I waited for him to explain, though I had a feeling I knew what he meant. It had been an issue we’d worked through more than once over the course of our relationship. And each time it brought us a little closer.
“It’s that old, nasty beast,” he went on. “Jealousy. Rearing its ugly head.”
“There’s nothing to be jealous of,” I said.
“I know. It’s just that you seem to have a connection with that Erik guy, and it kind of bothered me at first. I guess it brought up all my old feelings of insecurity and self-doubt. But then I thought about that whole scene earlier with the tattoo photographer, and I realized how that could have been misconstrued.”
“Well, yeah. She was definitely into you, but I can hardly blame her.” I smiled.
“But that’s just it. You can bond with someone over shared interests without it having to be something romantic. Anyway, we trust each other, right? I don’t want you to think I don’t trust you.”
“Absolutely. I trust you, too.” I still wasn’t convinced Poppy didn’t have ulterior motives in her chat with Wes, but that was beside the point now. All that really mattered was our commitment to each other.
The café door opened again. I glanced over and cringed. It was Langham, surveying the restaurant like he was lord of the manor. “How did he find me here?”
Wes looked over his shoulder. “He probably saw my car out front. Why? What’s the big deal?”
Before I could answer, Langham spotted us and strolled over. He didn’t bother with petty formalities, such as saying hello. “You didn’t return my call,” he said.
“You called?” I shot a perplexed look at my phone, as if I didn’t fully understand how it worked. Instead of responding, Langham pulled up a chair.
“I called to warn you.”
“Warn me? About what?’
“About Erik Grayson. He’s been lying to you. He’s not who he says he is.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The more I thought about it, the more I doubted Deputy Langham’s supposedly benevolent intentions in warning me about Erik. I stewed about it all evening and into Sunday morning, replaying the conversation in my mind.
Langham had claimed he was looking out for my best interests, trying to prevent me from being duped by an imposter. He said he believed that I, a respectable attorney, wouldn’t want to become involved with someone unethical—and possibly dangerous. But his description of Erik didn’t ring true for me. From the moment Langham dropped his little bombshell, I thought there must be some kind of mistake. Perhaps it was the gleam in the deputy’s eyes, and the way he watched sharply for my reaction, when he said Erik wasn’t who he said he was.
“What do you mean?” I’d asked. “Who is he, then?”
“His real name is Frederick Grayson. But he’s used a number of other aliases.”
“So . . . Erik is short for Frederick?”
“Just listen. Mr. Grayson showed up in Fynn Hollow five years ago, with no prior connections here. He came from Chicago, where he’d gone to pharmacy school. Only, back then he was using the name ‘Merlin Grey.’”
Wes snickered. “Merlin?”
Langham ignored him and continued. “Grayson got in trouble for using a false name, and his pharmacist license was suspended for six months. After the suspension, he came down here and eventually got a job at Ellerby Pharma. But a year ago, his license expired, and he failed to renew it. That means he engaged in unlicensed pharmacy work for almost a year before he was let go from the job.”
“Is that it?” asked Wes. “It sounds like a paperwork problem to me.”
Langham practically sneered at Wes. “Obtaining a professional license under an assumed name is a lot more serious than ‘a paperwork problem.’ Acting as a pharmacy professional without a license is also a lot more serious than ‘a paperwork problem.’ It’s fraud.”
I recalled the information I’d read about Erik’s former employer online. “As I understand it, Erik was downsized out of his company. He wasn’t fired.”
Langham gave me a pitying look, as if I just didn’t get it. “If his use of false names doesn’t bother you, maybe this will.” He reached into an inside pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, which he opened and handed to me. It was a printout of an email from Denise to Poppy, sent a week before Denise’s death. I guessed Poppy must have brought it to the police.
Wes moved to my side of the table, so we could read the message together. The gist was that Denise was sending Poppy a link to an art gallery here in Edindale and encouraging her friend to submit her portfolio. To me, this proved that Denise and Poppy were still friends in spite of their supposed falling-out. But it was the paragraph at the end that someone, probably Langham, had highlighted:
By the way, remember that thing I said was bothering me? I still can’t tell you, because there are others involved . . . and someone could go to jail over it. But I want you to know I won’t keep silent for much longer. The cards are telling me I should reveal what I know. I’m just waiting for the right time.
I looked up at Langham, who was watching me closely. He raised his eyebrows as if to say, “See?”
“What does this have to do with Erik?” I asked. The lawyer in me knew this cryptic message didn’t prove anything.
“As his girlfriend, Miss Crowley would likely know about all the shenanigans with Erik’s license. If she reported his latest infraction to the licensing board, he might have been barred from any future work as a pharmacist. I’m sure he wouldn’t have wanted her to ‘reveal’ that kind of information.”
I looked at the message again without replying. After a moment, Langham snatched it up and returned it to his pocket. “Erik Grayson can’t be trusted,” he said, pushing back from the table. “Think about it. And call me if you remember anything about him you think I ought to know.”
