by Gina LaManna
“It is,” Primrose said firmly. “I want to be here. Go on now before I faint.”
I gave a shake of my head and gently depressed the throttle forward. We accelerated slowly, smoothly at first, gaining both speed and momentum. But when I tried to switch gears, there was an odd whining sound, and the carpet began bucking like a bronco.
“Dammit!” I struggled to straighten us out. “Hold on, Primrose. These things are pieces of—”
Primrose hiccupped, looked like she was about to puke. I slowed down.
“We’ll just cruise here for a while,” I said. “It’ll take a bit longer, but it’s not like we’re trying to solve a time sensitive murder or anything.”
Primrose just nodded, her cheeks puffing out with nervous breaths of air. She clearly didn’t trust herself to speak.
Thankfully, I managed to keep us at a somewhat smooth cruising altitude and speed for the next hour. One hour down, one to go—the carpets were fast once they got cooking. It was the one reason no one in the department could bring themselves to throw the stupid things away, and since we couldn’t afford to buy new ones, these did the trick. Albeit a very bumpy one.
“You’re facing a lot of fears coming on this job,” I said suddenly. “Heights, seasickness, dead bodies.”
“And not doing well with any of them,” Primrose said dryly. “You forgot to mention all my other shortcomings. Lack of filter, inability to keep my mouth shut when asked, and—oh, yeah—looking like an idiot when I fall for every hazing trick in the book.”
“It’s not that bad,” I said. “We’ve all been there.”
“You wouldn’t have fallen for the trick with the magic carpet gear.”
“No,” I admitted. “But I have four brothers and my dad was a cop. Believe me, Primrose—I’m not a fun person to prank.”
She groaned, leaned backward, but nothing came out and she righted herself. “I wish I was more like you.”
“Well, you shouldn’t. You’re just fine as yourself. You did a good job yesterday. And if you were just like me, we wouldn’t be able to work together. I’m not much of a people person.”
“I disagree,” Primrose said with a shaky smile. “I like you.”
I blinked at her. “Really? After all I said to you yesterday?”
“You’re just prepping me for the job. Criminals will be ten times worse.”
I tilted my head to the side. She had a point, but also, I hadn’t expected her to catch on so soon. She was smarter and more perceptive than I had given her credit for.
“You have a lot of good qualities going for you,” I said. “You’re determined, smart, and enthusiastic. You are persistent, and you don’t let anything scare you. That, right there, is about all one needs to become a detective. Add a little experience and wisdom—or common sense, whichever comes first—and you’ll do just fine.”
“You think so?” Primrose’s eyes widened.
I thought it was in surprise at my praise, but then she leaned off the back of the carpet and ralphed up her breakfast. I performed a quick disappearing spell so no unsuspecting humans saw—or worse, felt—anything falling from the sky, and a Cleaner Charm for the carpet.
“I think so,” I said.
“Even after I just puked up my guts on a magic carpet?”
“If you hadn’t gotten on, maybe my answer would be different. But you’re here, aren’t you?”
“I suppose.”
“Keep up the good work, Primrose. I won’t praise you all the time because that’s not who I am. But just know, even when I rag on you—I’m only doing it because I think you might have what it takes to make it in this business.”
Primrose smiled, looking a little dazed and misty eyed. I wasn’t sure if it was the height or the seasickness or some combination along with my encouragement, but when she wobbled, I steadied her and barked an order to keep her mind focused on the ride at hand.
“Where are we at on the case?” I asked. “Fill me in on what you found last night at the library.”
“Unfortunately, not a whole lot,” Primrose said. “I handed over all the evidence, calling card included, to the lab. They should have some results by the time we get back this afternoon.”
“Good. I dropped off a backpack we think might have belonged to Mason,” I said, and gave a brief rundown as to how it’d come into my possession. “We’re hoping the killer touched it. Maybe Felix will find something that can link us to his or her identity.”
