by Bailey Cates
He shrugged. “Mmm, well enough, I guess.”
Caesar’s name had been in the margin of Mr. Bosworth’s datebook, but not on a particular day. “Had you seen him recently?”
“Not for a month or so. I sold him a knife. An athame. Celtic, you know. It was quite old. Beaten pewter, and the handle was inscribed with all sorts of knots and spirals. Beautiful.”
“Really. Where did you come across a specimen like that?”
His smile tightened. “Oh, now. A man can’t give away his secrets, now, can he? Not if he wants to stay in business.”
Well, well. My magical intuition might be gone, but I could still read between the lines. Mr. Bosworth’s magic dealer had acquired the ceremonial knife illegally.
He handed me the bag. “And another big congrats on your big day coming up. You let me know about the engraving, okay?”
“Okay.”
Outside, I headed down the alley and toward my car. Time to check on Dante Bundy’s alibi. Thoughts ping-ponged through my brain as I walked.
Caesar Speckman dealt in illegal goods. And Mr. Bosworth bought them.
However, that didn’t fit with the causes Mr. Bosworth had supported. Native American cultural preservation did not involve stealing tribal relics. Quite the opposite. And Skipper Dean had said another of his charities had returned stolen antiquities to the Middle East.
Maybe I was wrong about Caesar. He hadn’t come right out and said he’d stolen the athame he’d sold Mr. Bosworth. He hadn’t given me any kind of obvious wink wink when he’d said it.
But that look on his face. He’s hiding something.
He’s hiding the Golden Dawn grimoire.
Yes, I realized, that was exactly what he had been doing. What if there wasn’t a secretive buyer at all? What if the book had been sitting by the register because Caesar had been reading it between customers? There had been a bookmark in it, after all.
And what if the Golden Dawn grimoire contained the spell that had stolen my magic? However, Dad said the Golden Dawn group didn’t practice dark magic per se, and that spell was pretty darn dark.
So maybe Caesar just liked to read spellbooks.
Even though he didn’t believe in magic. He’d made that pretty obvious when Cookie and I had been in the shop.
He’d made it obvious.
And we’d believed him. Not only that, but he’d recovered from Cookie’s Voice awfully fast. The Golden Dawn grimoire had to be more than a coincidence.
My steps had slowed, and I realized I’d stopped at the bottom of the staircase that led from River Street up to Bay Street. I turned to ascend toward where my car was parked when I heard it.
The deep rumble of a V-8 engine.
My heartbeat doubled to a heavy hammering in my chest, and I whirled toward the sound. The front end of a wine-colored car was edging out of the How’s Tricks alley. Its distinct grille was a spot-on match to the one Olivia Gleason described. I hadn’t seen the Thunderbird there, but there were a couple of garage-type doors built into the brick walls of the alley. It must have been behind one of those.
The car turned toward me, and I ducked behind a post as it slowly rumbled by. Sure enough, Caesar Speckman was driving. For a split second, it was as if I were looking at the rat I’d seen on my shamanic journey, and then the notion was gone.
A dragonfly drifted lazily behind the car, then suddenly buzzed up toward Bay Street.
That man has my magic.
I spun and raced up the stone stairs, two at a time.
And I’m getting it back.
Quickly calculating where Speckman was likely to turn away from the river and toward town, I ran to my car, jumped in, and started the engine. The Bug roared to life, and I pulled away from the curb and made a U-turn. A car behind me honked. I waved my apology out the window and pressed the accelerator.
The Thunderbird didn’t materialize as I’d hoped. Frustrated, I pounded the wheel and swore. Then I looked up at my rearview mirror and saw him two cars behind me.
I’d calculated correctly but I’d moved more quickly than he had. I turned onto a side street to let him go by, but he turned onto the same street. Wondering if he knew my car, I swung into a parking lot. Were we going to have a confrontation right there in public?
However, the car drove by and continued down the street.
I turned my car around, waiting for another car to go by, then pulled out and followed the dark red convertible. Fumbling in my tote bag while keeping my eyes glued to the street ahead, I finally located my smartphone.
“Call Declan,” I demanded of the phone’s personal assistant, not sure if it would work because I rarely used it. Soon I heard the sound of ringing and breathed a sigh of relief.
Speckman slowed for a stop sign, then accelerated through it. The car in front of me turned. I came to a full stop at the sign to give Speckman time to get ahead of me.
“Hey, darlin’,” Declan answered.
“Deck, I need you to call Quinn. I know who murdered Kensington Bosworth, and I’m following him.”
“What? Katie, don’t—”
I cut him off. “Listen, I really need you to do this. It’s Caesar Speckman, the guy who owns that souvenir shop. He was Mr. Bosworth’s magic dealer, and I think he’s a druid in the Hermetic Order of the Silver Moon. He drives that Thunderbird we saw outside of Mr. Bosworth’s house the night of the murder.” I took a deep breath. “He took my magic, Declan. He killed Mr. Bosworth, and he took my magic.”
“Do not, I repeat, do not approach this guy,” Declan said.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to. I just want to know where he is so Quinn can come arrest him.”
And then what? How do I get my magic back?
