"Definitely not." Adam laughed. "Niam might, though?"
Paj screwed up her face thoughtfully. "She probably does. Our mother remembers everything. Especially bad things."
"It’s a mom thing," I said.
They both chuckled. Adam’s eyes and nose did that cute crinkle thing too, now I thought about it. Ugh, why did he have to be so fine? It was distracting me. "Can you ask her? A blasted tree trunk."
"Like lightning hit it?" she asked.
I nodded.
"I’ll try," she said.
I opened my mouth to thank her, but at that moment the older lady from behind the counter appeared, masterfully balancing two huge bowls of steaming noodle soup and two plates of green stuff on a tray. It smelled like heaven. "I love this place," I said.
Paj laughed, but Adam’s expression was more of a smirk, like he was satisfied with himself. His sister left us to our meal, and Adam watched me as I fiddled with various sauces, smelling and tasting things to add into my bowl.
I glanced up, self-conscious of a sudden. "What? Am I doing it wrong?"
"Nope."
Then what the hell was he looking at? I needed a diversion. "What’s with the collar?" I blurted. "Who’s got your leash?"
"No one." He smiled sweetly. "Yet."
Fuck. Yeah, okay, turned that one back on me. Better concentrate on my pho, since I apparently wasn’t making an ass of myself with that, but the talking thing wasn’t working out for me as well.
***
Gary Michaelson, the last owner of the Moonlight Motor Inn, couldn’t have been less interesting. He was a family man, owner of a few properties up north, lived and died in the suburbs of St. Paul, liked to vacation in Florida. No police record or anything juicy, so I started on his kids. It took me a while, but I found one, Fiona, living in San Diego. Who could blame her, after growing up in the frozen tundra? It took me a few tries to find a live number for her, but the internet is a beautiful thing.
Finally, she picked up.
"My name’s Courtland Wendt, and I’m investigating the Moonlight Motor Inn outside--"
"Oh, right Cross Lake!" Fiona didn’t even need me to finish. "How is the old place?"
"It looks good," I said. "But the current owners are having some problems that might sound a little--"
"Ghosts?" she asked.
Welp, okay then. "Were there experiences when your family owned the place?"
"It was always a family joke that it was haunted. Nothing major, just sounds like people talking when no one was around, or a woman crying. The usual urban legend stuff."
"Activity has increased recently." How to be delicate about this shit was always the hardest part for me. This was why I usually had Elise make these calls, but she was up to her tits in fact-finding already. Better for us both to do our things then meet up and see what matched, if we wanted the truth. "Do you remember hearing about any traumatic events at the hotel? Murders, suicides, robberies…?"
"Oh, you mean that boy. Uhh, dammit, what was his name… McSomething?"
Holy shit, this woman was a gold mine. "Steven?"
"Steven McGuffy!" she said.
"What about him?"
"He disappeared after staying at the Moonlight. Left his stuff in the room, but they never found a body or anything." Her voice wasn’t so cheerful, discussing that part. "And Daddy said there was a suicide once--most hotels get them."
"Yes, they do." I knew it all too well. "Anything else?"
"Not that I can remember, no."
"Would the McGuffy case be in old papers?"
"For sure. It was a big deal, there were police everywhere. Real Satanic Panic kind of stuff, you know?"
"I know." I should’ve guessed.
Well shit.
***
Elise had dug up the same shit: the disappearance of Steven McGuffy in 1985 and the suicide of Amos Billingsly in 1975. Other than that, there had been two attempted robberies of the Moonlight in the late 70s, neither of which netted the thieves more than $50 in cash and neither of which had led to injuries, let alone casualties. All in all, a good record for a place with that much humanity rotating in and out for five decades. Elise gave me the call numbers for the newspapers that had info in them, and I headed out to the library to flip through some microfiche.
While I was there, Adam texted me. Drinks later?