Primrose nodded. “I went to the library as you suggested. Poked around, talked to as many people as I could. Long story short, nobody can put a face to the man or woman who gave Mason White your name on his slip of paper.”
I sucked mindlessly against my teeth. “Not surprised.”
“But I did get a chance to reconnect with Mason White’s study partners.” Primrose looked somewhat proud. “Turns out, all three agree that White left study group for about twenty minutes around eight p.m.”
“Eight p.m.?” I calculated against his time of death. “That’s not a whole lot of time before he was killed.”
“That’s what I thought,” Primrose said. “His study partners did mention it was a little weird. White just stood up suddenly—they all remember vividly because his chair fell over. Super embarrassing in a crowded library.”
“I guess you’d know, huh?”
Primrose gave me a cheeky smile. “I take pride in being a nerd, I’ll have you know.”
“Good on you, Primrose.”
“Anyway, they got a lot of looks. His partners thought it was strange and asked White if something was wrong. He got sort of pale, but I guess he just shook his head and didn’t answer,” Primrose said with a thoughtful frown. “He just walked away then and didn’t come back for almost twenty minutes. They’re pretty sure on the time because cookies come out at eight fifteen, and all three of them waited to get cookies until he got back. One of them was annoyed because they missed out on the frosted ones.”
“Funny the things that trigger memories in murder investigations,” I said. “Cookies. Who would’ve thought?”
“After cookies—White didn’t get any, they remember that too because Violet asked to eat his—they finished up their project. He left immediately after.”
“Did they see him holding a notebook or piece of paper when he came back? He must have carried it with him.”
“They didn’t say,” she said. “But it seems like he must have had his notebook with him—maybe tucked under his arm. Whoever appeared might have startled him, so he jolted off to meet them. Notebook went with him.”
“I’ll buy it,” I said. “So, he sees a person just before eight. Bolts to meet with them. Gets my name... returns to his group. Is forced to—probably painfully—finish his group project before he can do any research on what he just learned from our mystery visitor.”
Primrose nodded along. “The second he finishes, he leaves the library. All three confirm that. At least, they confirm him exiting through the front doors—not sure where he went after that. I did ask around, but the librarians didn’t see anything that stood out to them. Most of them were in the back preparing cookie platters.”
“What is this about cookies?”
Primrose stared at me blankly. “Have you never spent a night at the library?”
“I’m old,” I said. “I went to school a long time ago. And, no. I wasn’t a nerd.”
“Well, maybe you should have been,” Primrose said, a tad haughtily. “The library serves fresh cookies around eight fifteen every evening to the students studying. Extra fuel to get them through the night.”
“I might have to make a habit of swinging by the library around eight,” I mused. “Drive-by cookie grab.”
Primrose rolled her eyes. “That sort of person is the worst.”
“I’m your superior, Primrose.”
“Right, sorry, sir.”
“Nah, I asked for it. Now, if only we could find this mystery man or woman.”
“We will,” Primrose said confidently. “It’ll all connect. It always does for you—like I said, I’ve studied your files.”
“What gets me is the timing,” I said. “We have a time of death around ten p.m., and a potential meeting between Mason and our killer at eight p.m.”
“It might not have been the killer,” Primrose pointed out. “It could have been someone else.”
“I agree, but I’m trying one avenue to see if it plays out in my mind.” I sat back, closed my eyes. My brain felt stuck, overloaded with data pieces and points that weren’t quite adding up correctly. “Let’s say it was the killer. They have their meeting. Mason says something worrying to this person—our guy or gal gets nervous. Devises a quick plan to silence Mason for good. If that’s the case, did he have the Heartstopper Hex on hand? That’s a potent, illegal curse. Why would someone just have that in their back pocket?”
Primrose raised her eyebrows. “I can think of reasons, but the sort of person keeping Heartstopper Hex in their medicine cabinet isn’t the sort of guy I’d like to be friends with.”
“Definitely not,” I said. “Unless somehow, the meeting was pre-planned by the killer? I don’t know what the incentive would be, but we can’t rule out the possibility that whoever met Mason had planned to bump into him.”
