The argument started again the next morning, and this time Basil swore he would get Skye to curse her and put wards up to keep her away. Annie was still trying to make him see her side when she had to leave for an appointment at the funeral home.
“Do you want me to spy on her?” Bella asked. “I can warn you if she gets up to something.”
“That’s alright, Bella, I don’t think Annie’s in any danger, other than being taken advantage of.”
“She’s a menace,” Basil groused. “I’m gonna get Skye to put up wards no matter what Annie says. I’m gonna protect my home.”
“Okay,” I laughed. He’d only been here a week, and he’d already managed to take over. I guess there were worse things than having a guardian gargoyle, and it was nice to have someone on my side for a change. He’d managed to grow on Bella as well, and that was quite a feat.
“It’s definitely been a strange week,” I mused, tapping my fingers. “Added a new member to the family, been on the flight from hell, Noah gets shot and Natasha turns up. Which reminds me, I have to call and yell at Walter.”
Walter didn’t answer my call, so I tried Greg and got an earful for waking him up. I forgot about the time difference. It turned out that Walter had had enough of Natasha’s antics and managed to get her transferred. Greg said she had left the night before I did, but he had no idea that she’d turned up in Silver Falls. I also asked him about Lars and the scroll times changing. He laughed and said that Lars was known for making up wild excuses, but hadn’t missed any souls this week. I told him that I believed Lars’ story, that the scrolls were changing here too, and we’d found people alive when they should be dead. He’d heard nothing about people defying the death list, but would let me know if that changed.
Chapter 7
Basil insisted on being my bodyguard for the day, in the form of a blue and yellow Macaw. It made a nice change from the pink and purple stripes he’d worn yesterday. My list for today was a short one, just one soul to collect: Phineaus Pratt in the suburb of Forest Glen. The name was familiar; I remember Uncle Iggy mentioning him years ago. He was a wizard who had spent the majority of his time holed up in a lab, researching obscure and arcane crafts. Exactly what he’d been looking for, was anyone’s guess. Basil double checked the time and date as we made our way to the oldest part of town.
Mr. Pratt’s home was a neglected two-story Victorian, the front porch sagged to one side and what looked like the original paint was peeling off in sheets. Basil suggested that the turret would make a good lookout, but it was leaning precariously toward the driveway, and the overhanging trees obscured the view. I was more concerned about someone sneaking in behind us, so Basil agreed to stand guard on the main floor. Hedges full of brambles lined both sides of the driveway, blocking access to the backyard. A closer inspection revealed a small gap in the hedge, just wide enough to shimmy through.
Opening the back door revealed a vintage kitchen that was a startling contrast to the shambling exterior. I wiped my feet before stepping onto the spotless, black and white linoleum tiles. The temptation to touch the classic appliances and sunny yellow steel cabinets was overwhelming. Even Basil looked impressed with the decorating style. I expected the theme to carry on into the rest of the home, but was sorely disappointed when I glanced at the hallway. It was lined with tall stacks of old books, magazines and newspapers. How could someone keep such a pristine kitchen but turn the rest of the home into a hoarder’s paradise? I fought my way through a narrow gap, all the while praying that the teetering stacks would remain upright. Basil took the easier route, he hopped along the top of the stacks and disappeared from sight.
“This guy is just weird,” Basil shouted. “We should have come through the front door. You’re gonna have to turn around.”
The reason for his suggestion became obvious when I reached a dead end. “What is this? Why would he build a maze?” I called out to Basil as I kicked the wall of junk in exasperation. “There’s no way out.”
“Look out. RUN!” I heard Basil scream as the wall of junk started to shift. I barely made it out of the hall before the entire maze collapsed, spewing into the kitchen.
“You okay, Basil? Tell me you’re okay,” I pleaded, eyeing the sea of paper strewn down the hallway.
Basil peeked around the corner. “Just a paper cut. The rest of the house looks clear, so let’s get this over with.”
