Gram Croakies

by Sam Cheever

  “And you say you weren’t aware she’d left her phone and purse behind?”

  “Of course not. Do you think I searched her bedroom?” The woman snorted. “I hurried out of there and called the police.”

  Grym stared at her for a long moment. When he spoke again, his tone was soft, cold. “How did you know her purse and cell were in her bedroom if you didn’t look for them?”

  She blinked, all the color leeching from her long, melting face. “I…um…” She frowned. “Okay, I did look in the bedroom, but just because I wanted to make sure she wasn’t in there.”

  He held her gaze, his expression hot enough to burn.

  My brain formed a picture of the heat melting the wax and her face rolling off her skull and plopping onto the desk.

  “It’s the strangest thing,” Grym finally told her. “There wasn’t a single bill in her wallet. Nothing. No money whatsoever.”

  Wexille blinked rapidly, shifting in her chair.

  “When we check that wallet for fingerprints, we aren’t going to find yours, are we Ms. Wexille?”

  The woman’s head shook back and forth so hard the droopy skin wobbled on the air. “I didn’t steal anything from that woman, Detective. And you can’t prove I did.”

  No, I thought. She was probably right. I was pretty sure her fingertips were made of wax. They’d probably melted together under the intensity of her larceny decades ago.

  Grym sat looking down at his hands for a long moment, and then lifted an intense gaze toward the woman sitting across the desk. “Let’s set the discussion about Ms. Pepper’s personal effects aside for the moment…”

  I nearly smiled. His implication was that they’d be revisiting the subject, leaving the landlady to decide if she wanted to earn herself some goodwill by cooperating or not.

  She narrowed her gaze on him, her lips a thin line on her droopy face.

  “What can you tell me about Ms. Pepper’s personal life?”

  The woman blinked in surprise. “Personal? How would I know? We weren’t friends.”

  Thank goodness for that, I thought. Since she’d most likely stolen money from the poor woman after she was murdered.

  “Don’t sell yourself short,” Grym told her with a smile. “You’re aware of everything that happens in this complex. Aren’t you?”

  Mrs. Wexille frowned, eyeing him like she would a particularly hairy spider, and then nodded. “It’s my job to know what’s going on.”

  “Right. And you take pride in that job. Don’t you?”

  She shrugged, still looking at him like she knew what he was up to, but unwilling to call him on it just in case he was really complimenting her as he pretended.

  “Tell me who visited Ms. Pepper on a regular basis.”

  Wexille twined her fingers together on top of her messy desk and leaned forward. “Those annoying women were there every Tuesday night. I’ve had to ask them not to park in the residents’ spots several times.” She shook her head, disgusted.

  “Did they ever come over on other nights? Or during the day?”

  “Not that I know of,” Mrs. Wexille said.

  “Who else came regularly?”

  The manager turned sly. “Him. That’s who you’re wondering about, isn’t it?”

  Grym’s expression didn’t change. “Him?”

  “The handsome one. I thought he was her grandson, but Pepper was all over the place bragging about her new boyfriend.” Ms. Wexille’s lips curled in disgust. “He was thirty years younger than her if he was a day.”

  “Did she give you a name?” I asked, earning myself a frown from the cop. I fought a shrug. He’d asked me to come along.

  “Yeah. It was something strange.” She tapped a ragged nailed finger against her lips. “What was it…”

  We waited for a moment and then she shook her head, giving Grym a coy look. “Nope. I can’t remember.”

  He nodded. “Maybe a trip downtown to talk about the missing money from Pepper’s purse would jog your memory.”

  “Motoroil.” She pretended joy at the word. “See, I told you it was strange.”

  “His name was Motoroil?” Grym asked, clearly not believing her.

  “I swear, that was the name. That old woman just beamed when she talked about him.”

  “Did you ever meet him face-to-face?” I asked.

  “Nah. I saw him get out of his car once and walk to the door. He was a strappin’ young thing with dark hair. That’s all I could see from where I was.”

  “What kind of car did he drive?” Grym asked.

