Hell You Say (Adrien English Mysteries 3)

by Lanyon, Josh

  “Sure,” I said and hung up.

  * * * * *

  Once again nobody showed from the temp agency. I tried not to take it personally. The agency offered to send back Lester Naess, who had apparently been kind enough to give me a thumbs-up.

  Ungrateful bastard that I was, I declined.

  What would I do if Angus didn’t return? I hated to think. Even without the holiday rush and the longer hours, I couldn’t handle it all myself. Besides, my editor at Lunatic Fringe Publishing was tactfully hinting that I had a manuscript due in a couple of weeks. Why had I been so hasty in sending Angus away?

  Not that Angus was the perfect employee, but I was used to him, he was used to me. Better the devil you know, as the saying goes. Today especially, I felt I needed the company as much as the help.

  A regular client brought in a bag of paperbacks, and I found a couple of Gabe Savant’s early efforts. Back when he wrote pulp fiction, he had gone by the nom de plume of G.O. Savage. I glanced through a dog-eared copy of So Lovely, So Dead. Pretty much what you would expect. I recalled Bob Friedlander talking about how Savant’s career had gone nowhere while he was writing deathless prose for the entertainment and edification of literary critics, but this was your standard-issue formula fiction. Maybe Friedlander had never read Savant’s early stuff.

  Not that it mattered. I re-priced the books to reflect Savant’s current popularity and shelved them.

  There were no new developments in the Eaton Canyon murder, but that didn’t keep the local newspaper from rehashing and speculating on past events. There was an earnest interview with a prominent psychiatrist who explained why the young are often attracted to magic and the occult, for those readers so lacking in imagination they couldn’t see the obvious for themselves.

  “The idea of being able to empower yourself through magic is appealing to the insecure adolescent,” quoth the shrink.

  Appealing to all kinds of people, I thought.

  There was an interview with a local religious figure. His angle was that interest and examination of the occult lured the young away from Jesus and the path of righteousness.

  “These organizations make a point of accepting behavior considered sinful in the Judeo-Christian tradition. For example, homosexuality is condoned by Wicca.”

  I wondered what the other examples were. It seemed likely to me that the people who condemned Wicca and the study of the occult for religious reasons might be as likely to condemn the study and practice of Islam or Buddhism or Catholicism or Mormonism on the same basis.

  I gathered from Guy that the same bias existed in occult circles: Wicca versus Traditional Witchcraft, for example. Which started me thinking. If this coven of ex-students was upset with Angus for practicing the Black Arts, then why had they turned around and decorated my entrance with the most instantly recognizable symbol of Satanic worship? What kind of a warning was that?

  Maybe it wasn’t a warning. Maybe it was a welcome home sign in anticipation of Angus’s return.

  Maybe it was a welcome home sign in anticipation of someone else’s return. Someone or something?

  I thought about the card the Dragonwyck ladies had given me. Was it worth calling the mysterious number? According to Guy, my troubles were over. Well, my problems on the spiritual plane.

  There was still the problem of finding good help in the material world.

  * * * * *

  “Did you talk to Jake about the house?” Lisa asked, when she guilted me into meeting her for lunch later that afternoon at Café Santorini.

  “Not really.” Not at all, as a matter of fact. Certain things could be taken for granted in this world.

  “The pool would be awfully good for you, darling. You always loved swimming. The doctors —”

  “I know!” I said sharply. She looked hurt. I softened my tone, “Lisa, I don’t think it’s practical. It’s too far from the shop, to start with.” I glanced over my shoulder. I had that funny feeling you get when you’re being watched. No one seemed to be paying us any attention. I turned back to Lisa. Her eyes were burning Siamese cat blue, which occurred whenever the bookstore came up as a stumbling block to one of her plans.

  “At least think about it,” she urged.

  Shoving more pita-wrapped grilled chicken and hummus into my mouth to prevent myself from saying what was on my mind, I stared down from the brick rooftop balcony.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watched her bowed head as she drew invisible circles in the linen tablecloth with one perfect fingernail lacquered in the palest possible pink.

