by Tamara Berry
“Um, I wouldn’t call Inspector Piper my friend,” I say.
Nicholas laughs outright. “I don’t think Inspector Piper cares for any of us. Let’s not interfere until we’re asked, shall we?”
It’s solid advice, and it behooves us all to heed it. However, a knock at the front door and Rachel’s chummy “Hullo, Inspector” in the distance cause events to transpire sooner rather than later.
“Oh, no,” I mutter, slinking low in my seat. I scan around for some means of escape, but this is one of the few rooms where the secret passageway that runs through the castle walls doesn’t exit. “Quick—where can I hide?”
Nicholas pours himself a cup of the lukewarm tea and settles in his chair with nothing but expectation of enjoyment at the events to come. “Now, now, Eleanor. I thought you were the one woman in the world who didn’t fear the bogeyman.”
“I don’t fear the bogeyman,” I say, rising hotly to my own defense. “The hand of the law, however . . .”
The hand of the law, such as it is, enters a few seconds later. At first glance, the yellow-vested police inspector standing in the doorway looks like nothing to be wary of. He’s thin and wiry, more weasel than man, his eyes shiftily taking in the room. There’s nothing intimidating in his stature or his neutral expression, or even in the way his hands reach for his coat pocket in an unconscious tic. He quit smoking a few months ago when I pointed out how small his chances were of winning back his ex-wife otherwise, but the habit of reaching for his cigarettes remains.
Inspector Piper’s commitment to his habits is what alarms me. It’s how he works. He’ll follow a lead and repeat every possibility over and over until he’s worn a path in his case. And for some reason, those paths have a tendency to lead straight to me.
His next words confirm it.
“Ah, Ms. Wilde. I’d hoped to find you here.”
“Hello, Inspector.” Resigned to my fate—and to the fact that no one else in this room is going to play the role of host—I get up and pour him a cup of tea. “Won’t you have a seat?”
“Thank you.” He sits and accepts the cup but doesn’t drink. He’s been a visitor enough times to know better, too. “I assume you know why I’m here?”
“Poor Sarah,” Vivian says in a convincing show of sympathy. “What a terrible tragedy for the community. She’ll be greatly missed.”
Even Nicholas looks surprised at his mother’s willingness to play by the rules, his eyes meeting mine in a flash of humor. That humor turns to downright mischief when Vivian adds, “Settle a question for us, if you please. Was it arsenic or prescription drugs that did her in? Eleanor seems to think she’d have more luck with the latter.”
Inspector Piper pauses in the middle of setting his cup aside to stare at me. “Is that so? What kind of prescription drugs do you normally use to poison people?”
I pass a hand over my eyes with a groan. “We were talking in hypotheticals, I swear.”
“Hypothetically, what would you use? From one professional to another?”
I see nothing for it but to play along. “If my goal was to escape detection, which I assume is the goal of most poisoners, I’d go for the obvious. Vicodin, OxyContin, Percocet. Anything that could be ruled an overdose.”
Inspector Piper nods along, not the least shocked at my ready knowledge of prescription painkillers. The amount of time I spent in hospitals and nursing homes with my sister turned me into something of a savant.
“If my goal was to out and out murder a person, however, I’m not sure what I’d use. Hemlock, maybe? I don’t know. I’ve never been tempted to kill anyone before.”
Nicholas coughs and casts an obvious look at his mother, who’s absorbing my confession with unwarranted glee. “Not even once?” he asks.
I smother a laugh. Vivian isn’t the least bit traditional or motherly, but I adore her, as he well knows. I have a thing for people who are unapologetically honest about themselves.
“What would you use, Inspector Piper?” I ask, turning the question back on him. “From one professional to another?”
“Oh, I’d never use poison,” he says, almost cheerful. “It’s too cowardly, a woman’s weapon of choice.”
