by R K Dreaming
Garrett crossed his arms over his chest like he was done talking. “Noah and I have been in Ireland since last Thursday to early this Thursday morning, when we came back and found Marilyn already dead. We were together all week. You can check the flight records.”
Noah grabbed a pencil and jotted down the details of the flights and their hotel in Ireland for Charming, as well as the number of the director who had hosted them on the movie set.
“He’s a bit busy today but you might be able to reach him tomorrow,” he said.
“And you were on his set the entire week?” said Charming.
“That’s right,” said Noah. “The whole week.”
“But I already called your director friend,” said Charming, diving in for the kill, and noting the sudden tenseness in Noah’s body. “And he said that you were only there a few days at most.”
“You— You spoke to him?” said Noah, looking flustered.
“He said he doesn’t remember seeing you on set after Monday. That would have been the day you argued with your wife on the phone, no? He said you left. That was a couple of days before the murder. Plenty of time for you to fly back here to kill her, and then get a private flight back to Ireland.”
“It wasn’t me!” exploded Noah, cheeks flushed a lurid red. “I never flew back early. Tell him, Garrett!”
Garrett Clooney nodded. “Noah went to stay at a nearby beach cottage for a few days. He needed a break. I stayed on set while he was away.”
“So Noah has no alibi,” said Charming bluntly.
“I do,” muttered Noah, glaring at Garrett now as if it was all Garrett’s fault.
“Her name is Jenny James,” said Garrett, with a sigh. “She’s the female lead in the Ireland movie. We’ll give you her number, but you need to keep it quiet. You can imagine what the press’ll be saying about Noah if they get wind of this. Wife found dead with some guy while her husband was shacked up with some other woman!”
“It wasn’t like that,” said Noah sullenly, all his conviction gone.
His flush looked nothing more than guilt now. His grief like self-pity. Charming felt a flare of anger towards the kid. It was a small dangerous spark that he feared would rage out of control if he let it.
He tried not to glower at the kid, but by the nervous look on the kid’s face, he knew he was failing.
“Jenny James?” said Charming. The name sounded familiar, but being stuck in a lamp, he’d not had much time to keep up with happenings in the modern world.
“The actress,” said Garrett, looking disbelieving. “Hollywood’s hottest up-and-coming young female lead. Saucy little minx. Noah had a crush on her way back before he met Marilyn, didn’t you Noah? Famously hot blooded-girl. Not a fan of Marilyn at all is Jenny. Nearly scratched her eyes out that time they fought on set. Didn’t happen to be fighting over you, were they Noah?” He laughed.
“It’s not like that!” said Noah again, but this time Charming did not believe him.
The cheating husband and his lover. Instead of one suspect, it now looked like Charming had two. And neither of them could possibly be The Reaper.
Chapter 11
SIGOURNEY
Outside the town morgue, I suddenly came to a halt. I was sick of fleeing.
What were they going to arrest me for anyway? Interfering in a case? Probably. But I had a deal with Polliver and if the police came for me, I would make him back me up somehow. Especially if he wanted what I knew about the Mockingbird murder.
I yanked my sunglasses and bulky scarf off. How had I thought I was going to be able to keep up the pretence of still being a sanguith in Brimstone Bay anyway? Was I going to skulk around in the darkness forever? I was never going to be able to solve this case if I did that.
In fact, didn’t I want a life of my own after all this was over and The Reaper was in the past? Or did I want to skulk around in the dark forever?
And no one had to guess I’d found a genie. Hardly anyone believed they existed anyway.
Suddenly I felt liberated, and it made me laugh in joy. My goodness, I could walk about in the daylight like a daywalker! It was a thing to marvel at, and I felt the rush of it anew. I felt like dancing again, flinging my arms wide with joy, crying out in jubilation, the way I had when I had first found the lamp.
Even so, there was no use inviting trouble, so I hurried around the corner and out of sight of the entrance of the morgue.
My mood soon sobered. My visit to the coroner had not given me quite what I had hoped for.
All I’d learned was that Amelie had been bound before being killed, which backed up my theory that the killer wasn’t The Reaper. I had read the case files on all the other Reaper killings, and he had never bound anyone with ligatures. He’d never needed to. Whatever manner of creature he was, he was strong; that was certain.
Blades had always been his weapon of choice. Anything messy and macabre, so an axe didn’t rule him out.
But what really intrigued me was the conversation with Rodan. I was certain now that he and Amelie had not been lovers, because all Rodan Hale’s shattered spirit had been able to think about was some other woman — this Dianthe. And a key.
Something had been going on with Rodan Hale. I felt a niggling certainty that it was important somehow. I wondered if the cool, elegant Bridgit Corkmony with her shiny red hair and big weepy eyes knew what it was. The trouble was, she now knew I was sticking my nose into what wasn’t my business. I doubted she would want to talk to me.
She must have finished identifying Rodan’s body because she came out of the building and crossed the parking lot to her car.
On some mad instinct, as she drove off, I ran to the road and flagged down a cab, and asked the driver to follow her.
We drove only a few minutes to a street around the corner from The Strip, and Bridgit parked in front of a well-kept townhouse.