“Why give him your name?”
“I don’t know.”
“And what was Mason looking into?”
“I’m not sure about that either.”
“I know, I’m just thinking aloud,” Primrose said. “Also, what if the meeting wasn’t necessarily planned? Or maybe it was, but maybe it wasn’t between our killer and Mason, maybe there’s a third person involved who gave Mason your name. Someone we need to find who could help lead us to the killer.”
“Again, possible,” I said. “But I’d hazard a guess the killer was there and saw the meeting. Was he trailing Mason? Or Mason’s meeting partner? Possibly. Or he somehow heard about the meeting, guessed there’d been information exchanged. Information that our killer didn’t want getting out. That would leave him a little over an hour to plan the murder and a little extra time to execute. It’s doable.”
“How do we know the killer saw the meeting?” Primrose asked. “What if it was just coincidence that Mason got your name the same night he died? He could have been... I don’t know, looking for a job referral or something. Or had a question about Residuals for a research paper. I don’t know.”
“I admit it’s a possibility, Primrose,” I said dully, “but I doubt it. If all these years of police work have taught me one thing, it’s not to believe in coincidences. Everything means something, even if it means nothing.”
Primrose squinted. “That hurts my brain.”
“Don’t think about it. Focus on holding tight while I bring us to a landing.”
Our landing wasn’t as smooth as I’d hoped, but Primrose managed to keep the contents of her stomach in check, which was a small miracle. We touched down on the beach—or rather, had a janky sort of bump-bump-bump that rattled our skulls until we finally skidded to a stop amid a spray of sand.
Primrose gingerly rose to her feet, and I followed suit. We took a moment to orient ourselves to island life and get our scrambled brains back in place.
“I guess when you read my records,” I said to Primrose, “you didn’t see the part about me flunking my driver’s test?”
“You flunked your driver’s test?”
“It was a joke,” I said, toeing the carpet. “Not my fault. These stupid things are older than dirt. Pieces of crap. My tailbone is killing me.”
“I’ll be washing sand out of my private places for months,” Primrose said. “I’ve suddenly decided that beaches aren’t really my thing.”
“Come on, let’s find the White’s house.” I gestured to the horizon. “It’s Christmastime. I can’t stand being around palm trees when there should be snow on the ground.”
“But—”
“We’re on the clock, Primrose,” I said. “From now until we leave the island, I’m going to have you keep quiet. Take notes. If you think of anything I’m missing, write it down and hold your questions until the end.”
“Sounds good, sir.”
I glanced down at the Map Maker spell on my palm that would direct us to the cottage where Mason’s parents still lived. “Let’s go find out why Mason White hated magic.”
Chapter 10
The Isle, while I gave it a hard time for being a balmy seventy degrees and sunny when it should have been near freezing with flurries hitting my face, was indeed quite festive with holiday spirits.
It bolstered my mood as we made the jaunt down the eastern side of the island, past little storefronts selling chocolates and gadgets, spells and trinkets, holiday cheer and sticks of cotton candy. Primrose’s eyes bugged right out of her head at the sight of it all.
I had to admit, there was something charming about a beach Christmas. Lights twined their way up palm trees, following the crooked arch of their spines until the top puffed out in a pineapple of leaves. Over Main Street, there was a flock of Forest Fairies fluttering around helping with maintenance. They pinned up Christmas lights, replaced burned bulbs, and shooed birds out of the gigantic evergreen in the center of everything.
All around us, families walked hand in hand and shopkeepers greeted most of their patrons by name. Children laughed, wiped sticky faces, and licked the last dredges of sugar from cotton candy spokes. Lovers walked arm in arm, stopping to pause and watch the enchanted candles hovering mid-air as they changed colors from green to red to a glittery silver.
“I’m in love,” Primrose said, spinning around. “My parents took me to The Isle a few times, but we never got the chance to explore. Or visit Main Street. They thought it wasn’t safe to venture so far from the B&B.”
