by Jane Hinchey
“I can confirm those rumors are true.” I remembered almost getting hit in the face with her broom. “But killing three of her friends wasn’t going to procure her freedom. I’m talking solid motive.”
Jax shoved the remainder of the muffin into his mouth and dusted the crumbs from his hands. “What motive would any of them have for murdering three of their friends?”
“I keep coming back to the gardening club.” I rested my cheek on my fist and pushed the salad around on my plate. “That has to be the connection.”
“And Dot’s a member.”
“She’s not as passionate as some others I could mention.”
“Like who?”
“Well, Daisy and Flora are both pretty strong suspects. What if Claude, Irving, and Janet were planning some sort of garden coupe?”
Jax’s expression said it all. I was grasping at straws, and we both knew it. “Okay,” I admitted. “That’s pretty weak, but everything you have on Dot is circumstantial.”
“It’s her cauldron that almost killed us,” he pointed out.
“Yes, but she says she hasn’t used it in months.”
“So she says.”
I crossed my arms. “I believe her.”
“It seems we’re at an impasse.” Jax grinned, and I relaxed a little. Seemed he’d gotten over his earlier hissy fit about being called a rookie. “Tell you what, let’s go search Dot’s room, see if we turn anything up.”
“Fine.” I shoved the salad away, unable to stomach any more of the rabbit food. “Keep an eye out for Banks, will you?” I hadn’t seen my familiar in a while, and with Dot’s latest declaration that he was her cat, I had a niggling worry she’d locked him away somewhere.
Jax had a list of all the residents and their room numbers, and we managed to find Dot’s room with only two wrong turns. I’d been expecting her room to be an eclectic mix, crammed with odds and ends she’d picked up over her lifetime, so I was surprised to see it was relatively sparse. There was a large bed with a patchwork quilt bedspread in a riot of colors—that held true to Dot’s personality for sure. There was a gliding rocking chair with a footstool, a large flat-screen television, a dresser with a handful of photo frames, and not much else.
“This isn’t what I was expecting,” I admitted.
“Me either,” Jax agreed. “I was expecting a lot of old lady junk.”
“This might have something to do with it.” I held up a framed cross-stitch quote. It read A cluttered home is a cluttered mind.
“It’s kinda sad, though, when you think about it.” Jax moved around the room, looking at the photos on the dresser.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I’d imagine Dot had a bright and colorful home, stuffed to the gills with knick-knacks and the like. This looks kinda sterile. It looks like she packed one suitcase when she moved here and left the rest behind.”
There was a pang in my heart, and I absently rubbed my chest with my fist. “You could be right.”
Jax rubbed his palms together. “Right, let’s get this over with. It shouldn’t take long.” He began searching the dresser, pulling out drawers, lifting items to look underneath. I headed for her bed, checked under her pillow, then the mattress. We had no idea what we were looking for. Something, anything, that would prove Dot was involved—or not—in the murders.
Jax finished with the drawers and moved on to the wardrobe while I headed into the bathroom. A small vanity and not much else. I’d had a cursory look inside, nothing to report, when I turned and spied her bathrobe hanging on a hook on the back of the door. It was hanging unevenly, and I automatically straightened it. That was when I felt it. A weight on one side. Patting down the fabric, I found one of the pockets and, inside, a notebook. It was small, the size of my hand, spiral bound at the top. Flicking it open, I read the contents, my eyes widening.
“Jax!” I called.
“You find something?” Two long strides, and he was in the doorway.
“I think so.” I nodded, holding the notebook out so he could read what was written inside.
“What is it?” He frowned, not understanding what he was reading.
“It’s instructions on how to break the wards,” I said solemnly. I’d really hoped Dot hadn’t been involved, but this notebook changed everything.
“Anything else?”
I flicked over to the next page. “A list of ingredients.”
“For a recipe?”
“For a spell.”
We fell silent, each taking in the implications of the find. It wasn’t looking good for Dot.
