Marty Fog wasn’t nearly as lucky as Bertha. True, he managed to beat the aiding and abetting charges in court, but the damage had already been done. All the lurid details that came out in the trial forced a swift reelection. The disgraced Mayor was removed from office in favor of one Sincerity Jones, whose no-nonsense, no-drama approach earned her respect, if not love, from the citizens of Gless Inlet. The last anyone heard of Fog, he was eking out a marginal existence on Nanker, and overusing some of the same illegal substances he had helped to import.
Bradford was eventually released from the hospital and vanished from Glessie just as mysteriously as he had arrived years earlier. Before taking his unofficial leave, he made arrangements to turn the Scroll of Thoth’s ownership over to the long-suffering Reg. He was kind enough to leave enough money for a few months’ operating costs. Reg proved to be a shrewd businessman and built an impressive collection of volumes on the ancient arts that the Awakened came far and wide to buy.
Following weeks of exhaustive testing, the Strands cure that Artemus and I had created was certified as safe for human consumption. My first two visits, with the authorized formula in hand, were to Orville Nugget and his father, Aurel. The rest of the formula was administered by volunteers from all over the Isles, as far north as Bonemark Isle. Aurel Nugget helped with producing the concoction, to allow for its widespread administration. Our Isles were finally free from the curse of the Strands.
The success of the cure earned me a citation of public service from our new Mayor, Sincerity Jones. I didn't really want all the attention when it came down to it. But, boy, was I grateful to the spike in sales the Angel received as a result.
With Mayor Fog gone, the Sugar Dunes Runway proposal lost some steam. Sincerity Jones was sure to fight it, but with serious financial backing from Gideon Shields, governor for Cathedral Isle, I was pretty sure she'd have a fight on her hands. After Bertha's death and Marty Fog's deposition, Shields had still yet to visit Gless Inlet. But I did see his Amazonian assistant, Mari Falk, around the town, no doubt priming audiences and warming a seat for her employer.
Artemus managed to finish his second magnum opus within two weeks of our coming up with the cure. The success of the cure boosted the sales of his book, giving him much-needed financial relief from his hardscrabble existence. Gabrielle has since installed him in the apartment overlooking Celestial Cakes and is practically his wife in all but name. I’m waiting on the official announcement any day now.
Raquel Berry promptly left the Island without fanfare, thank the Goddess. Probably on torrent of hair-flips, no doubt.
So, all turned out well. Until something ugly reared its head, that was. It's probably just paranoid fantasy, but I had to include it in this footnote.
It was three days after my unmasking of Bertha Crabtree as Druida's killer. David, Carbon and I were on Maude Dulgrey's doorstep, personally invited to her place of business by Maude herself.
David knocked, and we waited patiently for the ghoul pathologist's cheery welcome.
My hackles rose when she finally opened the door. Her usual sunny warmth was replaced by a look of troubled shock.
David saw it too. “What’s wrong, Maude?”
Looking at us uneasily, she said, “It will be a lot easier to show both of you than it will be to tell.”
Even Carbon seemed to pick up on our favorite coroner being ill at ease. He respectfully made no mention of cat treats.
One of the Crow Isle skeletons was on the slab. Muerte stood nearby methodically cleaning the surgical equipment. As the four of us got close to the skeleton, the zombie held up the tools for Maude’s inspection.
“Excellent as always, dear one,” she said to the zombie. “Go ahead and rest.”
Muerte put the tools down with a groan, and slo-mo'd to his chair. Maude turned her attention to us. Her eyes were bloodshot as if she'd been up all night and I noticed two full cups of steaming coffee close to the examination table.
“Now you’ll both recall that these skeletons had several spiral fractures throughout their bones,” Maude began. “I was able to determine that the source of those fractures were from a Tchernobog Club similar to the one used by Bertha Crabtree.”
“Which is, I’m assuming, what killed them,” I said.
“Oh, Hattie, Hattie, Hattie,” Maude said. “We both know that, in our respective lines of work, the first commandment is ‘thou shalt not assume.’ However, it is a very reasonable guess, given that the damage done to these meat-deprived guests of mine was engineered to make it look like a Tchernobog Clubbing.”