At that, Vivian’s backbone begins to emerge. “Well, honestly. I don’t think you’re qualified—”
I’m about to rally behind the old girl, but Nicholas interrupts before either of us can really start to show our hackles. “Is that what we’re looking at? Was Mrs. Blackthorne poisoned? Eleanor seemed to think it might have been a heart attack based on what she saw last night.”
The inspector turns his head and carefully studies me. He also whips out his ubiquitous notebook and pen, though I swear most of the time he draws pictures of animals instead of taking statements. “Is that so? What makes you say that?”
I find I’m not wholly comfortable with conjuring up the images from last night. In the broad light of day, chatting with Vivian and Nicholas over cups of tea, it’s easy to turn the woman’s death into an oddity. But I had a difficult time falling asleep last night, unable to forget the way her whole body went stiff or the wrenching way her stomach had convulsed all over the floor.
“She clutched her chest,” I say. “And the general said she had a weak heart. That’s all. I wasn’t there long enough to see much else. Was it poison? There was coffee there, but we all drank some. It can’t have been that.”
He doesn’t answer me. Instead, he reaches into his coat pocket. For a moment, I think he’s indulging in his nervous tic again, but he extracts a vial and sets it on the tray next to him.
I recognize the vial in an instant. It’s identical to the one I gave Mr. Worthington yesterday, a craft bottle I buy in bulk. I like it because it has a square shape that I can easily affix labels to, and it can be stopped with a simple piece of cork. Very rustic and authentic—perfect for potion making of all kinds.
I immediately rear back. “She was never one of my clients. In fact, I got the strong impression she disapproved of me. She’d go out of her way to cross the street whenever we happened to pass.”
“So you admit to dispensing illegal substances throughout the village?”
Well, I can hardly unadmit it now, can I? “It’s not like I’m peddling cocaine. It’s artisanal water.”
Nicholas’s low chuckle is swiftly hidden under a cough.
The inspector’s cough is much more authentic. “Artisanal water?”
“Yep. Just plain, ordinary tap water infused with botanicals.” I then add, “Local botanicals,” lest he think I’m importing strange concoctions from overseas.
“Local botanicals?”
I’m not loving the way he’s parroting my words back at me, or the fact that they’re all phrased as questions. On a cognitive level, I know it’s how Inspector Piper gets responses out of people, in much the same way I use dramatic pauses and warbling messages from beyond. On a visceral level, I can’t help feeling he’s about to drag me to the jailhouse and swallow the key.
To show him that I’m above such petty interrogation tactics, I reach for the bottle. He doesn’t stop me, so I pull out the cork and give it a tentative sniff. There’s no liquid left, but I use such strong concentrations of, uh, local botanicals that it can be difficult to get the smell out. The overpowering burst of lavender that hits my nose is a confirmation of it.
“Just as I suspected.” I hold it out to him. “This is my attraction elixir.”
He doesn’t sniff the bottle, although both Vivian and Nicholas oblige me.
“And before you say, ‘Attraction elixir?’ in that odious way, I should note that it’s meant to be worn as perfume, not consumed as a tonic,” I say. “It’s used to attract potential mates. Male ones.”
I don’t have to glance over at Nicholas to know that he’s struggling to keep himself in check. His laughing silence conveys enough.
“I’ve had a very high success rate with it,” I add with a blatant disregard for truth. Rachel’s lack of dates at he
r art gallery has been weighing heavily on me, but not so much that I’m willing to admit as much out loud. I still have to make a living, after all.
The inspector raises his pen over his notepad. “And what, if you don’t mind my asking, goes into an attraction elixir?”
“Actually, I do mind you asking. It’s a trade secret.”
“Lavender is my guess,” Nicholas supplies as he hands the bottle back to the inspector. “And far too much of it. Though how that could be considered a local botanical at this time of year is beyond me.”
“Nick, you wretch!” I cry. And, because there’s no way around it now, “It is mostly lavender. Which, by the way, I buy in dried bundles from the sweet old lady who makes that soap from sheep’s milk and sells it at the Saturday market. Locally.”
