Sylvie said. “I usually park in the drive, but I decided just today to start parking in the garage.” She rolled her eyes. “Like that turned out to be safer.”

  “Did you see him?” I asked. When she shook her head, I added, “But you’re sure it was a man?”

  A wrinkle appeared between her eyes. “No, I just assumed. I got the briefest glimpse of his—or her—back and just focused on getting out of the house. I left through the back door, went around the opposite side of the house, and over to your place, actually.”

  “But I wasn’t there,” I said grimly.

  “No. I hope you don’t mind, but I waited in your backyard until the police arrived and retri
eved me.”

  Ernie piped up. “We searched the entire house before Ms. Baker returned home. And you still don’t think, Ms. Baker, that anything is missing?”

  Sylvie shook her head. “Not that I can tell, but I’ll have a closer look and let you know.” She saw Ernie and I share a concerned look and rolled her eyes. “Tomorrow. I’ll have a closer look tomorrow. I’m spending the night at a friend’s house, per your recommendation, Detective Nelson. Though I really don’t think that’s necessary.” She looked around the room and seemed angry for the first time since I’d arrived. “This is my home.”

  Ernie flipped his notepad shut and said his goodbyes. I didn’t get the impression he had much hope of catching the intruder, not unless someone in the neighborhood had seen more than Sylvie and could provide a description of a car or the burglar.

  Once he was gone, I tried to gauge her state of mind. The woman who’d wrapped her arms around me looking for support seemed to be gone. It was just as well, since I had some troubling information for her. I would have loved an excuse to wait—she’d only just learned about Bobby—but the events of the evening seemed likely to be related. Superficially, perhaps not, but this many crimes in such a short time, all happening to a small group of people—it simply couldn’t all be coincidence.

  She looked down at her red and blue outfit. “All dressed up and nowhere to go.” Shaking her head, she turned to the kitchen. “Whiskey?”

  “Ah, sure. I thought you didn’t drink much whiskey. Or tequila. I distinctly remember you warning me that those particular beverages do not agree with you.”

  She stretched up on her tiptoes and pulled down a half-full bottle of whiskey from the back of a kitchen cupboard. “Desperate times.” She lifted the bottle in a sort of toast.

  She retrieved two glasses, poured us each a stout measure, and then sat down at the kitchen table. Gesturing to the seat next to her, she said, “Now, Geoff, why is it I get the impression you have something you need to tell me? I thought I was the one with the adventurous day.”

  I hesitated, stalled by taking a sip of her excellent whiskey, and then set the glass down. I took another sip and swirled the liquid around in my mouth. It was possible, though not probable, that the events at Lilac’s store were unrelated. I hated that the greatest connection between the events, besides timing, was me.

  She placed both forearms on the table and leaned toward me. “Spit it out.”

  My breath stopped. She was gorgeous, with her determined expression, her daringly beautiful dress, and a glass of whiskey in her hand. She could have asked me just about anything, and I’d have told her. “It could be completely unrelated. Probably is unrelated.”

  She tilted her head, waiting.

  “Right. I just came from Lilac’s shop. Ah, Lilac is a medium whose help I’ve been seeking to resolve some problems.”

  She quirked an eyebrow.

  “I have a ghost spying on me, and I don’t know when she’s around. It’s disconcerting.” My face warmed.

  “She?” Sylvie’s eyes crinkled, and she took a sip of whiskey. “Go on.”

  “That’s not the important part.”

  “Oh? But it is interesting.” She grinned, her dimple making its first appearance of the evening. “You’re blushing.”

  I leaned back in my chair. “Okay. She might have had a certain fascination with some of my daily routines. That’s all I’m saying. I asked Lilac to help with a detection system and, if possible, some kind of ghost repellant to keep them away entirely.”

  She nodded. “That seems a reasonable enough request.”

  Maybe she and Lilac needed to meet, because I wasn’t sure Lilac would agree even after the events of the evening. Something she’d said about spiders and bugs had me doubting she’d shifted her position.

  “Tonight, right before a meeting I had scheduled with Lilac, someone attacked her.” I watched Sylvie’s face closely. “Something attacked her.”

  Concern clouded her face. “She’s all right?”

  “She is. But the . . . man who attacked her was looking for an item.”

  Sylvie tapped her finger against the table. “You think there might be a connection between the explosion in my backyard, the burglary tonight, and this attack on your friend.”

  “No, not necessarily. There’s no real connection other than their proximity in time.”

  “And you.”

  I winced. “Yes, and me.”

  She swallowed some whiskey then licked her lips. “So, what was Lilac’s attacker looking for?”

  “A stone, if you can believe it.”