  Uh-oh, I thought, watching her. What now?

  “Adrien,” she mused aloud, “it’s important that you and Bill get to know each other. It’s important to me that you like each other. I want us to be a real family.”

  I gulped the lump of pita and chicken. “Okay.”

  “I was thinking that perhaps if you two were to spend time together — alone —”

  Oh, God. What was she thinking? A baseball game? Or worse: a fishing trip for the guys? A safari?

  “Lisa, I like him. Really. And I can’t take any more time. I mean, with Angus gone —” And battling the forces of darkness and all.

  “It would only be dinner. Bill suggested it himself.”

  “But I already like him,” I pleaded. “I like them all.”

  She blinked her lashes as though she felt the tears welling — though I didn’t see a cloud in the sky. “No one can be to me what your father was, Adrien. Stephen was…well, he was the great love of my life. That kind of love happens once. But Bill is a good man. What we have together is special.”

  “Lisa….”

  “He’s certainly not going to replace you. You’ll always be —”

  “Okay! Where am I supposed to meet him for dinner?”

  The sun appeared in all its dimpled glory. She said nostalgically, “You look so like your father sometimes, Adrien. He used to get that same expression.”

  “And yet, funnily enough,” I said, “’twere not the apoplexy what done him in.”

  * * * * *

  I spent a jolly evening surfing the ’Net and was once again taken aback to discover how many Web sites were devoted to Satanism, witchcraft, Wicca — you name it. There were sites for chaos magic, Voodoo, vampires, guided meditation, and candle magick. What is the deal with candles? There were occult personals, online spell purchases (through PayPal, no less), and even organizations for gay pagans, gay witches, and gay Wiccans.

  Several links led me to Yahoo Groups. Again I found groups based on region (Boston-Occult), school of thought (angelsoccultforum), age (teenwitches), gender (goddessonly). There were groups dedicated to the black arts, to sex magic, to alchemy, to hermeticism. There were groups for specific covens and for solitary witches. But there was no entity anywhere called Blade Sable.

  Holy moly, what kind of menacing cult couldn’t afford its own Web site?

  On impulse, I joined a “community” called Dark Realm, with 983 members. The brief web intro indicated that this was a group for those who wished to peruse the dark side of the moon — and maybe exchange spells, lore, and phone numbers.

  I filled out a quickie questionnaire, naturally lying about almost everything, and twenty minutes later, Frank Hardy, age twenty-one, interest sex magick (Yahoo ID blackster21), had been officially welcomed into the Dark Realm.

  The Blackster didn’t waste any time on social niceties. Right away he posted, asking whether any of the dark denizens had ever heard of a group called Blade Sable.

  No response. I hit refresh a couple of times, but zilch.

  Well, it was getting late on a Friday night. Time for all bad little witches to be out raising Cain. I turned off the computer.

  * * * * *

  The employment agency wasn’t open on weekends, had I the heart to ring them. I rushed through the morning and early afternoon, taking advantage of a lull around three o’clock to microwave a bowl of Top Ramen soup and scan the weekend edition of the
Times.

  The front page news froze me, spoon dangling foot-long noodles about an inch from my mouth. Bestselling author Gabriel Savant was missing. I speed-read the article. Savant had not been seen since Friday morning, when he had left his hotel without mentioning to anyone where he was going. When he had not returned in time for a book club luncheon, his assistant Robert Friedlander had begun calling around. Whatever that meant.

  When Savant had still not turned up for the evening’s scheduled book signing, Friedlander had filed a missing person’s report. Apparently when the person missing was a celebrity, the usual waiting period was waived.

  I re-read the article. Unless I was mistaken, it sounded very much as though Savant had walked out of my bookshop and disappeared into thin air.

  Chapter Eight

  “I was wondering…” a voice inquired diffidently into the ether. “Are you hiring?”