“Katie.” Declan’s voice held warning.
“I have to go now,” I said. “I need to concentrate on driving and not letting him see me. Oh, God.”
“Oh, God, what? Katie, did he see you?”
“No. Nothing like that. I just realized where he’s going.”
“Where?”
“To Kensington Bosworth’s house.”
Chapter 22
“Stay right there,” Declan said. “Do not do anything. I’m calling Quinn now.”
“Tell him to be quiet when he comes,” I said, and hung up as Speckman parked across the street and down the block from Mr. Bosworth’s house.
Quickly, I turned left onto the cross street, and then into the alley that ran behind the haint blue Victorian. I thought I’d be unobserved back there, but it turned out I wasn’t the only one who had the idea of hiding in the alley. I recognized the vehicle parked right behind the house and hit the brakes.
It was a Ford Expedition with a stick-figure family of six on the back window.
Malcolm Cardwell had joined the party.
What the heck?
My heart sank as I thought of his lovely wife and passel of laughing children. Was he really involved in his employer’s murder?
I wedged the Bug between a garbage can and a small shed on the side of the alley. After debating for about three-point-five seconds, I grabbed my phone, silenced it, and got out. Quietly, I clicked the driver’s door closed, then shut it all the way with a hip bump. My eyes on the Expedition, I crept down the alley. Finally, I was close enough that I could see there was no one in the vehicle.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I straightened my shoulders and strode more purposefully toward Bosworth’s home. I arrived at the gate from the alley into the backyard, paused, then swung open the gate and went inside as if I were more than supposed to be there. If anyone had been watching, they would have thought I was the homeowner herself.
The second I got inside, I latched the gate behind me and bent double to slink through the jungle of twisted wisteria and overgrown azaleas that populated Mr. Bosworth’s back garden. It would be a
delightful riot of color and fragrance in the spring, but now was a mass of glossy evergreen leaves and gnarled trunks.
Hard to navigate. Good for hiding.
Randy hadn’t mentioned any cameras were attached to the security system. Then again, I hadn’t asked. But Quinn would have mentioned if there had been camera footage, at least in the back garden, because it would have captured the images of the killer.
Ergo, there weren’t any cameras.
Good ol’ old-fashioned Kensington Bosworth. Typewriter. Datebook. Dictionary. Atlas—and security system sans cameras that send images right to your smartphone.
Which he also probably hadn’t had.
I crept forward, low and slow. The branches scraped against my bare legs and caught at my skirt. My sneakered feet sunk into the soft ground beneath the bushes. The glass door into Mr. Bosworth’s office came into view first. I sidled up to it and looked around the edge.
His inner office was smaller than the outer office. There weren’t any display tables, merely a return behind his large desk that held a few items. I could see an empty stand with a label on it there. Even though I was too far away to see, I had no doubt the label read GINEGOSH.
A single glass-fronted bookshelf dominated the wall next to the door into the outer office, which I could see was open. Movement on the other side drew my attention. Trying to be quiet, I fought my way through the bushes to that window and peered inside.
Caesar Speckman and Malcolm Cardwell were standing in the middle of the room, beside one of the display cases. The top of the case was open, and Speckman reached in and removed one of the ceremonial knives. I shuddered at the sight but kept watching as Cardwell shook his head. Speckman’s face turned angry, and he waved the knife. Cardwell took a step backward, looking afraid. Speckman said something and advanced toward the other man.
Come on, Quinn. This isn’t looking good.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Ducking out of view, I took it out and answered it.
“Where are you?” Declan asked.
“Where’s Quinn?” I hissed back.
“He didn’t answer. I left him a message. We’re at Bosworth’s, but I don’t see you. Speckman’s car is here, though.”
“I’m around back,” I barely breathed into the phone.
“What?”
“I’m around back,” I repeated a fraction louder. “Who is ‘we’?”
“Your dad and I were at the carriage house. When I told him what was going on, he insisted on coming with me.”
“Okay. I need you to call 911. Speckman and Cardwell are inside, and it doesn’t look so great for Cardwell.”
“Got it. And we’re coming around to the alley.”
“I’m not in the alley. I’m in the back garden. Stay out front and direct the police in. I’ll come to you.”
“The garden! Katie, be careful.”
“I will.” Hanging up, I turned back to the window to see what was going on inside.
Speckman was standing on the other side, looking right at me. His eyes narrowed, and he darted toward the inner office—and the door that led to the back garden.
I stumbled backward, right into a snarl of wisteria. My foot twisted as I went down, and I cried out. Lurching to my feet again, I tested my weight on my ankle. It hurt, but it wasn’t broken. I turned to run.
Speckman was already outside and moving toward me faster than a dumpy guy who didn’t like sports should have been able to. He was by my side before I could take more than a few steps. The knife he’d threatened Malcolm Cardwell with was still in his hand, and he grabbed my arm roughly with the other one.
“You interfering little witch,” he said. “I thought I taught you a lesson, but you seem to be a slow learner.”
“A lesson?” I asked in a loud voice, hoping Declan and my dad would hear me. “That’s what you call taking my magic away?”