God help me, could I be trusted to have a drink with him? He was a flirt, but he was a client. Of course, he wouldn’t be forever... just, there was always that weird sinking sensation when someone hot showed interest in me, that unavoidable question in my mind: what if they’re a transphobe?
Okay, no, I could be professional. A beer wasn’t going to erase my inhibitions. Hell, three wasn’t going to do that much damage, let alone one. I texted back: Sure. Got some stuff to talk about.
That’s what I like to hear. Where to?
I named a place in the suburbs, so he wouldn’t have to truck all the way back into the city, and he agreed. A few hours later, my notebook that much fuller and my mind going a million miles a minute, I headed to a faux-Irish pub to meet him.
"So, wait. This guy disappears from the Moonlight, they turn the place inside out for clues, but no one’s ever found him?" he asked.
"Looks that way." And I wasn’t so sure about the ‘inside out’ thing, either. They hadn’t found those letters in the ceiling, after all.
"What about this poor guy?" Adam gestured to the copy of Billingsley’s obituary I’d settled on the table between us.
"I don’t think he’s hanging around, but I didn’t get past your room. I don’t know which room either of our victims stayed in, though."
"I’ll try and find out," he said. "Oh, and Paj got it out of mom: the tree painting was in 104."
"Any chance you’ve put new carpet in there recently?"
He shook his head. "We were going to next year, all through the place, but at this rate, we won’t be able to afford it. People keep fucking off in the middle of the night." He took a long, deep drink of his Guinness. I watched his throat work, his collar stretching just the tiniest bit…
Ugh, that fucking collar. Giving me ideas. Nope, I was a good boy, and I was just drinking this beer, telling him my shit, and then going home. That was all. "Any chance we could check under the carpet that’s there now?"
He frowned. "I mean… I guess?"
"I think there’s a summoning circle in there. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s the room Steven McGuffy was in."
"Did he draw it, or did someone else?"
I snorted. "That’s the question. I’ve got Elise checking into him now, though. Hopefully, we’ll figure out where the witchy connection is."
"About that…" he cleared his throat.
I raised my eyebrows.
"Am I, uh… safe? I mean, with this like organic witch thing?" he asked.
Not my department, but I liked him well enough not to say that. "You have been so far."
"But what if something happens? What if I hurt someone on accident or like, I don’t know, break something expensive?"
"Have you ever before?"
"Maybe?" He looked pained.
I considered. "I’m not the person to ask, honestly. I do know some witches who can connect you to the right people, though. If you want?"
He chuckled. "You’re not used to helping living people, are you?"
"No," I admitted, though I almost wished I hadn’t.
"That’s weird, though. You spend your whole life helping dead people. You aren’t even mad at the dead guy who tried to take you over."
"I’d probably do the same, if I’d been stuck there since 1985," I pointed out.
"Yeah but that doesn’t make it okay. It’s not okay."
"True." But I didn’t really know how to justify it. "I’ll be more careful when I come back."
"I found those letters that were in the ceiling," he said. "They came from 106, next door to the tree room. I got ‘em in the car."
"Can I take them home?"
"Yeah, I mean, totally, but I want to help. It’s weird; I think they’re in code."
I took a long drink. I was gonna need more of these, apparently. "In code how?"
"Not sure. Probably just letter switching though, since it’s all English alphabet. When we first found them I just thought it was strange and put them in a box somewhere, but now I look at them--I’m pretty good at stuff like this."
"You… want to help?"
He nodded. "Like, I’d ask you to come to my place, but…"
But I wasn’t ready to go back to the Moonlight, and we both knew it. "I guess we’re going to mine, then?"
"Don’t sound too excited about it." He smirked like he knew I was, though.
For all the wrong reasons.
***
We hunkered down in my tiny living room, coffee table covered in ciphered letters from the 80s. Adam was right, they did look like simple substitution code, so I started counting letters.
"Those are the "e"s," he said, pointing to the most common substituted letter, not even a question.
I nodded. "You done this before?"
"I read up on it the other day. I’ll count in this one." He picked up another letter.