After clambering over the strewn papers, I spied the staircase which was pleasantly clear of junk.
“Look at this place, it’s beautiful. That hallway was a death trap though.”
The foyer and staircase were not only clear of papers but the woodwork was gleaming, as though it had just been polished.
“This is completely different from the kitchen—eclectic, a mixture of antique and mid-century modern,” I said.
“Why are you talking about furniture styles? We have a job to do.”
“It’s not like anyone is going to kick us out. It’s one of the interesting parts of this job, seeing how people live.”
“And die.”
“Haha, very funny. Wait here and I’ll go get Phineaus.”
I couldn’t resist the urge to run my hands over the polished banister and wonder how many children had slid down its length. Basil was right though, enough musing, time to get on with the job.
I found Phineaus in his bedroom at the end of a long hallway—his body that is—but his soul was nowhere to be seen. He could have slipped away, not wanting to move on, or someone else could’ve snatched him. Just to be sure I searched the room, checking under the bed and opening the closets. Nope, definitely not here. Phineaus must have loved books, there were hundreds of them stacked in the cases lining the walls. One with a gilt cover caught my eye, it looked different from than modern books. I was being nosy, but I was sure Mr. Pratt wouldn’t mind, so I pulled it out. Definitely a manuscript and really old; it looked medieval. I opened the cover to discover that it was written in some obscure language and illuminated with miniature diagrams and borders. While flipping the pages, I moved to the window where the light was better. A flash drew my eyes into the backyard—creeping among the brambles was a crouching figure dressed in dark clothing, holding what looked like a small sword. He must have noticed me in the window because he stood up and looked directly at me. The sunlight highlighted a scar that ran down his face. I ducked to the side of the window and peeked back through the curtain. The yard was completely empty, no one was there. Why would someone be sneaking around in the backyard? I must have imagined it; no one used a sword these days, so what was the man holding? I returned the manuscript to the shelf, giving it a final push.
As I turned to leave, I heard a click and looked back to watched the bookcase slowly creaked open, revealing a hidden room. The shelves that lined the left side of the compartment were stacked with glistening orbs of every color imaginable, they looked a little like snow globes. A table at the back of the room was covered in a jumble of papers and manuscripts. On the right, shelves held lava lamp like structures filled with an expanding and contracting oily substance. When I leaned closer to get a better look, the ooze sparkled and lurched toward me.
“Okay, that’s really creepy,” I whispered to myself as I slowly backed away and pushed the bookcase closed. “I think it’s time to go.”
A high-pitched whistle broke the relative silence of the house. I almost peed my pants as I ran into the hall. Basil flew up the stairs colliding with me, screeching, “Cops! Cops! Why did you call the cops?”
“What…I didn’t call the cops. Crap…”
The sound of a door slamming into a wall and boots thundering up the stairs hailed the arrival of the police, giving me no time to disappear.
“No one move!” a uniform officer yelled, sweeping his gun back and forth between Basil and me.
“I assume you mean don’t move. There’s only one of me.”
This day couldn’t get any worse, not only did I lose a soul, but I got cau
ght before I could disappear. I wonder if they’ll arrested me for breaking and entering.
“Is that a parrot?” another voice demanded. I tilted my head to look around the guy in the uniform. The first thought that came to my mind was California surfer dude. You know the type, a guy with blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail riding a wave. I slapped my hand across my mouth, unsuccessfully trying to stifle a giggle. I couldn’t help myself—ponytails looked silly on men.
“Is something funny?” he asked, pinning me to the spot with hard, dark eyes.
“No, um, I always giggle when cops coming crashing into houses AND people are pointing guns at me! Is that a ponytail? The bird is Basil, he’s with me.” The surfer dude was staring at me like I had two heads. I must have sounded like an idiot, but guns terrify me.
“You find dead people funny? You have a serious problem, lady. That bird is a bit big isn’t he—what are you feeding him…steroids?”
“He’s a Macaw, they’re supposed to be that big.”