“We have to go talk to her.” I stuffed the notebook into my back pocket and pushed past Jax, headed out of the bedroom. I turned left, took three steps before realizing I was going the wrong way, pivoted, and stalked back in the other direction.
“You’re mad,” Jax said, following me.
“I’m not on board with Dot being the killer.” Legs and arms pumping, I hustled down the hallway, almost out of breath by the time I reached the end. Man, I was unfit. On the other hand, Jax looked as if he were out for a casual stroll, neither breathless nor sweating. I attributed it to the fact his legs were longer than mine; therefore, he didn’t have to work as hard to cover the same amount of ground.
“Why are you so convinced that Dot isn’t the killer?” he asked.
My shoulders hunched forward. “I don’t know. Gut feeling.” I’d learned long ago to trust my gut. It had never steered me wrong, but convincing others was a whole different story. The evidence was mounting against Dot, it was unmistakable, but I did not think she was the guilty party.
“If not Dot, then who?” Jax surprised me by asking.
I slowed my walk, looking at him. “That’s the problem. I don’t know. But I do believe someone is using Dot as a scapegoat, using her dementia against her.”
“May I make a suggestion?”
“Shoot.”
“We get samples of everyone’s handwriting. Then we compare them with the notebook.”
As far as ideas went, it was an excellent one. I wished I’d thought of it, but I had to give credit where it was due. “Good idea.”
It wasn’t hard to get everyone’s cooperation. Hettie rushed off to procure index cards. We handed them to each of the residents in the living room, asking them to write their name and room number as part of our investigation. They happily obliged. I left Jax to compare the handwriting samples while I stood next to Dot, gazing out the window into the garden.
“It’s a lovely garden.” I smiled.
“Yeah, it’s not bad.”
“Dot, I found a notebook in your room that had a spell written in it,” I began.
Her head snapped around, and her eyes narrowed. “Why were you in my room?” she demanded.
“Looking for Banks, my cat.”
She nodded. “Of course.”
I blinked in shock that she’d bought it but quickly hurried on in case she thought on it too long and called me out on the lie. “So, I was wondering where you got that notebook from?”
“What notebook?”
“The one in your room?”
“You were in my room?”
I sighed and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Yes. I found a notebook in the pocket of your dressing gown. Do you remember putting it there?”
She turned her attention to the window once more. “Oh, yes, I found that out in the garden.”
“Really? Whereabouts in the garden?”
She raised her hand to point, only to collide with the glass with a solid thunk. “Ouch.” She tried again. “Over there. On the grass where Claude, Irving, and Janet were planted.”
“Does anyone know you have the notebook? Did you tell anyone you found it?”
Dot looked at me, clasping a hand over her mouth in apparent horror. “Oh, lordy, I meant to ask who it belonged to, but I totally forgot! Let me go get it now, and I can return it to its rightful owner.”
She made to move away, but I sto
pped her with a hand on her walker. “No need, Dot. We’ll take care of it.”
Dot beamed at me. “You’re a lovely gal, no matter what they say.”
My smile slipped. “What do they say? Actually, do you know what? Don’t tell me. I don’t need to hear it.”
I joined Jax in the café where he had the cards spread out on a table like a bizarre tarot reading. He glanced up as I approached.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“Look at the cross of the T.” Jax pointed to the notebook. “A left-handed person will usually end the stroke with the point ending on the left; for a righty, the T bar points to the right. It’s all about the stroke direction.”
“Right.”
“Actually, it’s left. Whoever wrote this,” he tapped a finger on the notebook, “is left-handed.”
“And? Is Dot left-handed?”
I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath until Jax shook his head and said, “She is not.” My breath whooshed out. “You okay?” Jax glanced at me in concern.
“I’m fine. So? Who out of this lot,” I waved at the index cards on the table, “is left-handed then?”
“Only one.”
Gah, why was he dragging this out? Just tell me already.
He did. “Daisy McGubbins.”
I sank into the chair opposite. “Daisy is the killer?”