We kept track on sheets from my notebook, and after a few hours and beers, we had most of the Wheel of Fortune letters figured out. From there it wasn’t too hard to fill in the rest of the alphabet, and we started decoding the letters two by two.
Adam worked quickly, cleverly, intently. I admired his focus, which distracted from my own more than once, but that was inevitable. The beer helped me not feel weird about it, at least.
We got about ten of them done before we were exhausted, but it was a big start. They were addressed to a few different people: Dana, some kind of authority figure; George, a lover; Ty, a friend and well-wisher; and Madge, who felt like more of a professional acquaintance. Her letters contained a lot of talk about rituals--no summonings, but various meditative and focusing practices common with modern witches. All of the letters were clearly around, about, from, and to a coven of witches. All from Steven, and we assumed that meant Steven McGuffy.
I texted Elise once we discovered this, though I didn’t expect she’d be awake: Any sign of a coven?
She texted back instantly: Just talked to McGuffy’s sister. He was estranged from the family because he was a witch. Coven of Isis, downtown St. Paul. How’d you know?
I’m just that good, I lied.
"I can’t do any more tonight," Adam said. "My eyes are crossing."
"You better stay here, though. We drank our way through the last four hours." I stood and stretched. "I’ll get you some blankets. The couch isn’t bad."
"Couch, huh?" He smirked.
I sighed. "Adam…"
"Yesssss?"
"Look, you’re fine as fuck, but you’re also a client." I tried to make my voice sound a lot more resolved than I felt. He was just sitting there on the floor, looking up at me, all impish and gorgeous in that goddamn collar. I had to be firm. "Let’s not play around."
"It’s only playing if you don’t plan on following through," he said with a shrug. Disappointment ghosted across his face.
I wanted to tackle him to the floor and kiss it away. Taste those delicious-looking pink lips finally. I was tired and my back ached from working on those letters and I wanted him. "You know what I mean."
"I’m a fan of mixing business and pleasure, what can I say?" He lifted his gaze, piercing through his eyelashes. "It’s fine if you’re not though. If you just want to say so, say it."
"I don’t want to," I admitted with a laugh that felt a little hysterical. Fuck. "But it’s complicated."
"It won’t always be," he said. "I’m willing to wait until we solve this murder, don’t get me wrong. I respect your qualms totally. I’m just saying."
"What are you saying?"
"Let’s not play around," he repeated my own admonition back to me. "If you aren’t gonna be interested even then, say so, and it’s cool."
I much preferred this to his coy intimations. Well, okay, I didn’t prefer it, I liked his coy intimations, but I needed this. "I am," I said.
"Okay."
"I’m trans," I blurted before I could even clear it with my rational mind.
He blinked. "Okay."
"Just okay?" I couldn’t help myself. I wished I could.
"Yeah," he said slowly. "I mean, thanks for trusting me with the info. Okay."
"Did you know?" I asked.
He shook his head. "But, like, cool?"
I nodded. "Cool." I wanted that to be all, but I couldn’t help pushing just a little more. "You’re sure?"
"Every part of me has been sure since I scraped you off that pavement." His tone was light, conversational. "I felt like I was riding to rescue my very own handsome prince."
I chuffed out a laugh. "Hard to hold a leash if you’re out cold."
"The leash is symbolic." He was back to smirking.
"You are fucking trouble."
"You have no idea. But I guess you have to solve this murder if you want to find out."
Jesus, I really, really did.
***
Adam left early the next morning, taking half of the letters with him to work on behind the desk at the Moonlight. I wanted to sleep, personally, but his motivation shamed me into early action. I got up and started decoding with my first cup of coffee. Elise called near noon to let me know she’d made an appointment for me to talk to the leader of the Coven of Isis, a woman called Harley. Disappointing, as I’d been hoping it’d be Dana from the letters, but whatever.