  I jerked my head out of the paper. A small, brown-haired woman stood on the other side of the counter. She was young, and she looked clean — that was my main impression. She looked quiet. Beyond that, she was about as nondescript as a woman could be and still remain visible to the human eye.

  I was afraid to move, afraid to speak too loudly in case I scared her off. I asked carefully, “When could you start?”

  Possibly that came across as too needy. Her brown eyes widened.

  “Don’t you want me to fill out an application?”

  “Absolutely. When can you start?”

  I smiled, but apparently it was not a reassuring effort. She said warily, “Tomorrow, I guess.”

  “Full-time? Part-time?”

  “Whatever I can get, I guess.”

  Did she guess about everything? Were there no certainties in her young life?

  “What’s your name?”

  “Velvet. Velvet White.”

  See, this is why people should have to be licensed to have kids. Imagine going through years of homeroom as White, Velvet.

  “Hang on, Velvet,” I told her. “I’ll find an application.”

  I hustled to find the forms in the storeroom archives before Velvet had time to make an escape. Still doubtful, she filled the application out at one of the library tables in the back, while I went into the office to let LAPD know that I might have been the last person to see Gabriel Savant before he vanished.

  * * * * *

  Velvet showed up on time Sunday morning. We spent the day going over basics. She seemed to be an intelligent life form — at least she followed directions, and that seemed as good a place as any to start.

  When she showed for work on Monday, I began to think I had a live one. She was quiet, even quieter than Angus, and she seemed to watch me when she thought I wasn’t noticing. I figured she’d relax as soon as she realized that her first impression was wrong, that I was actually quite the model of mental stability — barring recent lapses.

  I hadn’t heard from Jake since Thursday night. Monday night was one of our usual get-togethers, but I had agreed to meet Lisa’s councilman for dinner. I left word on Jake’s cell phone, but still hadn’t heard from him when time came to close shop.

  So when the downstairs phone rang, I doubled back to pick it up, though I was already running late.

  A pause followed my greeting. Then, “We’re watching you,” whispered the voice on the other end.

  “Yeah? Did you see what I did with my keys?”

  Silence. Then dial tone.

  These younger demons. So easily discouraged.

  Not discouraged enough, though, I had to admit half an hour later as I negotiated my way into the river of cars flooding the I-210. I got my cell phone out and dialed Guy Snowden’s number.

  No answer.

  Was the man ever home? I left a message, flipped shut the cell, and returned my attention to insinuating my way into the fast lane.

  The good news was that they apparently only had the shop number. The bad news was that, regardless of what Guy believed, the minions of evil were still way too interested in my corner of the cosmos.

  Why?

  I merged onto the C-118, considering this objectively.

  * * * * *

  Down in the valley, the valley so low, lights glittered in the blackness like jewels in a pirate’s chest. The Odyssey offers a spectacular view of the San Fernando Valley at night if you can get a table by a window. The councilman could and did.

  “Glad you could make it, Adrien,” he said gruffly, giving me another of those industrial-sized handshakes. His eyes bored into me under the shaggy eyebrows.

  I batted something inane back, and we settled into our game.

  Over drinks we discussed cars, gas prices, traffic, California’s economy, and scotch versus whiskey. Or maybe it was whiskey versus scotch. Bill was drinking Johnny Walker Black Label, which apparently wasn’t up to scratch. I stuck to Chivas Regal, and apparently that was also for the tourists. He promised me the life-altering experience of a “wee dram” of Laphroaig at Christmas. I declared myself ready and willing, and wondered if there was any chance in hell of avoiding a full-scale family Christmas with “the troops,” as Bill referred to his harem.

  Classical music and the murmur of voices from other tables filled the silences, which fortunately weren’t many.

  We ordered, both opting for seafood, for which the Odyssey is justly famous. Over our meals, Bill filled me in on what a city councilman actually does. I wasn’t sure I was getting my tax money’s worth.

  The soft lights, sweet music, and gallons of alcohol began to have their effect. Bill’s keen eye grew less keen, his voice went deep and resonant with emotion.