  Not even a glimmer of recognition crossed her face. “Hm. Like a diamond?”

  “I have no idea. It wasn’t very forthcoming.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What exactly was it? And what else are you not telling me?” She pinned me with her beautiful brown gaze. “I’ve had a rough day, so don’t even try to pull the wool over my eyes. I am not in the mood.”

  I crossed my arms. “You’re sure you want everything? I don’t know if that’s a great idea, especially since you have had an especially rough day.”

  She thumped her empty glass on the table. “Geoff Todd, spill.”

  So I did. Everything. The construct, Clarence, my former profession. I even told her about Tamara, her friendly (I hoped) neighborhood witch. And all the while she listened silently, not asking questions, making accusations, or voicing doubts.

  Given how poorly my recent revelation with Lilac and Clarence had gone, I was on edge when I was done. I had just enough time to remind myself that Sylvie was no Lilac before a knock on the door interrupted us.

  And that was that. I got no response from Sylvie about my various earth-shattering disclosures, just a gentle shove out the door.

  19

  Wednesday morning

  A text. That was what I got from Sylvie the next day.

  The modern world had its foibles, and texting was certainly one of them.

  After enduring a night of Clarence’s complaints (did I know how stuffy that car was while he’d waited for me?) and curiosity (what exactly had her face looked like when I mentioned the talking cat part?), I’d rolled out of bed bright and early and bought myself a cell phone.

  The first number I’d called was Sylvie’s, but I'd gotten a recording saying to leave a message. So I did. I’d asked how she was, which felt odd, since she couldn’t reply. Then I’d given her my number, explaining that I’d picked up a cell phone this morning, and asked her to call when she was free.

  And she’d replied with a text.

  “Well, what does it say?” Clarence looked at the phone in my hand.

  “What does what say?” I stuffed the phone in my pocket as I’d seen others do, except it felt large and awkward. I should have ignored the salesperson and gone with the smaller phone.

  “The text message you just got from Sylvie. You’re the cell phone newbie, Geoff, not me. That was a text message.”

  How did he know? Of course, the only person with my new number was Sylvie. The smell of perfectly crisped bacon brought my attention back to the stove. “Bacon?”

  “You can’t distract me with crispy pork fat. What did she say?”

  “So, no bacon.” I shoveled all three pieces on my plate, then cracked an egg in the pan. Granola and yogurt weren’t cutting it today. Not when I’d skipped my usually early breakfast for an emergency phone-shopping trip.

  “Whoa, wait now. I didn’t say no to bacon. The answer is always yes when the question is bacon, but I still want to know what she said.”

  Maybe he’d have some insight. Clarence was much more acclimated to the modern world than I was. Decision made, I retrieved my phone and read the message aloud. “‘Thanks for last night.’ But she spells it with an x. And then, ‘Talk later today.’ That’s it.”

  Clarence picked up his front paw and started to groom himself.

  My frustration bubbled over after approximately five seconds of whisker groomin
g. “So?”

  He swiped his paw across his face again. “So what?”

  Frustration wasn’t my favorite emotion, but it was becoming a close companion since I’d met Clarence. “So, what does it mean?”

  “Where’s my bacon?”

  “Too hot to eat.” I already knew what a greedy kitty and a sizzling piece of bacon meant, and it was bad news.

  He proceeded to groom his whiskers.

  I stalled by retrieving one of the small plates reserved for Clarence’s use and cutting up a slice into smaller pieces, but it was still hot when I set the plate down on the ground.

  “Was that so hard?” He gulped two small squares and then yowled.

  Rubbing my ears, I said, “Yes, Clarence, it was.”

  He spat and hissed, all the while keeping a close watch on his bacon lest I take it back. When his mouth had cooled, he asked, “Was there an exclamation point?”

  “What?”

  He stabbed a small piece of bacon on the tip of a claw, but managed to pause before chomping it just long enough to say, “The text, Geoff. Was there an exclamation point?”

  Did that matter? But I retrieved the phone from my pocket and checked. “No. No exclamation point. What does that mean?”

  He stabbed another piece of bacon and shoved it into his mouth—then shrugged.

  “You don’t have any better idea than me.” I rubbed my twitching left eye, because that was what I got for taking advice from a cat. The morning stretched out before me like a long wait at the dentist’s office. “When we’re done with breakfast, we need to stop by Tamara’s.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  Visiting a witch—one I was convinced was something more—had its own set of traps and hazards. Tamara seemed pleased enough with the bouquet I’d brought her. I’d landed on odds and ends from my own garden, because I thought that was the most genuine expression of gratitude I could make. But to be welcomed into the witch’s kitchen and find a gaggle of women congregating—that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.