After he left, Wes and I discussed the odd encounter and came to the same conclusion: Langham was trying to play me. Why else share a piece of evidence in an ongoing investigation? Plus, what he didn’t say was just as telling. He failed to mention the fact that someone had seen me out on Old County Road early Saturday morning. Either Detective Rhinehardt hadn’t told Langham about the tip, which seemed unlikely, or else Langham didn’t want me to know I was a suspect.
He thought I knew something about the murder, or about Erik, and suspected I was trying to protect Erik. Heck, maybe he even thought Erik and I had plotted together to get rid of Denise. By painting Erik as dishonest, maybe Langham hoped I’d turn on my supposed partner before he could turn on me.
One thing I knew for sure: I was glad Langham hadn’t sprung this news on Wes and me prior to our heart-to-heart at the café. Like Wes said, I’m usually a good judge of character. If I thought Erik was innocent, Wes was willing to back me up.
I had a hard time focusing on anything else the rest of the weekend. But there was one thing I’d already committed to that I needed to see through. On Sunday afternoon, I headed to the civic center for another one of my efforts to raise my profile in a positive light. One of the networking calls I had made earlier in the week was to the community director, Chelsea Owen. I had asked her if there were any volunteer opportunities I could take part in, and she jumped on my offer. She needed all the help she could get setting up and staffing a charity bazaar for the local children’s hospital.
When I arrived at the civic center, I followed the signs to the gymnasium and found Chelsea buzzing about, clipboard in hand. She directed me to a folding table stacked with cardboard boxes containing donated glassware. My first job was to unpack the boxes and arrange the glassware in a nice display on the table.
As I worked, I glanced around the room to see if I recognized any of the other volunteers. There were a few familiar faces from around town, including a couple of vendors I’d seen at the art fair the day before. Two tables down, much to my delight, was my old friend, the book seller, T.C. Satterly. He was unpacking crates of books, while chatting with another v
olunteer. I decided I would go say hello as soon as I finished my assigned task.
No sooner had I finished when I heard someone call my name. I looked across the gym and spotted Billy Jones, smiling and waving. I returned the wave. On second thought, maybe I’ll just say “hi” to Billy first. I weaved my way around boxes, tables, and people toward Billy and paused a few feet away to watch him. He moved in overdrive, unpacking one box and moving to the next like some kind of supercharged automaton. He’d clearly done this before. When I approached, he looked up and grinned, without missing a beat.
“Hey, Keli! I’m glad to see you here. I’m trying to put together game night again this Tuesday, and I’m running short on players. Viper won’t be there, and my buddies from work all have excuses. Think you and Farrah can make it again? Now that you know how to play, it will be even more fun.”
“Hmm. I’m not sure.” The last game wasn’t exactly my idea of fun, but I’d never say so to Billy. He was so earnest and sweet. “I’ll check with Farrah and let you know.”
“Awesome. I know Erik and Thorna would love to have you guys join us again.”
“Speaking of Erik, I heard something interesting about him. Is it true he goes by the name Merlin?”
“Oh, yeah. He uses that as a craft name in ceremonies sometimes. Cute, huh? In the past, I think he even used it as a nickname, but then he had a hard time getting employers to take him seriously. The name ‘Merlin’ doesn’t exactly look good on a job application, you know?”
“I guess it depends on the job. You know it’s funny, this is the second time I’ve heard about craft names recently. Erik mentioned a friend called Soleil.”
“Oh, sure. I know her. Nice girl.”
“Do you have a craft name?”
“No, not really. I never saw the need. I’ve always been open about my tradition and who I am. But it’s not uncommon at all. Some people take on a craft name to protect their true identities and others like to pick a new name just for fun. And some use craft names only during magical workings, while others use the name all the time.”
“Like Thorna?” I remembered the newspaper had mentioned her real name when she was quoted following Denise’s murder.
“Yeah. She might still go by Vanessa at work, or on official papers. Other than that, she’s been Thorna for as long as I’ve known her.”
“I can see how it would be fun to choose your own name.” I thought about the screen name I’d chosen for the Witches’ Web: FlightyAphrodite. It was fun coming up with the name. On the other hand, I hoped I hadn’t inadvertently doomed myself to take on attributes to match the name, like some kind of flaky alter ego.
“Yeah, I guess so,” said Billy. “I think it’s healthy to bring a lighthearted attitude to your spiritual practice. But with Thorna, I think there’s also a touch of superstition.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, you know. The whole power-in-a-name kind of thing. Like Isis and the secret name of Ra?”
I shook my head. “Sorry, I don’t follow you.”
“It’s like, some people believe you can use a person’s true name as a taglock in a curse. So, they want to protect their real name.”
Again with curses. “I understand now. I’ve heard of hair and nail clippings being used as taglocks, as well as photos, but never a person’s name.”
Billy shrugged. “To each his own, right? Or her own, as the case may be.”
He broke down his empty boxes and heaved them under his arms. “I gotta take these to the recycling bin and see what Chelsea needs me to do next. Let me know about Tuesday.”
I made my way back to the other side of the gymnasium and stopped at T.C.’s table. He was sitting in a folding chair, with his hands crossed over his ample midsection. His eyes twinkled when he saw me.
“I knew it,” he said.
“Knew what?”