  “When Eleanor, my first wife, died, I believed that I would never remarry, never find anyone who could begin to fill that void. I’ve known and admired Lisa — your mother — for many years, but I never dreamed…”

  I nodded — not so much in encouragement as indicating that he need say no more.

  He went on to tell me that obviously no one would have to tell me how beautiful and delightful and charming and intelligent and warm and wonderful Lisa was, and I agreed and kept agreeing, but he seemed to be on a roll. He assured me that Lisa would never have to want for aught. But since she didn’t now, I only managed a few polite sounds. He said he realized that he didn’t need to ask my permission to marry my mother, but that it meant a lot to both of them if I would give my blessing.

  He seemed perfectly sincere. I figured that he might be a throwback, but he certainly did have nice old-fashioned manners.

  “If this is what Lisa wants,” I said by way of blessing.

  He nodded. We had more drinks and finished our dinner. See, that wasn’t so bad, I reassured myself, as Bill appropriated the bill.

  But I was kidding myself if I thought the male bonding was over for the night. Bill offered port and a Cuban cigar by the fire pit out on the patio.

  I accepted the port and declined the cigar.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was forgetting. You have a heart condition, I understand.”

  “Very mild.”

  He nodded politely — Lisa had likely convinced him I would never see forty.

  Thanks to a freak bout with rheumatic fever when I was sixteen, the valves of my heart were damaged. As long as I didn’t do anything too stupid, it wasn’t usually a problem, although maybe it gave me a different perspective from most guys my age. Getting involved in a couple of murder investigations had reinforced my conviction that life was short and happiness pretty damn fragile.

  Bill and I drank in silence that was not exactly companionable, but not unfriendly. The scent of cigar mingled with the fire and the hint of sage from the surrounding hills.

  Dauten tapped cigar ashes over the railing, said gruffly, with the air of a bull who knows damn well it’s in a china shop, “I know that you live a…uh…an alternative lifestyle, Adrien. I don’t want you to feel that any of us would judge…would feel… We want you to be comfortable, and of course, any friend of yours would natur
ally be welcome in our home at any time.”

  I went cold. Had Lisa told him about Jake? Had she named names? Was there any likelihood that Dauten would bump into Jake in the normal course of either of their jobs?

  “Thank you,” I got out.

  “You’re one of the family now.”

  Talk about cults. “I…yes.”

  He held his brandy snifter out, we clinked glasses ever so carefully.

  * * * * *

  Velvet departed for an early break on Tuesday, Lord of the Rings lunchbox in hand — what is it with girls and that elf, by the way?

  Not long after she’d left, two young females sauntered in. Although there is really no typical bookstore customer, this pair looked like they would be more at home in a mall in Hades.

  One was tall and blonde. She looked familiar. In fact, she looked a lot like one of my new sisters tricked out for Halloween — though I assumed she would have mentioned if we were destined to share ceremonial turkey in the near future. She wore leather jeans and a black lace T-shirt, through which I saw her scarlet bra. A silver pentagram gleamed on a chain around her neck (so much for secret signs). The feathery tips of her hair were tinted black. Her lipstick, eye makeup, and fingernails were all painted a macabre and sooty shade more suited to a charnel house than a house of fashion.

  Her mohawked companion was small, buff. She was dressed in a floor-length black leather coat that dwarfed her. Pink-tinted heart-shaped glasses and silver-frosted lipstick completed the ensemble.

  Are you a good witch or a bad witch? Again, I had the impression that I knew her from somewhere, but I couldn’t quite place her. In any case, it was the blonde who held the floor.

  “We’re looking for Gus,” she announced, propping one hand on one skinny hip and tossing her two-toned hair over her shoulder in what was obviously one of her top ten poses.

  “He’s not here.”

  Her heavy-lidded eyes fastened on me. “Well, like, when will he be back?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

  Her lip curled. “Bullshit. You must know.”

  I raised my brows. “Why must I?”