“Yes, you and Morag were an ‘item’ not so long ago. Until you started getting hot and heavy with Sincerity Jones, that is,” I said. “But, Morag was a determined and resourceful woman,” I added. “She hired one private investigator by the name of Phillip Howard. Know him?” I questioned the perp.
Kramp still said nothing, but I could tell he was seething.
“Phillip Howard is an ace; it has to be said. He tracked you and Sincerity down to the Morningstar Motel in less than five minutes. Morag found out she’d been dumped for a younger, prettier, more ambitious woman, and she got back at you by blackmailing you.”
“What reason would Morag have to blackmail me, you complete airhead?” Barnabus strained against his handcuffs, and while he was still giving me daggers, my friend leaned across the table to take Kramp by his expensive tie. He yanked on it. Hard. The lawyer’s head jerked up to face the chief. “You ever speak to my friend like that again, I can guarantee you’ll choose a lifetime sentence in Steel Trap over what I promise to do to you. Got it, pal?” David shoved Kramp back into his chair.
“I have no idea what motel you’re talking about,” David’s detainee said, his chin jutting out toward my friend.
David pulled out a receipt from the file.
“At first, we thought this belonged to that slimeball boss of yours,” David said, smoothing out the invoice. “But, after my guys followed the credit card trail, and it led to the Morningstar, where you were seen by P.I Howard, we realized just what a naughty boy you’d been.”
Kramp’s breathing became a little labored. I watched, from the corner, as a bead of sweat made a trickling path from his temple to his Fraidy-scratched jaw.
“Morag knew all about your ‘Peace of the Isles’ charity, and once she knew you were screwing around on her with Sincerity Jones, she threatened to ‘out’ you.”
“Lawyer. I want a lawyer.” Kramp whispered.
"I hope your legal eagle is an adept, Barnabus," I said gently. "Because he's going to have to be whip-sharp to be able to explain away the fact that you ordered condolence flowers for Infirma BEFORE Morag died."
“That’s your proof?” Barnabus asked with a sneer. “Good luck convincing a grand jury with that evidence. There are more than a handful of people who would have likely wanted Morag Devlin dead.”
“Are you suggesting Governor Shields?” David asked with a cocked eyebrow. “Not that I think Shields has any qualms against immorality, but he’s not a stupid man. He’s probably pretty annoyed with you for ‘un-tidying’ his cabinet with your tabloid-sensationalist antics. There’s no doubt that Shields would have wanted to keep Morag doing the good work she was doing on the Rock Grumlin case. But, you, being his right-hand man? He’d have to protect you. You’re Gideon Shields’ ‘shield,’ as it were. You’re his protection. So, he had to make sacrifices.” David leaned back in his chair. "Without the governor getting his own hands dirty, of course."
“You have nothing on Gideon Shields!” Kramp shot up from his seat and flared his nostrils.
“This is one thing you’re right about,” David said patiently. “It’s unlikely we’ll ever catch the governor with muddied-hands, but it feels nice that we’re snuggling up with his inner cabinet right now, doesn’t it?”
Chief Trew pulled out the Puppeteer Curse next. Barnabus flinched at the sight of the document.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” my friend said. “Were we supposed to find this AFTER you finished killing Infirma?” It’s hard to plan for curveballs like the Chimera Charm, I guess?”
“Bet you my month’s gross that if we looked over Mr. Kramp’s family grimoire,” I said, leaning toward the two men. “We’d find the exact same variant of the Vencap Curse in its pages.”
Barnabus guffawed. “As if I’d let you fools into my estate.”
“Well, you’re a little late to that party. My men are crawling over your entire house as we speak.” David leered at Barnabus Kramp.
“I’ve heard enough,” Barnabus finally said. “I want a lawyer before you even think about continuing this conversation.”
“Not going to represent yourself?” David mocked. “I’m disappointed.”
“Lawyer,” Barnabus said. “Now.”
David smiled again. This time it was predatory.
We had him.
We stood up and moved toward the door.
“Enjoy your time at Steeltrap, Mr. Kramp,” I said over my shoulder. “I’m sure you already have many friends there.”