  “It was white, kind of boxy.”

  Grym seemed to be waiting for her to elaborate.

  “That’s all I’ve got for you.” She stood up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m a busy woman.”

  Grym stood slowly. “Thanks for your time, Ms. Wexille.”

  She ignored him, staring at me. “You’re the KoA.”

  It wasn’t a question. She had clearly recognized my magic. “I am.”

  My response brought a frown. “You think a rogue artifact did this?”

  Grym vibrated with curiosity but stayed silent, letting me run with the potentially enlightening line of questioning. “It’s one option. That’s why Detective Grym invited me along today.”

  Wexille nodded, looking thoughtful. “Pepper was human. There was no magic in her. I can’t speak for the other ladies though.”

  “What about the man…” My lips quivered. “Motoroil?”

  “He could have been supernormal, I guess. He was definitely a good salesman, I know that.”

  “Salesman?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

  “He always carried a bag with him when he came, a black leather one. I’d seen him loading it up with jars of some kind of white cream before he went into Pepper’s place. I figured him for a salesman of some kind. That’s why I was so surprised when she called him her boyfriend.”

  “Do you know if he sold stuff to anybody else in the complex?” Grym asked.

  She shrugged, her gaze locked on mine. “I lost a friend to a rogue artifact, once. If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”

  I inclined my chin. “Thank you. I’d appreciate it.”

  4

  It’s so Hard to get Good Staff These Days!

  To say that chaos had descended on Croakies while I was gone would be too gentle a statement. What I walked into was well beyond chaos, bordering on apocalyptic. And I’m sorry to say that my usually competent assistant wasn’t handling it at all well.

  I opened the door and stepped inside the store, looking up at the strident clang of the bell above my head.

  The bell usually gave off a soft tinkle. A pleasant sound meant to warn me when someone came into the shop. Nothing like the screechy clang I’d just been greeted with.

  I was reaching for the charred and dented mash of metal, my thoughts roiling in search of an explanation, when Sebille screamed at me. “Duck!”

  Sebille’s usually calm and snotty tone was neither calm nor snotty. In fact, it sounded panicked, and it startled me into reacting immediately.

  I ducked.

  A silvery bolt of energy burned through the air right above my head, sizzling against a wayward, wind-blown strand and leaving behind the sour stench of burning hair. The bolt of energy slammed into the door, etching a char mark into the heavy wood and pinging harmlessly away.

  “Dervish dimples, Sebille! What in the universe is going on?” Hitting my knees, I reached back and locked the door so no unsuspecting customers could come through.

  My assistant made a strangled sound, and I jerked my gaze toward the dividing door between the bookstore and the artifact library in the back.

  Sebille’s slender form was framed in the open doorway, her striped-sock-clad legs spread to press against either side in a clear attempt to keep her from being propelled forward. She’d flung one arm to the side and had a death grip on the frame.

  Her freckled face was pinched, her pointed ears red enough
to match her fiery hair, and her shimmering green eyes looked ready to pop out of her face. “This thing’s out of control…” she managed to pant out, her arm shooting into the air and sending another silvery bolt of energy into the bookstore ceiling.

  Plaster dust sifted onto my head, the ceiling broken and scorched from the destructive magic. Chunks of glowing embers sizzled where the magic had sheared off a chunk of the wood beneath the surface.

  The object clutched in Sebille’s hand spit sparks and emitted a high-pitched buzz like a dying hive of demon bees. A green orb was anchored into the tip of the staff by a twisting maze of black metal and thorn branches. It glowed brightly, pulsing in time to Sebille’s own green orbs.

  Oh, oh.

  I shoved to my feet and started toward her. “Troll boogers, Sebille. What are you doing with Maleficent’s staff?” The staff swung in my direction, and I barely managed to dive out of the way before the magic arrow it threw seared a path toward the wall behind me. The explosion sent chunks of drywall into the air in a shower of debris that thumped down all over the floor, the books, and me.

  “You need to drop it, Sebille!” I screamed.