“Down here, Detective,” someone called from the front of the house.
“Stay,” the detective ordered as he headed downstairs.
“In case you didn’t notice, I’m not a dog. Are you going to be long? Is it alright if I sit down?” I was still shaken by the contents of the hidden room, and the guns weren’t helping. I really needed to sit down.
He scowled at me and left me sitting on the top of the stairs. A few minutes later, he came back and glared down at me again, “What’s your relationship with the deceased?”
“Phineaus? He’s, err…was, a client; we had an appointment. I don’t understand why you’re here? It looked like natural causes to me and I was just about to…”
“How does a gunshot wound look natural?”
“What are you talking about? You haven’t even seen him yet. He’s back there on the bed, and he wasn’t shot,” I said, pointing down the hall.
“The guy in the living room was.”
“I don’t go snooping around clients’ houses. I didn’t go into the living room.” Great, a dead guy in the living room—wait a minute, he should have been on my list. Just what we needed, another scroll issue…Crap.
Basil hopped off my shoulder and flew over to perch on the surfer dude, causing him to stumble backward. He grabbed at the banister to stop himself from falling down the stairs. “Get it off me. Can’t you control it?”
“He’s a he, not an it, and he has a mind of his own. Ask him yourself,” I snapped.
Surfer dude glared at Basil. “Get off!”
Basil twisted his head and looked him in the eye and screeched, “NO.” He clung to the dude’s shoulder, chuckling and bobbing his body up and down. Ever heard a parrot laugh? Basil did a good imitation of Bella, but the surfer dude wasn’t amused.
How long are they allowed to keep you stuck in a room with no coffee and no bathroom breaks? I was thirsty and getting sick of sitting on this hard chair. And where the heck was Basil? We were separated when they brought us in. Why they thought it was necessary, I hadn’t got a clue. Come to think of it, the SIB contact could have bailed me out long ago. When the door finally opened, detective surfer dude came in with Basil perched on his shoulder. Basil was looking extremely pleased with himself. The detective pulled out the chair opposite me, causing my feet to thunk to the floor.
“I’m Detective Morgan. What were you doing at Mr. Pratt’s house?”
“What are you doing with Basil?”
“Stop being evasive and answer the question…please.” Detective Morgan looked exasperated
“I already told you. We had an appointment.”
“And the bird? What was he doing there?”
“He insisted on coming, and why is he on your shoulder?”
“He was harassing the uniforms.”
“Really,” I replied, claiming disbelief.
“He was dive bombing the uniforms screaming ‘da plane, da plane.’”
Basil winked at me and I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. “I thought it was ‘de plane.’ Did you know that that plane was later used to smuggle drugs?”
The detective was starting to look amused as well. “No, I’m pretty sure it was ‘da plane.’”
“But you didn’t tell me how he got there. He doesn’t like anyone; I’m not even sure he likes me.”
“Who got where?” The detective’s eyes ping-ponged between Basil and me. My plan was working better than I’d imagined—the conversation was beginning to sound like a Three Stooges sketch.
“You mean the bird?”
“Basil, yes.”
“I gave him a doughnut. It was the only way to keep him quiet.”
“Birds don’t eat doughnuts. What are you trying to do, kill my bird?”
Basil opened his beak and screeched in his ear. “Kill the bird, kill the bird.”
“Argh! Stop that,” the detective bellowed and swatted at Basil. “Well this one does! So, you and Mr. Dover had an appointment?”
“You do realize that you just admitted to watching the same TV show as a parrot. That show and Basil are older than dirt.” I’d have to bring Basil with me all the time—this was the most entertaining police interview I’d ever had.
“It’s on YouTube. Now, Dover, did he come with you?” He was getting exasperated again.
“Who? Oh, is that the dead guy you found? No, we came alone, Basil and I, that is. I never saw him—the guy that is, not Basil. I found Phineaus and was coming downstairs just as you arrived.”