I pushed open the door when David stopped. He turned toward the accused man.
“You know, our one mistake was focussing on that mystery item that Morag hid. It turns out it was likely nothing now, seeing as we have you in custody.” My friend looked like a champion right then. I smiled at him, and we turned to leave.
“Oh, but you’re mistaken.” Kramp’s voice came like a poison-tipped arrow from behind us. “That artifact is of the utmost importance, as it happens.” Shields’ lawyer leaned back in his chair and offered us a vulture’s grin. “Shame for you, that even if you DO find it, it’ll be too late to do anything about it.”
The Reverend Peacefield reached the top of Saint Pendragon’s bell tower without so much as spilling a drop of iced tea. He reached the last step and laid down the silver tray loaded with glasses of the cool drink.
“Find anything?” He asked as he turned to the bodies carefully feeling their way around the bell.
Orville and Verdantia circled the giant clanger, their fingers outstretched and feeling every measurement of the underside.
“It’s our third time round, and nothing yet, Rev,” Orville said, his eyes squinting against the shine of the bell.
"Again," Portia's steely voice sailed over the top of a book she was reading. 'The Life of Drakon,' was the title, blazing in gold across the cover. The old witch caught me looking at her. She cleared her throat. "Research," she said.
I turned to Peacefield. “Carpathia, Gabrielle, and Artemus are taking the next shift, Thaddeus,” I explained to the vicar. “Hopefully their work won’t keep you up if it’s late?”
“It’s no bother, Hattie, really,” Peacefield rubbed my shoulders with both hands. “Besides, could you imagine if Father Brown were here now?” His eyes danced with glee. “I don’t know about you, but I’d suspect the Father would be a trifle envious of all this mystery and intrigue surrounding my church.”
“Oh, boy, he’d absolutely --”
“I’ve found something!”
We all ran to the bell; the Infiniti were already under Orville's fingers looking up at what he’d discovered.
Verdantia bent to her knees and craned her head upward under the bell where Orville’s hand pointed.
“Yes, there’s an anomaly here. A small rent in the bell's surface. Looks like a scratch on first look. I think…. Shade, sweetie, please,” Verdantia gently pushed my admiring moggie away from the mysterious site. She couldn’t really see what she was looking at while his fuzzy head kept head butting her chin. “It’s covered in thick magic, and I mean thick. It’ll take some time, and some painstaking extraction to get it out, but, yes, I think we’ve found Morag’s artifact.”
“Dun, Dun, Dunnnn” Gloom joked. Shade looked at his sister with a grave stare.
“No, sis, I bell-ieve it’s: Ding, Dang, Donnng.”
WARlocked and Loaded
CHAPTER 1
The court erupted in a wave of jeers. The presiding judge, Lord Justice Moody, slammed down his gavel. It was a futile gesture in an attempt to bring order to the unruly courtroom. Cameras flashed, feet stomped, fists pounded on the varnished rails of the spectator’s section. Catcalls and harsh whistles hurled through the air like a barrage of derisive bullets.
“Whoah, this is getting juicy!” Shade burbled from his seat beside me, his head rotating in an alarming almost three-hundred and sixty-degree arc, so he could better see the madness of the chamber.
“They behave like animals,” Gloom quipped
, looking down her nose at the overly-excited crowd.
Fraidy looked up at me from his seat on my lap.“I-I don’t want to die here,” he rasped.
I gave his head a reassuring rub. “Nobody’s going to die today, sweetie.”
We were squeezed onto a bench, three rows from the back of the spectators’ seats, watching today’s sentencing spectacle unfold. The accused, Barnabus Kramp, sneered at the frenzied crowd, thrusting a defiant chin at his haters.
The judge called for order once more.
Gless Inlet Crown Court had never been so packed. It was hardly surprising. This ruling marked the sixth murder trial for the Coven Isles in as many months. People were starting to sit up and take notice of the strange events that had been plaguing our beloved island chain of late. And, although there were no proven links to connect this spate of murders, the public’s imagination overflowed with theories, speculations, accusations and, downright fictions.
“Why is everyone dressed so … so … over-the-top?” Eclipse queried from his place next to Shade. My enigmatic cat swiveled his neck, carefully surveying the packed benches.