“And with protective parents like that, you grew up to be a cop?”
“Maybe it’s why,” Primrose said softly.
“A way to get out, explore on your own, take care of yourself?” I glanced sideways at her. “I get it. You don’t have to explain. Anyway, here we are.”
The White’s house sat in a small residential area not far from Main Street, but just distant enough so that the carnival-like noise didn’t filter through the line of hedges and trees to their property. Their house was brick with white trim, their yard a neat little postage stamp. Next to them, houses on either side sprawled in a small cul-de-sac, each one with a layer of privacy in the way of a fence, a line of trees, or delicate rosebushes pruned into neat bulbs.
Primrose followed me, her head swiveling around as we made our way up a brick path that was just a shade different than the brick on the house.
I double-checked the name on the mailbox, found WHITE etched there, weathered by years of use. According to the files Primrose had pulled, this was the same house Mason had grown up in. Even after he’d gone, his family had stayed put.
A knock on the door yielded shuffling sounds from the inside. I stepped back, waited patiently until a woman in a knitted maroon sweater reminiscent of the holidays opened the door with a wide smile. She wore red lipstick and tiny green bulbs on her ears to complete the festive attire.
“Good morning, can I help you?” she asked. Her gaze flicked between me and Primrose. “If this is about the gingerbread house contest, I really don’t have time to judge this year. I already told Sterling as much.”
“It’s unfortunately not about the gingerbread house,” I said. “You’re Mrs. White?”
“Yes, of course.”
“This is about your son, Mason White. I’m Detective Dani DeMarco of the Sixth Precinct, and this is Officer Primrose.”
The polished cheeriness faded. She swallowed hard, and suddenly, the darkish bruises under her eyes became apparent, even through her carefully applied makeup. The rims of her eyelids were edged in red, and it was clear that she had spent the better part of the last day or so crying.
“I’m so sorry for your l
oss,” I said. “We both are. Terribly sorry to be here under these circumstances.”
“Yes, I’m sorry, too,” she said with a sigh, dropping her arms from the door. “I suppose you’ll want to come inside? What business does the Sixth Borough have in coming all the way to The Isle?”
I followed Mrs. White inside before responding. Her house was neat, but the pile of tissues overflowing from the garbage can didn’t escape my eye. I could tell Primrose had latched onto the emptied wine bottles near the recycling—two of them—along with two stained glasses in the sink.
“It’s been a hard couple days,” Mrs. White said in explanation. “Wine doesn’t help. I suppose the crying does, but I’m sick of it. Mason would have hated my sobbing.”
“Mrs. White—”
“Please, it’s Angela.”
“Angela, I know this is hard, but it would be very useful to our investigation if we could ask you a few questions.”
“Yes, of course. Would you like a cup of coffee?” She gave a rueful smile. “My husband and I have been alternating between coffee and wine.”
I shook my head. Primrose was doing a good job keeping quiet, though she joined me in a silent decline of the beverage.
“Well, I’d like a cup, and I’m sure you secretly wouldn’t mind one too. Let me pour you one—it’s good for me to keep busy. Sit, sit,” she said, ushering us around the kitchen table. “Start talking. It’s best if I move around so I don’t collapse into tears.”
I nodded at Primrose, and together we sat at a kitchen table aged by scratch marks and dated with water rings. The cushions on the chairs were faded but squashy, and the fireplace from one corner of the room lent a cozy atmosphere to the small space.
“Can you start by telling us a little bit about your son?” I asked. “His history, what he was like growing up, when he left home—that sort of thing.”
Angela set three steaming mugs of black coffee in front of us. She brought out a silver tray topped with matching cream and sugar accessories and carefully laid out a tiny spoon and saucer in front of each of us before she spoke.
“I figured you might come by asking these sorts of questions,” she said. “When the Rangers came to notify us that Mason had been found dead, I thought it had been a car accident or something. I mean, he was living in Texas. But to hear he had been murdered—in the Sixth Borough of all places—was a shock.”