I raised my eyebrows. The gray-faced coroner was making no sense.
Looking over the blackened portions of the bones, David seemed to catch the thread I couldn't see, “So you’re saying that they were actually burned to death?”
“Yes, CPI Trew,” Maude affirmed. “But not by ordinary flames. The burn patterns on the bones are consistent with Dragon Fire.”
I gasped and I’m pretty sure David did too. Everyone in the Coven Isles knew that efforts to recreate the Dragons had been tried and failed during the Warlock Wars. But what if they were back…?
“And before either of you ask,” Maude said, anticipating the question. “Yes, I am sure about that conclusion beyond any doubt. I ran those tests a dozen times just to be sure I wasn't mistaken.”
Looking down at the skeleton, she added, “And oh, how I wish I were.”
David cleared his throat. “So far as we were ever able to tell, the Besnicks had no ties to the Warlocks or Dragons of old. Yet here's a Besnick affiliate, scorched in a way that's consistent with the old wives tales of Nanker. You've both heard about the dragon lore making a rebirth on that backward isle?" David peered over the rim of his glasses at both of us.
“Nanker would make a great location to hide a dragon, though.” I laughed nervously at my own ridiculous joke and added, “I’ve made enough deliveries there to be able to say it’s mostly craggy, windswept wilderness.”
“But dragons prefer caves,” David insisted. “Nanker doesn't have a significant cave system, does it?”
“Hardly the issue, CPI Trew,” Maude said. “That whole cave business is just more old wives’ tales, I’m afraid. Nanker folk tales are a poor substitute for actual evidence. But, recounting what I know from dragon lore, I think the beasts can prosper just about anywhere as long as they have food and water.”
"This is so weird," I said, hugging myself against an involuntary chill.
“You mentioned two reports when you called me earlier,” David said. “What’s the other one?”
"You'll recall, in her initial police interview, Bertha had advised that she left no evidence of her being in Druida's apartment." Maude shuffled through some papers while she spoke. "Probably because she didn't want the extra charge of 'breaking and entering' on her rap sheet."
Maude finally handed David the paper she was looking for. "A little forensic snooping and I can confirm that there were no DNA traces of Bertha ever having been on the premises," she announced.
"So, what're you getting at, ghoulfriend?" I asked, entirely puzzled.
"Well, there might not have been traces of Bertha Crabtree being in Druida's dwelling, but SOMETHING was."
She produced another sheet of notes. "Bottom of page two."
I took position behind David so I could read over his shoulder. We both caught it at the same time; I could tell because we tensed at the exact same moment. The chemical testing and sympathetic magic results showed that the trace samples taken from Druida's home were of the same genetic make-up as the dragon fire residue found on the skeletons.
"Impossible," David and I chanted in unison.
I felt the temperature rise suddenly, and I noticed David’s forehead beading. Carbon clicked his claws at the end of the slab. He curled his lips into a crafty smile, and licked them slowly. A burst of flames erupted before my heat-seeking cat. He spoke then.
“So, you’re saying I might have compet
ition?”
The End
The Black Diamond Curse
It was magic.
And it was breathtaking.
Yeah, I know. Kind of hard to believe that particular thought popping into my head. Me. Hattie Jenkins, of all people. As much as I despised casting spells and working charms. That was a big reason why I had made this little jaunt to Cathedral Isle, one of the easternmost and most naturally beautiful of the Coven Isles. A little magical R&R.
Oh. Darn. Did I forget to mention? I’m a Strega. A Bruja. A Maleficus. Pick a language.
I’m a witch.
Don’t get me wrong; my one-bedroom walk-up is completely divested of gossamer webs full of creepy crawlies. And I am certainly not one of those hideous, hunched crones with black teeth and a warty nose.
Okay. So, maybe my fair skin may host a fair smattering of light, freckles. As my herbalist assistant Millie Midge liked to point out, if I screwed up my eyes really tight, you could almost make out the lost constellation of Felis the Cat.
“It’s not lost on your face, though. It’s right there, smack in the middle of your nose,” she would comment.
Her snarky quip generally garnered a roll of my green eyes.
Great! I have a cursed constellation on my face. Peachy.