“Sorry to interrupt. You both looked like you could use a nice cup of tea.” Hattie appeared, a steaming mug of tea in each hand. She placed them on the table, ignoring the fact that there was no clear space. One of the cups was half on and half off the notebook, and before I could stop it, the cup had toppled over, and tea went everywhere.
“Oh, no! I’m so sorry, I’m such a clutz!” she cried. “Hold on, I’ll get some paper towel.” She hurried off while Jax and I surveyed the damage. Jax picked up the soaked notebook between his finger and thumb.
“Well, that’s destroyed the evidence,” he said.
“Not necessarily.” I waved a handful of magic toward the notebook, and it dried instantly. Jax grinned and nodded, giving me what I could only call an I’m impressed look. Until he opened the notebook and his smile slipped.
“What?”
He held the notebook out for me to see. The writing hadn’t smeared. It had vanished. “Where’d it go?” I snatched the notebook from him and flipped through the pages. Empty.
Jax shrugged, face as dark as a thundercloud. “I don’t know. Spelled, I guess.” We both turned and watched as Hattie came hurrying back, a roll of paper towel in her hands. She tore off a sheet and began dabbing the table before she realized there was no spilled tea to clean up.
“Oh.” A blush of color swept over her cheeks. “You cleaned it up already. With magic. Of course.” She picked up the empty cup. “I’ll get you another.”
“No need.” Jax stopped her. “Neither of us drink tea.”
“Oh. Sorry… how about a couple of cups of coffee then?”
“That’d be great,” I cut in, seeing Jax was about to refuse. Hettie picked up the other teacup and bustled away to fetch us coffees.
“You think that was intentional?” I asked as soon as she was out of earshot. “Spill tea over the notebook knowing it would trigger the text inside to disappear.” Very clever safeguard. I wouldn’t have thought to booby trap a notebook like that.
“Don’t you?”
“Undecided,” I muttered, watching Hettie where she’d stopped to have a word with the nurse, Troy. He glanced in our direction for a milli-second before nodding, patting Hettie’s shoulder, then continuing on, pushing a medication trolley toward the living room. Pushing back my chair, I stood.
“Where are you going?” Jax asked, scooping together the index cards.
“To follow a hunch.”
10
Troy was making the rounds in the living room, stopping by each resident, checking his chart, handing over their medication, and ticking off their name as they took their prescribed medicine.
Jax appeared behind me, his breath hot on my ear as he whispered, “What are we looking at?”
Ignoring the shiver of delight that danced down my spine, I whispered, “Troy is left-handed.” Jax remained silent, watching with me as Troy moved to Sadie and repeated the process, picking up the pen in his left hand to tick off Sadie’s medication. “We were so focused on the residents that we forgot about the staff,” I whispered, turning my head, only to come face-to-face with Jax, his nearness unnerving. My eyes zeroed in on his lips, and every thought fled my head. All except for thoughts of kissing him. Those stayed.
I practically purred when his hand cupped my cheek and my eyes lifted from that luscious mouth to focus on his eyes, which had darkened with desire. “Later,” he promised, swiping his thumb across my lower lip. My knees trembled, and butterflies let loose in my stomach.
A commotion outside broke us apart. Jax dropped his hand and stepped back, and I mourned his loss while also wondering what Carbonne was doing holding Banks tucked under one arm and knocking on the window.
I rushed to the door to see what the commotion was about.
“Sorry,” Carbonne apologized. “I didn’t want to come inside with my muddy boots.” He held Banks out, the cat looking impossibly tiny in his massive hands. “I found your cat. Locked in the tool shed.”
I took Banks from him, cuddling him close to my chest. “Thank you, Carbonne.” I was running a hand over Banks’s fur, checking for signs of injury when I belatedly noticed he held something clamped between his teeth.
“You okay, Banks?” I said softly. “What’s this?” I tugged at the piece of card in his mouth, and he released his grip on it, running his tongue over his teeth. “I hate laminate,” he grumbled.
“What happened? Carbonne said you were locked in the tool shed?”
