The Devil's Teeth
A Ravenwood Mystery
Sabrina Flynn
THE DEVIL'S TEETH is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's overactive imagination or are chimerical delusions of a tired mind. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely due to the reader's wild imagination (that's you).
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Copyright © 2019 by Sabrina Flynn
www.sabrinaflynn.com
Cover Art © 2019 by MerryBookRound
www.merrybookround.com
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Published by Smashwords
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All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
1. The Deadly Pest
2. Crack in the Lens
3. Talking Session
4. A Flurry of Telegrams
5. A Legal Matter
6. The Greek Teacher
7. An Improper Applicant
8. A Flurry of Telegrams
9. Acute Paranoia
10. A Simple Task
11. The Parents
12. A Leashed Hound
13. The Limping Man
14. Longing
15. Playing with Fire
16. Sisters
17. The Blind Sheriff
18. A Persuasive Pest
19. Lies and Mutiny
20. Lost and Found
21. Oat Hill Mine
22. An Orderly Mind
23. A Peculiar Case
24. Where the Heart Lies
25. Adrift
26. Holm’s Place
27. The Door
28. Love Blinds
29. The Trouble with Rings
30. The Devil’s Acre
31. A Useful Thing
32. A Brown Study
33. Jailbreak
34. Red Rock Island
Historical Afterword
Acknowledgments
Connect With Author
Also by Sabrina Flynn
About the Author
Glossary
to my readers
you make the journey worth it
Envy is thin because it bites but never eats.
– A Spanish Proverb
1
The Deadly Pest
ISOBEL
Wednesday, June 13, 1900
Isobel Amsel cursed under her breath. She never imagined a light would be the death of her. But then it wasn't precisely the light buzzing around her face that would do the killing. It would be the fall. A flash of light danced over her face, then landed a third time, stabbing her eyeballs. She pressed her cheek against stone, and squeezed her eyes shut.
Sweat curled down her spine. It wasn't fear; it was the damn sun. It baked the rock, giving her would-be murderer ammunition.
Whoever was trying to kill her was persistent. She'd give them that.
Stalled a hundred feet above ground, a crimp and a tiny crevice were all that were keeping her alive. And pure stubbornness.
A tremor started in her left big toe. The abused appendage was jammed into a crack. Her muscles ached, her nerves screamed, and the tremor began to shake her whole leg. Isobel shifted her weight, placing all her hope in the left side of her body. With her right hand she explored greywacke, searching blindly for a handhold.
Climbing was not so much brute strength as balance, calling on the nerve of either the supremely confident or truly mad. It did not require sight, or so she told herself.
She pinched a bit of rock, and straightened her leg. Her toe went numb, but the maneuver rewarded her with a kindly protrusion of rock. She moved to a better position. As the blood rushed back into her toe, she took turns shaking out one arm, and then the other.
She cracked open an eye. The light was still zipping around her face like an annoying fly. As tempting as it was to linger on the relative safety of a solid inch of rock, she couldn't cling there forever.
Isobel took in a slow breath. She was too experienced to look down, or to ponder her precarious situation, or to think about the rocks waiting to catch her if she fell. Fear was the swish of a blade—the moment before death. And she had been dodging that old foe for twenty-one years.
Isobel exhaled. Felt herself relax. Felt fear wash over her. When she was free of its hold, she moved slowly up the rock face, and then surged, reaching for her life. For a breadth of a second there was only air. And her mortality.
A blink later, she gripped the top ledge, and pulled herself up onto a slab.
With her feet on solid ground, she ducked behind a jagged rock and searched the valley for her attacker. The Oat Hill Mine Road hugged the base of the Palisades, winding from Calistoga towards a mercury mine. Trees of oak and fir, pine and cypress gave way to meadow and the homestead of a lone Finnish man. A dust cloud rose from the distant road—a wagon—but no light.
Isobel shifted to the side, and a flash from the valley announced her adversary—at the edge of a meadow. She frowned. Was she overreacting? For a twenty-one year old, she had accumulated a number of dangerous enemies. But perhaps it wasn't an enemy out for vengeance. The light could be wielded by a mischievous child, or coming off the lens of an enthusiastic bird watcher.
Isobel chucked a pebble off the ledge, and watched it soar for a few blissful seconds until it dropped to the road and bounced down the steep slope. The only question she was presently concerned with was how in the hell she was going to climb back down with that pestering light.
Isobel chose a different route down the cliff, one where the light could not follow her. Climbing down wasn't easy, but then nothing worthwhile ever was. With her forearms feeling like bricks and her hands like noodles, Isobel hurried from the base of the Palisades into the cover of trees.