I followed his scrutiny. He had a point, and it wasn’t just the spectators dressed up to the nines. The jury too had adorned their finest finery for the day, it seemed.
“Selfie-crowd,” yawned another of my kitties to my left. “This case is big news; lots of people watching. These clowns wanna look beautiful for their social media posts.” Carbon, my pyromaniac kitty, observed cooly.
I scanned the crowd again and sure enough, smartphone cameras; aimed at the face, flashed from the ends of so many extended arms. A lady immediately in front of us, her face caked in Goddess knows how many layers of foundation, turned on her heel toward us, her arm already shooting out to snap the ultimate ‘killer-in-the background’ selfie. ‘Make-up lady’ seemed entirely blind to her surroundings, only stretching her fuchsia pink lips into a Facebook worthy smile. She steadied her hand to capture the alluring image.
“She should have bought a fidget spinner,” Carbon piped up, noticing the selfie-spectator’s struggle with the aim of the lens.
“I think you mean selfie-stick, sweetie,” I said.
“Same thing,” he said, oblivious to his pop culture ignorance.
We watched in quiet fascination as the lady’s makeup caked face appeared in the small rectangular screen before us. The screen’s ‘target’ box found the woman, and despite the fact her face was buried under mounds of cosmetics, the facial recognition software got a lock on her. In final preparation, the woman’s lips curled into an airbrushed grin. Just before she snapped her memento, I saw a furry face pop up in the background of her composition. Over the woman’s shoulder, Midnight’s head completely blotted out the accused in the dock. He grinned and put his paw-thumb up. The woman snapped, entirely unaware that she had just been photobombed by an immortal black cat.
I shook my head and groaned inwardly, feeling defeated by the fact that my cat had been seduced by this courtroom circus.
“WE WILL HAVE ORDER!” A loud crack of the gavel punctuated the Judge’s command.
The enlivened crowd finally settled down, and my photo bombing kitty took his place next to his brothers, sister, and I.
Judge Moody scowled at the court, his gavel raised in mid-air, ready to bring it down again if anyone dared to disrupt the proceedings once more. The Chief Justice cleared his throat.
“If this childish behavior continues, there will be no verdict given today. So, I can trust that you will all remain seated and quiet while the ruling is passed down.” It wasn’t a question, and the judge wasn’t kidding. The shuffling of feet and a few quiet murmurs were the only response.
I sat with my hands curled into Fraidy’s fur, my stomach clenching, hoping for the maximum sentence for this low-life killer. I gave a silent prayer that this was the last murder the isles would see. At least for a while. As I mentioned, this trial marked the sixth of its kind in as many months. To say that trouble had found our archipelago is an understatement. The Coven Isles had been in the grips of a lunatic murder spree for over half a year now. Tensions were high, and people wanted answers as to why the peace of this island chain had been so terribly disrupted of late.
In case you don’t know me, or what I’m doing here at this high-profile murder trial, I’ll fill you in on a few pertinent details.
My name is Hattie Jenkins, and I’m a witch from a long line of sorcerers and mages. It is not a torch I like to carry, however. I recalled the painful memory. A tragic event that had muddied an otherwise near-perfect childhood. I had engaged with my inner witch-power. I’m not lying; I gave it everything I had had. I had consciously opened every channel in my body so that I could receive the full extent of my inner sorceress. So that I could save my parents. But, no matter how passionate I had been, the magic had done nothing to stop the unfolding of the catastrophe. The whole sorry affair had made me resistant to the ways of the necromancer. So, as much as I can, I steer clear of magic and witchcraft. Admittedly, this isn’t always possible. For starters, I was the current guardian to eight, immortal, magical cats. Magic was in their blood, and The Infiniti did whatever they could to encourage me to avail of my powers. And their coaxing had gotten considerably louder since the start of the killings. Their cajoling was made worse by the fact that they could talk. A lot.
To an ‘Unawakened’ person’s ears -- someone who doesn’t possess the craft of magic -- they would just hear a series of meows, purrs, and kitty-chirps. But, to anyone who practiced sorcery, they’d realize my cats spoke real words in perfect English.