She disappeared into what had to be her home as I paid off my cab driver. I wasn’t sure what I was planning to do. If only I’d had my psychic music. It would have told me if knocking on her door was going to help or hinder me.
As the cab drove off, a silver sign by her front door caught my eye. I trotted closer to take a look. It said:
Corkmony & Hale
Counselling & Psychotherapy Centre
This was their office. Bridgit Corkmony and Rodan Hale working out of her home put a rather cosy slant on things. They had to have been close. Surely she had to know who Dianthe was?
I put my finger over the buzzer to press it, but then hesitated. I honestly did not think Bridgit was going to talk to me. She seemed the prim and proper type who was afraid of breaking the rules. And she knew I had no authority to be here. I would not put it past her to call the Brimstone Bay police, and the last thing I needed was for them to give me an official warning to back off.
And a warning was the best I could hope for.
I happened to know the chief of the local police, an unpleasant man who didn’t like me much. Especially since I had once escaped his custody, thoroughly embarrassing him.
The sound of clicking heels approaching the house from behind me made me scarper before I was caught loitering there. I darted across the road to a café, and looked behind just in time to see a smartly dressed girl, muffled against the cold in a big scarf, let herself into Bridgit’s house with a key.
It struck me that she had a very secretary-like air about her, which was proved right when shortly afterwards, a young man arrived at the house, buzzed, and was let in by the girl in the big scarf.
It was Sunday but it looked like Bridgit was working. The young man had to be a patient of hers.
The café had a decent view of Bridgit’s front door, so I decided to get myself a hot chocolate and keep an eye on the place while I figured out my next move.
As I sat and watched through the window, the first young man left after thirty minutes and another patient arrived, this one a young woman. I bought myself a second drink, this time a steaming,
aromatic Chai Latte and a chocolate twist, because life was short and I had figured out that I liked chocolate very much indeed.
After another thirty minutes, the young woman patient left, and another arrived, like clockwork, and disappeared into the house. I waited twenty minutes, popped my last yummy bite of pastry into my mouth, and hastened over to the house, intending to ring the buzzer for the secretary to let me in.
But there was no need. The patient had not pulled the door shut. It was still slightly ajar.
I went inside, expecting to see the secretary sitting at a desk near the entry way. The desk was there, visible through a glass partition, but her chair was empty. So was the waiting area.
My plan had been to tell the secretary I needed to make an appointment with Bridgit, then ask to use the bathroom. When the secretary was busy with the arrival of the next patient, I planned to sneak off and explore the house.
Surprise at finding no secretary made me hesitate. But only for a moment. Beyond the secretary’s desk were two doors with little silver name plaques on them. One said Bridgit Corkmony, Clinical Psychologist. The other said Dr Rodan Hale.
I ran to the second door, pressed my ear to it to check it was quiet on the other side, and then hurriedly let myself in and pulled the door shut behind me.
My heart was thumping. I was glad the door had been unlocked.
I was not used to being sneaky. In my former life as ‘Her Grace’ the oracle, I had been escorted everywhere by sentinel bodyguards and usually been given a red-carpet type welcome. What strange days they seemed in hindsight.
I paused to catch my breath and calm myself. I fastened the latch on the door quietly, just in case the secretary tried to walk in for some reason. It would give me the few moments I needed to hide.
The room was fairly cramped. A plush darkwood desk and leather upholstered sofa dominated it. They looked like they were designed for a much larger space. Every surface was covered in books and papers.
It reassured me to hear a muted voice coming from Bridgit’s office next door. She was talking to her patient.
For a small office, the space was very cluttered. Messy, in fact. Two walls were lined with shelves that were crammed floor-to-ceiling with books and manuals. Many of them were crooked and in disarray, as if they had been hastily put onto the shelves. The place smelled of books and smoky herbs.
Behind the desk was a wall full of photographs and framed certificates that turned out to be educational diplomas. Dr Rodan Hale had more degrees than any one person could possibly need. The man seemed to have been studying all his life, and must have had a love for it. The two largest frames were wonky. The rest were perfectly straight, as if Dr Hale had been a neat freak.
I frowned. Even the appearance of his spirit had attested to his liking for neatness. He had been perfectly groomed, clean shaven, clothing immaculate, hair well styled.
I had the feeling someone had rifled through everything here in a rush, and hadn’t done a great job putting it back in its place.
Tell Dianthe I found the key, he had said. Was it Rodan Hale who had ransacked his own office before he’d died? Or someone else looking for this key?
The frustration I had been feeling since leaving the coroner’s office reared up again. How the heck was I supposed to know if the darn key was important to solving this murder without my psychic music?
I wished I could talk it all over with Charming, but he was off heavens knew where. I didn’t even know if he’d be in the mood to talk about it when he came home later. If he came home.
I had nowhere near enough time to search the contents of the desk, filing cabinets and shelves for clues, and without gloves, I was wary of leaving my prints here for the police to find.
So I tried what I would have done in my old life. I walked around the office, trailing my fingertips over everything, using their backs so as not to leave prints. I was hoping something would spark a vision or instinct. I even cleared my mind and searched for my psychic music again. It all failed.