Standing under the canopy, she listened to leaves and a trickling stream, savoring the relative coolness. Summer in Napa Valley was slightly more tolerable in the shade. She squinted through the branches. It was high noon. Lotario would be expecting her at Bright Waters. But curiosity nagged. And that was never good.
Confident that her twin could stand in for her in whatever place she was supposed to be, Isobel struck off towards the meadow. If someone had purposefully been trying to make her fall they'd likely be long gone, but tracks would remain. And if it hadn't been someone, then it was something. A something that was pulling her farther away from Bright Waters Asylum.
The trees sighed from a welcoming breeze, and she crouched to dunk her head in the stream. Refreshed, she hopped from one bank to the other, relying on her mental map of the valley. Could it have been Riot playing games with her? No, she thought, he wouldn't distract her on a cliff.
Sunlight dappled golden grass, the trees broke, and Isobel walked into a meadow. A flash caught her eye, a reflection from the sun. She hurried to the lure, and stopped. An object swayed in the breeze, catching the sun's light. Back and forth with a branch's creak. Isobel searched the tree line, then slowly stepped forward. Of all the things she'd considered, this was not one of them—her would-be murderer was a magnifying glass.
2
Crack in the Lens
Isobel turned the magnifying glass in her palm as she walked. The lens was cracked, and the fracture mesmerized her, catching sunlight and sending it careening to the four points of the world. Silver, polished to a mirror finish, circled the lens, and the oak handle had been skillfully molded for a hand. Well made, and therefore expensive. Why leave it in a forest? The le
ns could be replaced, or at the very least, the silver salvaged.
Music drifted in the lazy afternoon, and broke her musing. Isobel found herself on the edge of Bright Waters Asylum. She looked out onto a stretch of green surrounded by shade trees. Private cottages for its more affluent patients dotted the land around a main building. With its adobe walls and the large courtyard that smelled of flowers, the facility reminded Isobel of a mission.
A group of patients played croquet as a phonograph scratched out O Sole Mio. A lone woman lounged under an oak reading a book. Strands of gold gleamed in her dark hair, and a frilly white tea dress draped elegantly over her lithe body.
A rush of relief traveled to Isobel's toes. Lotario was still playing his role—that of herself. Belatedly, Isobel remembered her own role. She quickly slipped her arm into a makeshift sling and adopted Lotario's careless gait.
As she made her way to her twin, a number of female patients waved greetings. She flashed one of Lotario's charming smiles in return. One of the women blushed. Isobel could never account for her twin's way with women.
Lotario kept his nose buried in a book as she neared.
"Have you moved at all?" Isobel asked.
"Where the hell have you been?" he said through his teeth.
"You've always had a knack for voices, Ari. That sounded just like me."
He slapped the book closed, and glared. A wave of dizziness hit Isobel. Whenever Lotario assumed his 'Isobel' guise, she always experienced a moment of disorientation.
"I'm not acting," he said.
She arched a brow.
"You were supposed to be back hours ago."
"I lost track of time. Were there any telegrams for me?"
"Of course." Lotario looked her up and down. "You were climbing, weren't you?"
It was obvious. Her fingertips were scraped raw. "I'll put on gloves so you don't have to damage your delicate skin for my sake." The only way they could swap places was to assure that each had the same injuries, scrapes, bruises, and skin coloring. Most inconsistencies could be easily fixed with makeup, or concealed with clothing. But some things could not be concealed. And Lotario had always been one to throw himself into a role—even if it meant injuring himself.
Lotario was shaking his head. "There won't be any more swapping."
Isobel chose to ignore the declaration. "How is your shoulder?"
Lotario huffed, and looked away.
She sat on the divan by his side. "Ari, I had to get out of here. My muscles are atrophying."
He didn't reply.
"I needed practice," she persisted.
"You climbed the walls of your cell for months."
"Yes, well, I needed to test my prowess on something more challenging. I've become quite adept at climbing, by the way. I would have been perfectly safe, except…"
His eyes sharpened on her. "You nearly fell?"
"No." She took a breath. "Well, nearly." Isobel brandished her would-be murderer.
Lotario frowned at the cracked magnifying glass. "You killed Sherlock Holmes?"
Isobel snorted.
"Please tell me you didn't go into town."
"I found it."
"Where?"
"In the woods. It was hanging on twine tied to a branch. It caught my eye while I was… on the rock I was climbing."
Lotario frowned. "Odd."
"Odd isn't the word for it. Singular, more like."
"Singular is a soon-to-be-married woman with two children who's climbing a cliff. You should not be climbing the Palisades."
"I've always climbed them," she defended.
"You have a family now."
"I'm not married yet."