He smirked and waved the knife in his hand. Fear stabbed through my solar plexus. “Yeah, how ’bout that? That spell worked way better than I could have hoped. It was a great practice run. It worked pretty well the second time around, too.” His tone was downright gleeful.
His words triggered the simmering anger I’d been carrying around ever since I’d learned I’d been the victim of dark magic. It surfaced through my fear, a hot and powerful rage.
“Come along.” He jerked hard on my arm. “Join me.”
I stumbled as he pulled me through the door of Mr. Bosworth’s office, then again as he pushed me farther inside the room. I caught myself on the edge of the bookshelf and turned back to see him leaning one hip against the desk, the knife dangling from the fingertips of one hand. “I know you killed Kensington Bosworth. I know about the Hermetic Order of the Silver Moon and your stupid druid gang war.”
Speckman’s head jerked up in surprise. “Really. You’re more of a problem than I’d realized.”
“I know how your dark magic spell works and that you’re such a sicko that you killed Mr. Bosworth just to get his blood for it.”
He blinked, then frowned as he considered me. “Well, and because he was going to change his will.”
I squinted at him. “But he didn’t leave you any money in his will.”
“No?”
Then I got it. “He left money to the Hermetic Order of the Silver Moon. So you get money as a member of the group.”
His lips drew back in a smile that showed his teeth. I could have sworn his nose twitched. How had I not noticed how much the man looked like a rat? “Not just a member,” he said. “The founding member. Of the new, updated Order. I came across references to the original one while researching magical items and learned all the members had died off. So, I hatched the idea of a new Order of Silver Moon druids. Kensington loved the idea.
“Well,” he amended. “He loved it at first.”
I gaped. “He was a druid?”
“He didn’t belong to a clan, if that’s what you mean. He was a powerful guy, though. His father had passed on not only his paranormal collection, but also the magical gift that runs in the males of the Bosworth family. Problem was, Kensington didn’t like the idea of defeating the Dragohs. He wanted to be a good druid, just like I bet you’re a good little witch. He especially didn’t like the idea of casting a spell that stole another’s magic.” He made a face, then went on, almost as if he were talking to himself. “And killing? Completely off-limits for him.” A shrug. “So he changed his mind, and he was going to change his will and leave that money, my money, to some animal charity.”
Well, Mrs. Standish will be happy to hear that.
If I ever got the chance to tell her, that was. Caesar had killed once, and he was being awfully chatty in a self-incriminating kind of way. It was as if he didn’t think I’d have a chance to use the information against him.
But I knew help was on the way, and as long as he was talking, I wasn’t above prompting him.
“So you have a full contingent of new druids, ready to go to war, and Mr. Bosworth backs out. Now he’s scared of you, and he puts a strong protection spell on his house.”
He pointed at me. “Close. He did get scared. I made sure of that, since I wanted his blood in my spell and his money in my bank account. And he did protect his house. But I got in anyway. Slipped in while the housekeeper left the door open while she unloaded groceries earlier in the day, then waited for Kensington in his office until he came home. I only intended to deepen his fright. I mean, I did want his blood, but for the spell to work the blood doesn’t have to come from a dead man, just a fearful one.”
I stared at him. That hadn’t occurred to me. “But then, why . . . ?”
“Kill him? I saw the notes for his new will on his desk. I knew if I didn’t stop him, I’d lose that money. So I grabbed the first thing that came to hand and, well, you know the rest.”
“Do the other Si
lver Moon druids know?”
He shrugged. “Meh. It turns out I don’t need a bunch of other druids cluttering up my plans. I mean, sure, there were the three of us for a while, but then Kensington defected and Dante kind of dropped out of sight. He might still come around. We’ll see. He hates the Dragohs, that’s for sure.”
“Does he know you killed his uncle?”
“Not yet.”
“Not until you need his blood, too?”
“I’d rather have yours,” he said in the same light tone he might use to order pizza.
I glared at him. “There are two problems with that. One, I’m not a man, and two, I’m not frightened of you.” It was true. I was just spitting mad. “There’s a third problem as well. The police are on their way, and you are so going to prison.”
He paused, then leaned forward and searched my eyes. Then he shook his head. “I don’t believe you. You’re too cocky. Here all by your little lonesome, sneaking around and peeking in windows.” A slow smile curved his lips. “I think you followed me.”
“Well, duh.”
“And I think you did it because you want your magic back.”
My world went still, and I hardly dared to breathe. “Can you do that?” I asked.
“Come into the other room, and we’ll talk about it.”
He’s lying. You know he’s lying.
Yet I couldn’t help feeling a feather of hope. “Just tell me how that would work.”
“In there.”
I tried to pull away from him. “I’m not going anywhere with you. Where’s Mr. Bosworth’s secretary? I saw him through the window. Have you killed him, too?”
He smiled. It was not a nice smile. “Of course not. Come along and see for yourself.”
The police will be here any minute. Keep stalling.
Speckman must have sensed something, even if he didn’t believe that I’d called the authorities, because his head jerked up, and he looked wildly around the room. He gave my arm a wrench and hauled me toward the outer office.
“Get in there,” he grated. “Now.”
Stumbling on my bad foot, I cried out.