  She gritted her teeth and shook her head. “I can’t,” she hissed out. “It’s trying to escape.”

  The staff re-aimed itself toward the ceiling and sent two barrels of energy into the light fixture, exploding it into a blizzard of falling pieces. Tiny shards of glass rained down, peppering me with painful stabs and burning abrasions as they fell.

  The staff shot downward again, fighting Sebille to focus its bile on me. I felt my eyes go wide. “Um, Sebille.” I stepped sideways, and the staff followed me. “Sebille!”

  “I…can’t…” Her face was purple with strain. She let go of the doorframe and used both hands to clutch the staff. Her upper body swayed forward, tugged by the artifact into the room. Only her feet braced against the framing kept her from flying right at me with the staff at the helm.

  I looked at the sales counter, trying to judge if I could make it behind the barrier before the staff fired at me.

  It would be close. But other than that, all I had were the bookshelves. I really didn’t want the stupid thing blowing up my books.

  Then movement caught my eye and I turned, horrified to see Mr. Slimy hop out from between the shelves, black eyes bulging. He stopped and looked at me, his throat pulsing as he sized me up.

  “Naida!”

  My gaze jerked around and horror sliced through me, turning my gut to mush. “No!”

  The staff was pointed at Mr. Slimy, the green orb pulsing with power it was about to fire into the unsuspecting frog.

  I made a sudden decision. The only one I could make under the circumstances. Mr. Slimy wasn’t just a frog. He was Mr. Wicked’s best friend, and the current fleshy home of my friend, the ghost witch.

  Besides, if I was willing to admit it to myself, I was kind of fond of the little guy.

  My feet were moving before I could think about what I was doing. I ran directly at Sebille, praying to the goddess that the staff wouldn’t sense me coming and fire a warning shot.

  Sebille’s eyes widened, and she started to shake her head.

  Energy spat from the tip of the staff.

  I launched myself off the ground.

  Energy boiled from the orb and hung in the air, roiling for a beat as it focused on its target.

  I hit the staff from the side, shoving it away as the energy exploded and hit the end of my longest bookshelf, turning it to kindling when it struck.

  Sebille cried out and fell backward, slamming against the edge of the door. She slid down as the staff hung in the air, spun in a circle, and went upright, shooting toward the picture window. The rogue artifact crashed right through the glass, disappearing into the darkness in a fiery trail.

  More glass blasted into the room, sucked inward by the magic wards Croakies was saturated with, and turning the bookstore into a cornucopia of pain and destruction. I ducked, covering my head and praying the frog would have the sense to take cover. As the tiny splinters of glass and hunks of paper from the shredded books rained down on us, I looked at Sebille. “Are you okay?”

  She blew paper off her face, grimacing. “Mostly.” She held her hands out and looked at her blackened palms, wincing. “Ouch.”

  I hurried over and made her show me her palms. “Ouch is right. Can you heal them?”

  Sebille shook her head. “My energy won’t heal this damage. The staff’s magic is blocking me somehow.”

  “I can take you to your mother.”

  Queen Sindra, Sebille’s mother and queen of the Fae in Enchanted, lived in the lot behind Croakies, inside my friend Lea’s massive greenhouse.

  Sebille shook her head again. “She’s gone to Illusion City to talk to the Council about relocating to the Illusory Forest.”

  The Fae’s home, dubbed Toadstool City, had been burned to the ground in magical fire as retribution for their rescuing a litter of enchanted kittens from a local witch family. The Quillerans had been using the poor babies for dark purposes.

  Lea had kindly offered to let the Fae live in her own private ecosystem out behind both our shops. I’d thought it had been a mutually satisfactory solution, which was why I was both unhappy and surprised to hear the queen was seeking out other living options.

  Frowning, I pushed to my feet. “I’ll go get the first aid kit.”