“I picked up a scent.” Banks began licking his paw and washing his face. “So, I followed it, and it led me to the tool shed. I was coming back to find you when he caught me.” Banks paused and narrowed his eyes at the laminated piece of card in my hand. Realizing I hadn’t even looked at it, I held it up. It was an ID card. Troy Pickering’s ID card.
I spun, Banks still clutched to my chest, to stare at Troy, who was dispensing medication across the room. He looked up, his eyes zeroed in on Banks, recognition flared, then he dropped everything, spun on his heel, and took off at a sprint. Only he hadn’t counted on Jax, who spear tackled him from the side, the two of them landing in a tangle of limbs and sliding across the carpet.
Outside, the rain had stopped, but the thunder still rumbled, and a cold gust of wind wrapped around my legs.
“If you don’t need me, I’ll be getting on,” Carbonne said from the open doorway.
“Thank you, Carbonne, for rescuing Banks.” I smiled gratefully.
“Yeah, thank you, my man,” Banks echoed. “And don’t go in the tool shed. There’s some sort of brew in there that I suspect is bad news.”
Carbonne tilted his head. “I’ll lock it down and keep guard.”
“Thank you. We’ll be there soon to check it out.”
Carbonne shut the door, flipped up the hood of his yellow rain jacket, and hurried across the garden. Another boom of thunder rattled the windows.
Jax had Troy in a pair of cuffs and was reading him his rights.
“Uh, Jax?” I approached, Banks tucked to my chest with one arm, the other holding Troy’s ID card. “We’re Bounty. He has no rights.”
A guilty flush swept across Jax’s face as he realized what he’d done.
“It’s okay. We all do it. Twenty years of training is kinda hard-wired into you at this point.”
“Should've killed the cat.” Troy glared at Banks, who hissed in return.
“I’d like to see you try!” I angled my body, shielding Banks from Troy, though he couldn’t hurt him now. “Why’d you do it, Troy?” I asked. “Why’d you kill Claude, Irving, and Janet?”
“I didn’t,” he protested. “Well, no
t intentionally. The three of them stumbled upon my …” He trailed off, and I glanced at Jax.
“Seems our nurse is a little recalcitrant to spill the beans. I suspect whatever the victims stumbled upon is in the tool shed. And it’s dangerous.”
Jax grabbed Troy by the arm and dragged him toward the door leading into the garden. “Let’s go,” he ordered. Banks and I followed, that is, until I reached the door, and Banks took a look at the wild weather outside.
“On second thought,” he wriggled in my arms, demanding to be let down, “I’ll wait here.” I let him go and hurried to catch up with Jax and Troy. I’d missed the tool shed on my earlier exploration of the garden, but then it had been bucketing down, and I’d been soaked to the bone, not to mention visibility had been poor.
Carbonne, however, was not hard to miss in his bright yellow raincoat standing in front of the toolshed with his massive arms crossed over his chest and feet planted. His face was as dark as the thunderclouds overhead.
“Hold him for me, will you, Carbonne?” Jax asked, releasing Troy’s arm.
“My pleasure,” Carbonne growled, his anger palpable. I got the feeling Carbonne didn’t need much of an excuse to pound Troy into the ground.
I leaned toward the giant of a man. “What’s up?” I whispered.
He jerked his head toward the tool shed. “I took a peek.”
“And you’re not happy,” I surmised.
“Not with him using my garden for his ill-gotten gains.” Carbonne wrapped his beefy fingers around Troy’s upper arm, and the nurse squeaked.
“Hey, ease that grip,” Troy protested.
“I don’t think so.” Carbonne’s voice rumbled like thunder, full of menace and warning. Seemed Troy took heed, for he kept his mouth shut.
“Midnight!” Jax called from inside the shed. I stepped inside. It was small, shelves running along one side, hooks on the other. Jax was at the very back, his mouth and nose buried in the crook of his elbow. “Careful,” he warned. “I think this might be toxic.”
A quick look at what was on the shelf confirmed it. A small cauldron. Tiny. But something was brewing inside, and while I couldn’t see smoke, I could see the shimmer of fumes. I mirrored Jax’s actions, taking care not to breathe in the concoction.