“You’re on the case, aren’t you?” He dropped his voice to a loud whisper and leaned forward. “I heard your name in connection with the Fynn Hollow murder, and I said to myself: ‘That gal’s gonna get to the bottom of it.’ You always seem to be one step ahead of the cops, just like Miss Marple.”
I smiled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a lawyer, not a detective.”
“So was Perry Mason. Ha. I saw you chatting with young Billy Jones over there. He’s from Fynn Hollow, isn’t he?”
“Mm-hmm. You know him?”
“Sure I do. He’s got to be the nicest kid you’ve ever met. I can’t think of a single fund-raiser he hasn’t had a part in, going back to his school days. We can always count on him to lend a hand.”
“I met him only recently, but he does seem nice,” I agreed.
T.C. chuckled. “That boy ought to run for office. He’s built up enough good will. Gives of his time, as well as his money.” T.C. gave me a sly look. “If I were the suspicious type, I might wonder where all the generosity comes from. With anybody else, you’d think they’re trying to make up for something.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “It seems to me he does his family credit—as well as his school and his faith.” I almost surprised myself with my subtle plug for Paganism. I wasn’t sure how much T.C. knew, but Billy had told me himself that his Druidic beliefs weren’t secret.
Glancing at the stack of books on T.C.’s table, my eyes fell upon a familiar cover. It was deep blue with silver lettering for the title: Old Spells for a New Age. I picked it up and showed T.C. “Is this one of the books you bought from Erik Grayson?”
“Ah, yes. There was too much writing in that one. I couldn’t sell it in the shop, but I thought someone here might get a kick out of it.”
I flipped through the pages and saw what T.C. meant. There was underlining throughout and frequent annotations in the margins. It looked like Erik had tried the spells and jotted down his opinions of them. I found myself smiling at his irreverent tone—much of the commentary was sprinkled with phrases like “As if,” “Baloney,” and “Not even close.” Other spells, presumably the successful ones, were marked with big, hand-drawn stars.
But then I paused. Something about the writing bothered me. As I read a few more notes, I realized they didn’t actually sound like Erik. In fact, the handwriting was kind of girly. I turned another page and came upon a heavily marked-up “Attraction Spell.” Someone had changed the words and scrawled a more personalized version at the top of the page. When I read the incantation, I knew at once whom this book had really belonged to.
He will come to me
He will be mine
He’ll unwind from her clutches
And drink me like wine
He’s drawn to me
Like beetle to flame
He’s forgotten her
He knows only my name
DeeDee Star x Merlin Forever
I shut the book and tried to hide the tremble in my hands. “How much do you want for this?”
T.C. looked at me in surprise.
“For a lark,” I explained.
Purely a lark.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“You are the best lawyer ever! I knew you could do it!”
Arlen the necromancer pumped my hand until I felt my fingers go numb. We had just emerged from the courthouse after an hour-long hearing in which the county officials tried to defend their ticket, and I argued it should be thrown out. Luckily, the hearing officer ultimately sided with me.
“I’m happy it all worked out,” I said. “Sometimes you never know with these things.”
“Oh, I always knew. But it’s still gratifying to see it play out.” He tilted his face to the sky and filled his lungs with air. You’d have thought he’d just been released from forty years in prison. Turning to me again, he rubbed his hands together. “I want to do something for you! Come by my place and I’ll give you a free reading. The spirit animals can foretell many things. Bring a question and the bones will answer.”
For a fleeting moment, I thought about all the q
uestions that had been plaguing me about Denise Crowley and her mysterious death. But I had to demur. “You’ve already paid my fee, Arlen. You don’t owe me anything.”
Besides, I have other methods for divining the future.
He clapped his hand on my shoulder and beamed. “Call me anytime if you change your mind. I’m going to tell everybody I know about you. Thank you again.”
With somewhat mixed feelings, I thanked Arlen and watched as he bounded down the courthouse steps. Though he’d worn a suit for the occasion, he still struck an unusual figure with his below-the-shoulders, black-as-night hair and all the excess of skull jewelry. Truly, I was happy to help him and grateful for the work. But did I really want to become known as “the witches’ lawyer?”
I pushed the thought out of my mind, as I followed him down the steps and headed across the square in the direction of my office. I was halfway across the courthouse lawn when my cell phone rang. I stood under an oak tree to retrieve it from my purse.
“Keli Milanni,” I said, by way of greeting.
The torrent on the other end of the line hit me with a force so great I staggered. I dropped my purse and reached to the tree trunk for support.
“I trusted you!” yelled the angry voice. “I put my faith in you! And this is how you repay me?”
“What—?” It took me a minute to realize the voice belonged to Neal Jameson. He was so livid, his voice shook.
“I could not have been clearer about the need for discretion. I thought you understood that! And yet you still told someone. I don’t know who you blabbed to, but apparently you don’t know the meaning of the word discretion—or confidentiality.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” I exclaimed.
“Oh, really? Well, check the newspaper! This is exactly what I took great pains to avoid. Now you’ve ruined everything, you incompetent—” He broke off, as if trying to get control of himself. “Consider yourself fired. And on notice. I will be suing you for malpractice. You can count on it.”
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