  Florence Nightingale’s first aid kit had disappeared after her death in 1910 and had recently been unearthed during refurbishing of her family home, Embley Park, in Wellow Hampshire. I’d been called to travel to the beautiful home to retrieve the first aid kit. Now the location of Hampshire Collegiate School, Embley Park was every bit as beautiful in its current state as I imagined it had been when Florence had been alive. I’d been keeping the magical healing kit in a handy spot on a low shelf in the artifact library. Just in case.

  The kit was a powerful artifact whose constantly renewing salves and wrappings could heal a multitude of non-life-threatening wounds within seconds. Even, hopefully, magical burns from one of my most dangerous artifacts. Which, unhappily, now seemed to be flying around Enchanted unchained and with a green-orb-sized chip on its shoulder.

  My mind boiling with questions, I grabbed the unassuming metal box with a dented and chipped depiction of the Rod of Asclepius on its worn front surface and headed back out front. Maleficent’s staff had been safely locked into the toxic magic vault when I’d left Croakies a few hours ago. “What on earth were you thinking, Sebille?” I asked as I knelt beside her.

  “It’s not my fault, Naida,” she said with a return of her snotty tone. “I just opened the door a crack and the thing shot through. I barely caught it before it escaped into the bookstore.”

  “What was the dividing door doing open, anyway?” Opening the box, I pulled out a small glass jar and tugged the stopper free. I dipped my finger into the yellow-tinged salve inside and rubbed it over Sebille’s blackened and blistered palms.

  Sebille shrugged. “Ask the frog, he and your annoying cat probably opened it.”

  Given that Mr. Slimy was out of his terrarium, that did seem likely. For some reason, Mr. Wicked didn’t like Mr. Slimy’s new home and took every opportunity to rescue him from the glass tank.

  I wasn’t exactly sure how he was rescuing the frog, I hadn’t seen him do it, but my cat had wondrous and magical ways of doing things that constantly defied logic and magical knowledge.

  I glanced around. “Where is said, naughty feline now?”

  “No idea. Probably denting your pillow upstairs. I don’t doubt he’s taken himself away from the scene of destruction for the sake of plausible deniability.” Sebille hissed as the magic started to work, her skin bubbling beneath the powerful healing magics.

  I finished coating both palms and then wrapped them in the tattered gauze, winding the dingy cloth around and around her hand several times and then encircling her thumbs and ripping to tie it off.

  As
I re-stoppered the small bottle and dropped it and the remaining gauze back into the box, the items replenished themselves with a spark of magic.

  “That should do it,” I told my assistant as I stood. I eyed her when she didn’t respond. “Are you okay?”

  Sebille’s face was pale under the pain of the repair going on beneath the gauze. Sweat coated her brow and darkened the roots of her bright hair. “I’ve been better.”

  I reached down and helped her stand, taking care to avoid her wrapped hands. “You should rest. When you wake up, your hands will probably be healed.”

  She nodded, though I saw the worry in her gaze. “Here…” I pulled a smaller bottle from the kit, eyeing the dark brown glass and giving it a little shake to check the liquid inside. “Once you’re on the couch, put two drops of this on your tongue and stopper it immediately. It’s magical Laudanum and will knock you on your keister in seconds once you’ve taken it. You’ll sleep for a couple of hours.”

  She clasped the bottle gingerly between her bandaged fingers. “I don’t want to leave you to clean up this mess alone.”

  I smiled. “It will be fine.” I gave her a wink. “I have Cinderella’s wand, remember?”

  Her smile widened. We’d only just liberated the wand from a used toy store in Enchanted the day before. I’d been forced to grab the sparkly pink wand out of the hand of an adorable toddler girl as her mother glared at me. I’d felt really bad about that. The child had been inconsolable, and Sebille’s grumpy face jutting toward the screaming little girl hadn’t helped.

  “I want to use it!” Sebille whined, sounding more like that toddler than she’d like to realize.

  “I’ll save some of the mess for you to clean,” I promised, grinning. Unlike the evil staff, which had almost made a crime scene out of my cozy little bookstore, Cinderella’s wand was basically harmless, good only for tidying up and restoring things to the way they’d been.

  I closed the door behind Sebille and turned to look at the mess, sighing.