“You sure about that? The cause of Mr. Pratt’s death is undetermined and Mr. Dover was shot,” he continued. “Do you always enter peoples’ houses uninvited, start shooting and then go wandering around?”
“Wait. How do you know the guy wasn’t an intruder? Or maybe Phineaus invited him in and shot him. Besides, I don’t have a gun, just a parrot. Did this guy have a gun? And, I was invited.”
“You’re sure you don’t know a Mr. Benjamin Dover?”
“Nope,” I said, crossing my arms. “Never heard of him; his name’s a bit unfortunate though.” Basil started snickering and almost fell off the detective’s shoulder. He stuck his claws in, causing the detective to yelp.
“Get this thing off me. His claws should be registered as dangerous weapons.”
Basil’s eyes started to bulge, his beak gaped open, and he started to bob. Crap, he was going to say something, I knew it. I hid my mouth behind my hand and looked at the floor, but my shoulders started to shake.
Sure enough, Basil started to cackle, then screeched, “Ben Dover, Ben Dover!”
I couldn’t help it: I tried to bite my tongue, but the laugh came out anyway. “He must have been the butt of a few jokes, no pun intended,” I said when I had managed to quell my laughter.
“Get him off me…please,” the detective pleaded.
“Basil, enough, get off the detective. Is that blood?” I asked, sobering up. Basil had actually drawn blood. He was still cackling as he rubbed his head on the detective’s ear and pulled at the elastic holding his long blonde hair.
“Oops, heh, heh,” Basil cackled, in his worst parrot impression so far, as he hopped off the detective’s shoulder and waddled over to me.
“Thank you and it’s Liam. I’ll live.”
On a first name basis now—interesting. He was too good looking to be a cop. I mentally kicked myself—you should never trust a pretty boy, especially a human one with a gun.
Liam leaned back in his chair rubbing his shoulder. “So, what can you tell me about Mr. Dover?”
“Hang on. How did you know to come to the house?”
“We got a call about a break in.”
“From who?”
“Why does it matter who? Now, about Mr. Dover.”
“Nothing; like I said, I don’t know him.”
He picked up a piece of paper and placed it in front of me. “You sure about that?”
I looked down at the grainy photograph on a driver’s license; the f
ace was one I recognized. I looked the detective straight in the eye before I responded. “Yup, never heard of him.”
“Great; he doesn’t appear to have been employed or run his own business. At least the records search didn’t show anything.”
“Sorry, I have no idea.”
Basil was starting to get impatient by this point, and I was getting hungry.
“Doughnut. Want a doughnut,” Basil warbled—he actually warbled. How cute was that?
“Now look what you’ve done. He’s going to drive me nuts. Are we finished here? I’m hungry and I want to go home. I don’t have a gun, you tested me for residue and I didn’t kill anyone.” I was starting to whine; this was taking way too long.
“I find it very strange that you turned up in two of our recent cases. First the shooting of Noah Ashworth, and now Mr. Dover.”
“Wait a minute. Noah is one of my best friends and I wasn’t at the scene when he got shot. Why would you think I had anything to do with it?” I froze in my seat; why could he think I went around shooting people? I just sent them on their way. At least he’d changed the subject; I was afraid that if he kept harping on Ben Dover, I might crack.
“It’s still early and we’re checking everyone connected to Mr. Ashworth and Mr. Dover. Your name was on file, seems you’ve been investigated a few times regarding suspicious deaths.”
“I was cleared of any involvement. Anyway, that was years ago.” I used to talk to all the souls I reaped—it made the job more interesting. A few times I was so distracted that the cops caught me at the scene. Being handcuffed and interrogated is not fun, so now I only talk to souls who die a natural death. Or at least I try so, there’s less chance of getting caught up in a murder investigation—or so I thought.
Detective surfer dude had just opened his mouth to reply when the door swung open.
I was saved from further interrogation when Harvey Wilder—the SIB operative—strode into the interrogation room. He was a short balding man, but he had the imposing presence of a man twice his size.
Grave Alchemy Page 6