Throughout the day, Adam and I sent the contents of the decoded letters to each other via email. Though they largely dealt with coven business, a few facts about our angry spirit Steven became obvious:
1. At the time of writing letters to these four people and receiving the replies he’d hidden in the ceiling, Steven McGuffy had been couch surfing. The coven had paid for his room at the Moonlight, and the effort had been organized by Dana. Dana never referred to a superior in the hierarchy while working out these arrangements.
2. George the ex-lover had introduced Steven to the coven, and they’d broken up because Steven had been paying more attention to his new religion than his boyfriend. George’s letters made it clear he thought they made better friends than lovers, and it seemed they were on good terms.
3. Ty was a police officer in St. Paul. I had Elise do a look-up and found several Tyrones and one Tyrell working for the police department. She vowed to figure out if one of them was our witchy cop from the letters.
4. Madge was a know-it-all who resented Dana and any other witch who had a leadership position. She wanted to write a book on her own rituals, which was what she was slowly sharing with Steven as she worked. I could only hope Harley, Priestess of Isis could help me figure out who she was, but she had definitely been Coven of Isis in the mid-eighties.
So the question was, were these people suspects, or were they just potential leads?
***
Elise met me at the Coven of Isis’s headquarters, her small face poking out of a Star Wars hoodie sheepishly.
"Don’t even apologize," I stopped her before she could get started. "I’m fine."
"Fine enough to go back to the Moonlight Motor Inn?"
I made a face, because no. I’d been meditating on a strict schedule, finding my center, rebuilding shattered protective layers in my mind. I couldn’t and wouldn’t go back there until I was as good as new, and we both knew it. "It would’ve happened even if you had been there," I pointed out.
"Don’t change the subject."
"It was fine. Adam scraped me off the pavement."
"And what if he’d actually obeyed your instructions and kept away from the property?" She pursed her already heart-shaped lips.
"Well, he didn’t, so let’s just count that as dumb luck for me."
"I’m surprised you’re not angrier wit
h him for being there. He must be hot."
I gave her a dirty look. "Can we just talk to this witch, please?"
The Coven’s headquarters was a small, older house in a neat, suburban neighborhood near a Whole Foods and a hipster brewery. Harley, a tall woman in a 50s style black housedress, met us at the door and welcomed us inside, flashing the pentagram tattoo at her wrist casually. "I’d take you out to see our garden, but we just harvested everything, since the first frost is on the way."
She looked more like Samantha from Bewitched than any other witch I’d ever met. Kitten heels, high ponytail--just a little more eyeliner and silver lipstick instead of the usual. Rows of drying herbs hung near a crackling fireplace that made the front room too hot for comfort.
She led us into the kitchen, instead, where a window was open to let in the fall air. She slid into a chair at the kitchen table and gestured for us to sit down. "Help yourself. I just baked the shortbread, and the tea is Oolong."
"Thanks!" Elise chirped and grabbed a plate for herself.
"We’re looking into the disappearance of Steven McGuffy." I’d never been one to beat around the bush, even in the face of tea and cookies. "Were you in charge of the coven in the 80s?" She looked too young, but who knew, with witches.
Harley shook her head. "That’d be my predecessor, Dana Lovelace."
Elise and I shared a look. "We’ve recently found evidence Dana was something of a benefactor," I said carefully.
Harley nodded. "She often was. A lot of witches end up separated from their families."
"Why aren’t they called warlocks?" Elise wondered aloud.
Harley’s gaze sharpened as she flicked it to Elise. "Because that word means traitor. That’s a word for enemies."
Elise flushed and shrunk into her seat. "Oh! Sorry!"
"It’s all right." Harley smiled slightly, relaxing.
But I could see it in her now, that hard edge, glittering like a knife just beneath the smooth, soft surface of her. I thought I might like this one. "Is Dana still with you?"
Elise shook her head. "She died three years ago, and I was elected."
"How did that go? Smooth transition?"
Harley shrugged elegantly. "Some people loved Dana; others thought she lost sight of our first rule a long time ago."
Witchy Boys: The Complete Collection Page 13