“What else goes in it?” the inspector asks.
I shift uncomfortably. “Well . . .”
“A woman is dead, Ms. Wilde.”
“Um, vodka?”
Nicholas releases another one of those laugh-coughs.
“And?”
“That’s all, I swear! It’s just lavender, water, and vodka. I mean, I also perform a sacred lunar goddess ritual over the batch, but that goes without saying.”
Inspector Piper eyes me doubtfully. “And what is a sacred lunar goddess ritual?”
Nicholas supplies the answer for me. “She dances naked under the light of a full moon. Or so I’ve been led to believe. Unfortunately, I’ve been out of town every time a full moon hits. I’ve rescheduled all my meetings so I’m sure to be at home for the next one.”
I turn to glare at him, determined, as usual, to give him a piece of my mind. However, the look in his eyes stops me before I get the first word out. It’s such a warm look, a hungry look, that I can hardly be blamed for my lack of follow-through.
I have never, in all my life, danced naked under a moon of any kind—waning, waxing, or bursting with sensual brilliance. If he promises to watch with that gleam in his eyes, however, I might have to take up the habit. This whole ships-passing-in-the-night thing is really starting to take its toll on me, sensual brilliance–wise.
Inspector Piper clears his throat, drawing my attention back to the present—and the fact that I’m being questioned for a murder in front of Nicholas’s mother.
I nod at the bottle. “Even if she did drink it, which I expressly tell my clients not to do, all that would happen is she’d get a slight buzz and feel like her mouth was recently washed out with soap. I’m sure if you take it in for one of those forensic tests, they’ll tell you the same thing.”
“The last time I investigated a crime you were tied to, you wanted me to bring in a sketch artist and DNA-sniffing dogs,” the inspector says.
I know I did, and it was good advice, too. Especially since the sketch I ended up commissioning on my own solved the entire murder. “So?”
He gets to his feet and slips the bottle back into his breast pocket. “You seem to have a skewed idea of the kind of budget I operate under.” He nods first at me and then at the pair seated on either side. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Wilde. You’ve been most . . . informative.”
“So that’s it?” Vivian says, disappointed. “You aren’t going to tell us how she died?”
Inspector Piper’s eyes open in mild surprise. “She was poisoned, naturally.”
“And?” Vivian urges.
Inspector Piper’s next words are for me. “And cursed. According to Mr. MacDougal, Ms. Wilde gave her the evil eye right before her attack.”
All eyes in the room—evil and otherwise—turn to me at once. I groan.
“If I could curse people with just a look, believe me, you’d all be the first to go.” I stare at them as if to prove it. As expected, no one is moved, not even to blink. “See? I’m harmless.”
Harmless I might be, but I’m also wary of being investigated for a crime I had nothing to do with. Hoping to catch a private word with the inspector, I walk him to the door.
“What was the actual reason for your visit?” I ask as we move through the huge foyer. It’s always been my favorite part of the castle, all cavernous and gloomy and echoing. “You know very well that my elixir isn’t poison. Not even the worst criminal in the world would kill someone with a substance she’s known to sell to anyone with twenty pounds and a broken heart.”
“Twenty pounds, huh?” he asks with a pat of his breast pocket. “That seems awfully steep.”
“I use the good vodka.” I pause. “Seriously, though—what did you really come here to ask me?”
Inspector Piper studies me with the intensity I’ve come to expect from our interactions with one another. He hates that I’m just as good at this investigative stuff as he is, even without years of academy training and a badge hanging around my neck. I’d feel bad for him, but he must know by now that a person doesn’t become a successful fake psychic without some natural talent. I’m better able than most to take a step back from situations, to detach myself emotionally and watch for the inevitable clues that people let fall.
It’s not a skill that comes from a happy place. I’ve always felt like an outsider looking in, more attached to my dead sister than any living human being.
Aw, thanks, Sis. I’m attached to you, too.
There’s also that. Winnie’s ability to communicate with me from beyond the grave is what some people might consider a real boon in my line of work.