As stated above, collectively, my clowder of kitties was known as The Infiniti. Onyx, the wisest of my crew, and The Infiniti’s self-appointed leader preferred the term The Lemniscate as a name for them all. An archaic word that my sage cat refused to drop. A lemniscate, in case you’re interested, is the symbol for infinity. Rather like the number ‘8,’ but rolled on its side.
I had a few of The Infiniti with me today in court for moral support. After all, they were the ones primarily responsible for getting this Kramp character up on the stand in the first place.
My cats, like most felines, loved to snoop, and they had, each of them, been instrumental in the eventual convictions of the five killers who came before Barnabus Kramp.
Not to show off or anything, but I had also been a pretty significant player in these arrests and convictions. Which is kinda strange, if you think about it when it’s herbology I’m trained in, not criminal investigation.
A legal aide handed the Chief Justice a stack of papers, which the judge shuffled fussily before him. Moody looked nervous.
The bailiff took to the floor, issuing the usual standard: “All rise.”
I saw a pale Zinnie Kramp stand up from the bench at the front of the court. Kramp’s wife looked frazzled. And severely rumpled. Her face, her hair, her expensive clothes. She looked like she’d slept in a ditch for the night. She stood next to a hulk of a man dressed in tweed. The giant offered Zinnie a handkerchief. No, wait, it was a slip of paper. I craned my neck around selfie-woman so I could better see the transaction. Mrs. Kramp took the proffered paper, and scanned it briefly. The tweed-mountain stuck a pen under the stressed looking woman’s nose. She took it wordlessly and put it to the paper, while the well-dressed man’s mouth worked silently. I wondered what he was telling her, and I also wanted to know what Zinnie was signing.
The judge cleared his throat.
This is it. This is where Kramp finally gets what’s due.
I spotted David in the stands below me. Usually effortlessly good-looking, my friend looked ashen. His broad shoulders slumped in a resigned posture.
Something was wrong with my friend. Why won’t he let me in?
Chief Para Inspector Trew raked a shaky hand through his hair, his fingers lingering for just a bit longer on his unusual white streak. The chief had ‘acquired’ this snow-white flash of follicles at the exact time we had started wor
king together on the Millicent Pond case. I remembered the day well. We had found Millicent’s fried remains on the beautiful Crystal Beach on Cathedral Isle. When the cops had shown up, I was more than a little surprised to see the lightning design streaking through my friend’s hair. David had brushed me off at the time; had told me he’d been at the hands of Violet Mullberry, our resident coiffeuse. I knew this not to be true, however. Violet would rather die than NOT share ‘hair gossip’ as juicy as this. I can’t be certain, but I think this was about the time I started noticing CPI Trew’s odd behavior and strange physiological traits. The white streak of hair, his skin feeling hot to the touch, his general ill-ease, and regular bouts of stomach pain.
I continued to gaze at the man of my dreams, my stomach knotting at the sight of his obvious agitation.
WHAT is eating you, my love? I wanted to scream the words at him. But, with all the crazy happenings just lately, there never seemed to be a suitable time to bring up a conversation about these more ‘subtle’ affairs. We’d been lifelong friends, and, newer still; partners in the recent murder investigations, but still he wouldn’t share his turmoil with me.
David lowered his hand from the phantom-flash in his hair and dropped his head. His hands reached out for the bench in front of him, and he gripped it until the whites of his knuckles popped.
I had no idea what the heck was going on with him, but ‘it’ seemed to be worsening. If only he'd open up to me. I mean, we’d been working snugly alongside now for more than six months. You’d think the guy would know I could be trusted, right?
I cast my mind back to our first ‘outing’ together as crime investigators. David had requested my help as a herbal consultant to the murder case of Nebula Dreddock. Nebula had been somewhat of a celebrity A-lister, and her case had aroused a lot of public interest. Since Nebula’s demise, however, I’ve been brought in as a consultant to the ever-increasing, Isles-wide murder investigations. So, as strange as it is for someone who works with herbs, I’m still working with David as the bodies rack up.
Moggies, Magic and Murder Page 40