I ended up standing before the wall of photographs. I placed my hand on each one, hoping for something. Anything. But nothing worked.
The pictures were largely of people, mostly in groups, many of them women. They’d all been taken in impoverished communities; rural villages, urban shanty towns. The people in them looked careworn but were beaming, clearly at the end of some sort of rewarding project. Rodan Hale was in almost every shot, standing at the centre of each group. Everyone was hugging him. He looked happy.
I scrutinized each face, looking for anyone resembling Amelie Assisi, but did not find her. The pictures that fascinated me most had been taken in the Magicwild, which was apparent from the exotic vegetation, and buildings with architecture distinctly unlike those found on Earth. Many of the people had wild green hair.
And yet none of the pictures had sparked a vision.
Disappointed, I went to the desk and sat in Rodan Hale’s chair. I tried to envision the world through his eyes. One thing was certain. He’d liked comfort and nice things because the chair was lusher than my bed.
In the top drawer of the desk, I found a diary, the sort for keeping appointments in. But it was disappointingly empty. Only a very few important things had been noted in it, like an invitation to the Mayor’s Ball this week. The secretary must have managed his schedule for him.
The only things of interest in it were written on the back page.
His address, which I memorised.
And the words Sao Paulo, outlined and filled with patterns and underlined too. I imagined if I’d had my psychic music, then an exuberance joyful tone would have danced out of those words. Rodan had been happy when he had written this. Excited, even.
I sat up in shock as I realised I had been stupid. Amelie had changed her name to Marilyn, but what if before that, she had been called other names? What if she had been Dianthe when Rodan Hale had met her?
Which meant Rodan had wanted to give the key to Amelie.
He had said he had courted ‘her’, that he had wanted to keep her safe. And lamented about who was going to keep her safe now.
Which meant this key was going to keep her safe. And who else from, but The Reaper?
What if this key was the key to finding The Reaper?
I had dropped the diary in shock at this realisation. It landed with a soft thump on the carpet. I rolled back the chair to lean over and pick it up, but the chair’s wheels cracked loudly over broken glass. Very loudly.
I froze. Bridgit must have heard that from her office. I relaxed only after hear her still talking with her patient.
Crouching beside the desk, I saw that the wheels had rolled over a photo frame that had fallen onto the floor. I had broken the glass into unsalvageable shards.
I picked it up carefully. In the picture, Rodan was standing amid a group of young women in a forest in the Magicwild. Something about the shot was furtive, the smiles trained and hurried, as if the group was worried about being disturbed.
The way that Rodan’s arm was clasped around the shoulder of one of the young women made me look twice. She was fine-boned and petite, with jewel-like silver eyes. She wasn’t Amelie for certain, but she was someone important to him.
Darn it. So maybe Amelie wasn’t Dianthe. Dianthe could have been anyone.
But this woman was special. He’d put her on his desk, hidden away in this group shot. I frowned. What did it mean? Was The Reaper after this woman too, like he’d been after Amelie? But I wasn’t sure if that made sense. All of the women in the shot, including the girl who might be Dianthe, wore silver metal collar necklaces, as if it was tribal wear. As if they were Magicwild natives. It seemed impossible that The Reaper would be hunting Magicwild women.
Unless Dianthe was in our world now. Maybe it was her that Rodan had planned to go to Sao Paulo with. Heck, maybe she was already there, and there was no way I was going to find her.
I pulled the photo out of the frame and turned it over, but there was no
caption. Instead, I found a tiny envelope, the size of a gift tag, hidden behind it. The letter D was written on it in pencil.
My heart leapt. For a second I hoped it would contain the key. But inside was just a small slip of folded paper and a business card. No key.
The business card said: Bellamy Gwydion, Wizard, Purveyer of Needs, along with a London address and phone number.
I hastily unfolded the slip of paper. It had been hidden and had to be important. It was an ink drawing of a circular symbol, the curves and swirls of it intricate and intertwined like magical sigils.
I tried to read it, but I’d never had a formal education in either sentinel sigils or magiolingvo, and it made no sense to me. It was complex and so beautiful, the sigils interwoven in a mesmerizing way.
I was so busy looking at it that I did not hear the noise from the other office growing closer until the creak of a door handle turning made me look up in alarm.
Stunned, I saw the bookcase on the wall moving. It was a hidden door, a second way into this room, and it was opening!
Chapter 12
SIGOURNEY
I ducked beneath the desk just as a soft voice said, “It’s through here.”
Bridgit entered the office, accompanied by a waft of her expensive amber perfume. I could see her delicate suede kitten heels, pink ones almost identical to the pair she’d gotten soaked earlier. She was followed by a pair of men’s black brogues.
“When was Dr Hale last here?” asked a man. I knew that voice. It was Charming!
My mouth dropped open. What on earth was he doing here?
I suddenly felt ridiculous, stuffed under the desk. Did he know I was in here? I could just imagine him smirking at my predicament.
Thankfully the old-fashioned design of the desk covered me up on three sides except for a gap of a few inches at the bottom. If they didn’t come around the back, or bend down, they wouldn’t see me.
“What a lovely little chicken,” said Bridgit. “My goodness. She really is tiny!”