“I can’t confirm the type of poison that was used until the toxicology results come back, but I believe we’re looking at something organic. Something local.”
My breath catches in my throat. “Oh, dear. Not the sweet old soap lady?”
A ghost of a smile crosses his face. “I’m not ruling anyone out just yet, but I doubt Aunt Margaret was involved.”
“Wait—what? She’s your aunt?”
My tone is sharp, mostly because I’m annoyed with myself for not realizing it earlier. Now that he mentions it, there is a slight resemblance—the thin lines of the nose and cheeks, the calm way they appraise the world around them. All similarities end there, however. Margaret knows all kinds of useful things about where to find flowers and roots, and is more than happy to share her knowledge with me. Getting information out of Inspector Piper is like squeezing granite and hoping for honey. He shares that trait with Nicholas.
“If you’re interested in the local flora, why don’t you just ask her for her input?” I demand.
“I already did.” His tone contains nothing but mildness, but there’s a worried pucker to his brow that doesn’t normally reside there. “And while we’re on the subject, I’d also strongly suggest you stop selling your potions for a while.”
“But that’s how I make a living! Do you want me to starve?”
He casts an obvious look around—at the splendor of Castle Hartford and all the bounty contained within it. There’s no denying that the contents of this room alone could provide enough income to feed both me and Beast until our dying days.
My hackles rise anew. Although I might be a charlatan and a cheat, I’m not a gold digger. I’d no more live off Nicholas’s generosity than I would ask Inspector Piper to let me come live with him.
“I can’t stop working every time there’s a suspicious death within a hundred-kilometer radius,” I say. “And I’m pretty sure you can’t make me without some kind of legal order.”
“You mean a legal order like a request to see your business license?” he returns calmly. “Or perhaps your VAT certificate?”
I don’t allow my shoulders to slump. Of course I don’t have a business license or any kind of tax-paying system set up, but that doesn’t mean I’m going down without a fight. “I’m a witch, Inspector. Our relationship with government entities has long been fraught with dissent. Need I remind you what they used to do to my kind? Crackle, crackle, burn, burn.”
My attempt at turning the tides of history in my favor fail.
“Until the investigation is over, Ms. Wilde. That�
��s all I’m asking. Then we can, uh, re-visit the idea of you establishing a business in the city. A legal business.”
He tips his hat to me like a Victorian bobby of old and takes his leave. I’m tempted to go home and start brewing the biggest batch of herbal elixirs this county has ever seen, but common sense soon warns me that I’m not likely to find many buyers for my wares. Not with a woman dead from poison and nary a suspect in sight. Even if I include a list of ingredients on the label, I don’t see a whole lot of people lining up to ingest anything that doesn’t come from their own hands.
Whether I like it or not, I’m going to have to wait for a conclusive end to this investigation before I can get back to work.
“Oh, dear.” Nicholas appears in the foyer, watching me watch Inspector Piper depart. “You don’t look as though you enjoyed that interview. Shall I start pulling together the bail money? We have one or two family heirlooms I’d love to have an excuse to unload. There’s a picture of my great-uncle Harold that used to give me terrible nightmares as a child.”
“Very funny,” I mutter. Even if I did need bail money, Nicholas wouldn’t have to sell anything to get his hands on it. He’s a legitimate millionaire, though a less flashy one I have yet to meet. His clothes are expensive and well tailored, and he has a private jet he takes on his many world travels, but all ostentation ends there. “He told me I have to stop selling my potions until the mystery is solved.”
One ironic brow lifts. “Because you’re a suspect?”
“Yes? No? I can’t tell, but it’s not as if it matters anyway. No one is going to buy my stuff if they believe I poisoned Mrs. Blackthorne.” I perk at a sudden thought. “Unless I came up with an antidote. Do you think—?”
“No, I decidedly do not.”
I sigh. “You’re probably right. I’m just going to have to ride this one out, I guess.”