I slathered on a generous dollop of creamy homemade sunscreen to ward off any further encroaching melanin deposits. As I inhaled the aromatic mix of raspberry seed, shea butter, almond oil, and zinc oxide, I mused on how curses, jinxes, and ancient whammies seemed to follow me around.
Like that one fateful night.
But, I didn’t want to think about that now. I turned my sun-baked brain back toward Felis and his dubious history, as the sun over Cathedral warmed my skin.
Felis the Cat was created as a tribute to the regal domestic kitty by French astronomer Joseph Jerome LeLande. But, when the International Astronomical Union, led by toffee-nosed Nicolas Camille Flammarion, decided that Felis was expendable and expunged him from the roster of recognized constellations, things took a definitive turn for the worse – Flammarion himself died, America succumbed to The Great Depression, and the world entered a second war. Things that all happened under a sky unprotected by the star-studded feline.
“Doesn’t surprise me in the least,” Onyx, my ebony-furred companion stretched out lazily in a golden sunbeam, paws reaching far out in front of him, back bowed low. “Cats make meow-velous guardians. Why do you think the Egyptians held them in such high regard?”
I blew an exasperated puff of air into my errant bangs. I could never have a private thought when Onyx was around, the intrusive mind-reader that he was. Granted, it was a useful ability when we were embroiled in the midst of a murder investigation. It was a little more difficult for suspects to conceal their dastardly doings when there was a mind-reading feline in the room. But, personally? Sometimes it was like having Jiminy Cricket in your head, twenty-four seven. And I was all out of bug spray.
The irony that I have a cat emblazoned across my nose isn’t lost on me. Cats and I are sort of part and parcel. Freckled or furry. Besides Onyx, I own seven more of them. Or, maybe I should say they own me. At least, they own a collective ability to drive me to distraction. But, I can’t complain too much. Onyx is right. The eight furry felines who share my little pied-à-terre above The Angel Apothecary certainly have looked out for me on more than one occasion. My own personal Felis feline force.
And, goodness knows, I’ve managed to get myself into some superiorly sticky scenarios of late. I’d hate to think of what might have happened if my moggy little minxes hadn’t been there when Chief Para Inspector David Trew had suspected me of murdering Glessie Isle’s cantankerous librarian cum historian, Druida Stone. I might have been sharing a cell at Steeltrap Penitentiary with Strands kingpin, Milosh Besnick. The shudder that waved through me wasn’t brought on by the winds that rolled down off the mountain. Steeltrap was a cold and unforgiving place. Suitable if you were a hardened, career criminal I suppose. Not so much if you were a single, relatively attractive redhead who dabbled in herbal remedies at her family’s apothecary.
The Angel Apothecary, on the other hand, was warm and inviting…and home.
The cats? Well, they sort of came with the place when I inherited it. Like the leaky faucet in the kitchen or the old, silvered mirror. Even the shop itself. All handed down to me from my great-grandma.
The apothecary had been in the Opal family for generations. Glendonite Opal, my great-grandmother on my mother’s side, had made her way to the Colonies in the late 1800s. She had established her modest business with a pocketful of healing herbs, an array of colored vials and glass jars, and a selfless drive to help her neighbors. She was a gallant woman, Glendonite. But, clever as she was in whipping up a nice dandelion salve to alleviate arthritis pain, or ascribing the proper herb, like Verbascum Thapsus, to tackle a nagging cough, she hadn’t been big on marketing. There had been days when she didn’t have two nickels to rub together. Fortunately, the sixties brought peace, love and The Beatles.. as well as a new appreciation for “herbal” remedies, giving the business a fiscal bump. A few years later, my granny, Chimera Opal, Glendonite’s daughter, took over the shop.
And regardless of whether you were a Stones or Beatles fan or which side of the Vietnam conflict you came down on, or who was running our little family business over the years, one thing had remained unwavering - the eight immortal felines, collectively known as the Infiniti, who kept a familiar post at the side of the current Opal witch. And now that witch was me. Even if I proved a little reluctant at times.