"And you won't be at this rate." Lotario snatched the glass from her hand. "There are initials on here."
"I had noticed."
"TS," he muttered.
"There was dried blood on the handle, and I found more blood on the ground."
"Maybe someone cut their hand."
"I don't think so." She plucked the glass from his hand, and peered at the crack in the lens as if it held the answers she sought.
"Bel, there are a dozen possible scenarios."
"And yet someone took the time to tie a bowline hitch around this magnifying glass and hang it from a tree. One could replace the lens, or simply use it as is. It's still functional."
"Perhaps it was intended as a signal?"
"Or a warning."
"For vermin?" Lotario mused.
Isobel smiled. "A glass scarecrow." She spun it in her hands.
"A ward or a lure? It could be the signal for an illicit liaison between lovers." Lotario snapped his fingers. "A liaison between detectives."
"You should write penny dreadfuls."
"I have."
Isobel blinked at her twin. "You have?"
"Hmm." He waved away her questions. "You'd hate them."
"I might not."
"You would."
"I didn't realize you wrote books."
Lotario gave her a patient look. "While you were being shipped off to Europe to subsequently ditch your chaperone—"
"I didn't ditch her."
"Fine. While you were running around God knows where for two years and marrying a blackguard to protect our family, I was living my own life. Do you think I just twiddle my thumbs and wait for you while you're gone?"
Isobel was at a loss. She didn't know which was more disturbing: nearly falling from a cliff or discovering her twin had secrets. "Speaking of waiting…" She stood. "I need to—"
"No."
The sharpness in his tone brought her up short. "I didn't ask you," she said.
"You were about to. And the answer is no. Wherever, whatever—I'm not doing it." Lotario crossed his good arm over his chest.
"Ari, there's only one general store and one post office in town. They might know who this belongs to."
"You have a talking session in," he paused to check his watch, "fifteen minutes."
"It's your turn to sit in for me."
"Not today."
"But you enjoy them."
Lotario said nothing, only tilted his chin. She knew that look. Isobel saw it in her mirror's reflection every morning. There was no arguing with that chin tilt. So she tried reason. "Someone might be in trouble."
"You said the blood was dry." He sat up, though it pained him. "And, Bel, if you're caught outside the asylum, they'll send you to somewhere with bars."
Isobel looked towards the men and women laughing on the green. Flowing white dresses and white linen suits, music, tea parties, and relaxation—part of her would rather be in confinement with hardened criminals. At least she'd have something to occupy her time.
"Mingle. Be social. Meet your fellow inmates," he said.
Isobel scowled at the group.
"I don't scowl, Bel," Lotario said.
"I don't have anything in common with those people. My head isn't full of trifles, Ari."
"Oh, yes, of course." He climbed to his feet and looked her in the eye. "We lesser beings can't converse with the likes of you unless there's murder afoot and you're lying through your teeth."
"Whatever gets results."
Lotario smoothed his skirts. "I'm not covering for you again. Not until you make an effort."
"An effort for what?"
"Empathy, Bel. And some awareness that you are not the center of the universe."
"That's your spot." The quick reply left her lips like a slap. Lotario flinched, and moved his injured arm a fraction. There might as well have been an elephant sitting between them.
Lotario had taken a bullet for her. He might never regain the full use of his arm.
"Ari, I'm sorry."
Without a word, he turned and walked towards his private cottage.
3
Talking Session
"Miss Amsel, how is your shoulder?" Doctor Julius Bright smiled at his patient-cum-prisoner. But instead of returning his infectious greeting, Isobel considere
d the question of the chicken and the egg. Which had come first?
"Do you think your temperament would be the same if your father had borne the surname 'Grimm'?" she asked.
Julius smiled, again. He practically wore the thing. On any other man it would have seemed ridiculous. But it was sincere, touching the alienist's bright eyes. "We all assume names," he replied cryptically. "Won't you sit?"
Isobel ignored his offer. She'd be damned if she was going to lie down for a talking session. "Are you implying you were not born with that surname?"
"Would it matter?"
She considered his question. "To some."
"To you?"
"Of course."
"Why?" Julius asked.
"I would suspect you of hiding something."
"And this would trouble you?"
"Only so far as to question your credentials."
"You seem disinclined to accept my help regardless."
"I never asked for it," she replied. "The court ordered me here."
Isobel took his consultation chair. Julius seemed unfazed, which pricked her nerve. Instead he settled himself on the settee. He was a tall man, over six feet, and his shoes dangled off the end of the consulting couch. He folded his hands over his waistcoat. She wouldn't call him corpulent, not precisely. Only solid.
The Devil's Teeth (Ravenwood Mysteries #5) Page 1