If you hadn’t ferreted it out already, the self-appointed leader of our little clowder is Onyx. Onyx is a fathomless well of sage advice - whether or not you want it. He has a penchant for leaping at least one thought ahead of you – which really bites on movie night. He’d nearly ruined our Bruce Willis marathon last week (I’d been scouring Netflix for alternatives to Stephen King since Fraidy’s siblings had scared him silly watching several classics from the King of Horror). If I weren’t so disinclined to use magic, I might be persuaded to put a Silentium spell on him.
“It was one movie. And it was logically obvious that Bruce Willis was a ghost.” Onyx defended.
“He’s an okay actor,” a muttering voice interrupted Onyx's rational utterings. “For a human.”
Coming from Gloom, a moggie as generally morose as her name, that was pretty high praise. “Least he’s better than old Nebula Dreddock. The only thing worse than her acting was her attitude.”
I thought back to my first case where I had acted as an unofficial consultant to Chief Para Inspector David Trew and the Gless Inlet Para Police Department. I wasn’t certain if it was the thought of the strikingly handsome CPI or the appalling circumstances of Nebula Dreddock’s death that caused the shudder that rippled through my body. Wraithsgourd had certainly done wonders for the actor’s complexion. But thanks to her scorned ex, Avery Flute, and the subtle addition of lavender, a substance Nebula was deathly allergic to, Nebula had made her final curtain call.
“Where are the sardines?” Gloom muttered. “My fur is looking dull. I need my Omega-3s," she whined, her fur positively lustrous and shiny in the Cathedral sunshine. Gloom wasn't happy unless she was unhappy. She was magical in that she could always find something to be aggrieved with. Whether it was warranted or not. Her glossy coat was the latest proof that she was seriously misguided in her judgments.
My temperamental kitty nosed her way into the picnic basket I had packed for us when we had set out this morning for our family R&R break.
I reached down and pawed through the hamper. “I don’t know, Gloom. They should be in here. I’m sure I packed them.”
My head started to get a little fuzzy. “Or did I? You know, that’s funny. I can’t seem to remember.”
Eclipse, one of my more mysterious cats, perched on an outcropping of sharp obsidian rock, licking his chops and washing his face, arched an eyebrow at me. He said
nothing; just continued with his grooming.
Onyx’s yellow eyes narrowed a scolding look at his younger brother. “Eclipse, if you're going to wipe people's memories, then you should probably not leave them clues to as to why you did." Onyx admonished his sibling. 'Clipsy continued to wash, keeping a watchful eye on his sage brother. "What I'm saying, brother, is you've let the cat out of the bag. Your Jedi mind tricks can't disguise your fishcake aroma." Onyx turned his back on his brother in apparent disgust. Gloom just sat, eyes like a squinty Clint Eastwood shooting daggers at her Omega 3-stealing brother.
Eclipse had the remarkable ability to cloud your conscience and make you forget whatever thought was congealing in your head – like whether or not you had packed the sardines.
One cat I almost never had to think about was Shade. And that was simply because, half the time, I couldn’t see him. Neither could anybody else, for that matter. The mysterious mouser had the uncanny ability to melt into the shadows. A pretty nifty trick when you needed to skulk about picking up tidbits of information and clues to help solve some pretty problematic puzzles. Shade was a hit with the female felines around town. Actually, his good-natured, chilled-out personality made my cool cat many friends. He was just one of those likable, charming creatures.
Whew! Suddenly the sun seemed to burn hotter, a blazing yellow disc in the cerulean sky. I wiped a trickle of sweat from my brow. The temperature didn’t usually nudge the mercury this high at this time of year. A sudden thought occurred to me.
“Carbon?” I searched furtively for my combustible kitty. I felt a surge of escalated warmth rush through my body from the ankles up. Sure enough, he was winding his way through my legs, his motor purring like a warm engine. No matter how balmy a breeze might be, things were never quite warm enough for Carbon. And he thought nothing of employing his innate ability to turn up the heat. With nothing more than a click of the claw or twitch of the tail, he could create a wall of heat in a heartbeat. When it was safe to do so, he could -- and, often did -- produce flames.
The Infiniti Investigates: Hattie Jenkins & the Infiniti Chronicles Books 1 to 5 Page 56
