The Magician's Dream (Oona Crate Mystery: book 3)

by Shawn Thomas Odyssey

  “I am wherever I am required,” Samuligan responded in his customarily sly tone.

  “Could you bring around the carriage?” Oona asked. “I should like to go downtown.”

  “At your service,” Samuligan replied, and with a deep bow headed out the front door.

  “But I thought we were doing research,” Deacon squawked.

  “We are, Deacon,” Oona said. “We are going to find out who the Rose Thieves are. We’re going to find out who killed my father.”

  ***

  Pedestrians moved about the sidewalk and carriages clattered down the street. On this bright and clear day, the pointy-hat-shaped library cast a shadow across the street to where Oona stood in front of the Dark Street Theater.

  Arms folded, she stood beside the ironwork joke-telling clock, upon which a flyer had been posted announcing Molly Morgana Moon’s Thursday political rally at Oswald Park. Oona hardly noticed it. She was too busy staring at the museum steps, attempting to imagine how the thieves snuck up on the night watchman.

  A mechanical voice sounded from within the clock: “Why did the wild pig cross the road?”

  “I don’t know,” sounded a second, equally mechanical voice. “Why did the wild pig cross the road?”

  The first voice replied: “He wanted to get away from his friends . . . they were all boars!”

  “Terrible,” Deacon said. “Bore and boar aren’t even spelled the same.”

  “That’s the point, Deacon,” Oona said absently. “That’s what makes it amusing.”

  “If you say so,” Deacon said.

  But Oona was hardly paying attention to their conversation, let alone the clock and its ridiculous sense of humor. Her attention was fixed upon the museum door. She remembered what she had overheard the night watchman telling Inspector White, about the woman running up the steps. Clearly, the woman had been a diversion meant to distract the guard, giving the male thief time to sneak up behind and knock the watchman on the head. At night the building was not well lit. The man could easily have been lying in wait close by.

  “The thieves likely knew that the guard took his snack break at the same time every night,” Oona said. “They were waiting for him. It was well planned.”

  “Indeed,” Deacon said, “which is precisely what you need for this afternoon’s battle test. A plan.”

  “Oh, I think she handled herself quite all right without preparation,” Samuligan said from atop the nearby carriage. He wiggled his fingers in display of the red line that ran across the back of his hand in a great slash. “I have the scar to prove it.”

  “See, Deacon,” Oona said. “Samuligan thinks I did well.”

  “Of course he’s saying that,” Deacon chided. “He doesn’t want you to be prepared for your next challenge. He’s your opponent.”

  Oona raised an eyebrow. “Is that true, Samuligan? Will I be facing you once again today, or will it be something different?”

  The faerie pulled his cowboy hat down over his eyes and shrugged.

  “You see,” Deacon said. “He’s no help. We should be back in the Pendulum House library, researching.”

  Oona knew he was right. Yesterday’s test had turned out to be far more demanding than she had expected, and yet her instincts were telling her that the more important thing to do was to find those responsible for taking her father away—taking his life—and to make sure they paid for it. She did not, however, want to say so out loud, as she was sure that Deacon would not understand.

  She was convinced that, unless someone had experienced it for themselves, it was impossible truly to understand what it was like to know that your father—the man who was supposed to care for you and keep you safe—had been murdered, and that his killers where still out there. It was impossible to know the emptiness that came with never again feeling your hero’s arms wrap around you, or kiss you good night, not to mention the frustration of knowing that the police department was too incompetent to capture the culprits.

  She was happy to change the topic. “Look, Deacon, it’s Mr. Bop.”

  “So it is,” he replied rather dryly, as if detecting the purpose of her dramatic shift of subject.

  An enormous man was exiting the building next door to the museum. He made his way across the street in Oona’s direction. The closer he came, the easier it was to see the mask of squiggly tattoos that inked every surface of his broad face—a clear reminder that Mr. Bop was a prominent member of the Magicians Legal Alliance. A top hat rested precariously atop his bald head, and for such a giant of a man Mr. Bop moved quite gracefully.

  He hopped up onto the curb, which Oona felt tremble slightly beneath her feet, and tipped his hat.

  “Hello, Miss Crate,” he said amiably.

  A thought occurred to Oona. “Mr. Bop, might I have a word?”

  He came to a halt and whirled round on one heel like a great big globe that someone had given a spin.

  “We can have more than one, if you like,” he said. His genuine smile reached nearly to his bushy side-whiskers, and Oona detected that he smelled faintly of cupcakes. “Such marvelous questions you always ask, Miss Crate. Tell me, have you reconsidered joining the society?”

  The question vexed Oona at first, and it took her a moment to remember that, some months ago, Mr. Bob had revealed that he belonged to the highly mysterious—and ridiculously irrational—Tick-Tock Society . . . an organization so secretive that even its own members did not know who each other were.

  “To tell the truth, I haven’t given it much thought,” Oona said, not wanting to put him off.

  But Mr. Bop seemed to be a hard man to put off. He continued to smile broadly, his jowls jiggling beneath multiple chins. “Quite all right. Just thought I’d ask. Let’s just forget I mentioned it, shall we? How may I be of assistance?”

  Oona gestured across the street, toward the building from which Mr. Bop had exited. “You live there, don’t you, Mr. Bop? Next door to the museum and above Madame Iree’s Boutique?”

  She knew that he did, having established this fact on a previous case.

  “I do,” he replied. “And if you are wondering about the break-in that happened last night, you should know that after the incident with the witches breaking a hole through the wall of the dress shop into the museum, the curator had large sheets of metal installed along the museum walls, all around, to prevent such an event occurring again.”

  Oona nodded. The museum renovations had been highly publicized to prevent anyone else from attempting a similar crime. This time there was no question how the culprits had entered the museum—they had knocked out the night watchman and entered and exited through the front door. But that didn’t mean they had done so unobserved.

  Oona stepped away from the iron clock. “Do you remember seeing or hearing anything strange happen around nine o’clock Monday night? Through the window of your apartment perhaps?”

  Mr. Bop’s smile shrank, and his tattooed eyebrows drew closer together, as if he were remembering something quite unpleasant.

  “You did, didn’t you?” Oona asked excitedly.

  But Mr. Bop shook his head. “Oh no. Sorry, but I wasn’t even home at nine o’clock on Monday night. I was at my competitive cooking class, like I am every Monday and Wednesday night.”

  “Competitive cooking class?” Deacon asked. “What on earth is that?”

  Mr. Bop’s smile disappeared all together. “It is a highly competitive class where students learn the art of cooking from the world-renowned culinary genius Chef Raymond Rude.”

  Oona was perplexed. “Don’t you like the class?”

  Mr. Bop’s eyes went wide at the suggestion. “My dear, it is my favorite part of the week! It’s just that, after each class our plate is judged by a panel of food experts, who taste all of the dishes and declare a winner. And on Monday night I created perhaps the most delicious chicken fricassée ever served on Dark Street. And that is not just my opinion. Even Chef Rude said it was brilliant, and he never says anythin
g like that. Believe me, he’s not just called Chef Rude because that is his last name.”

  Oona shook her head, confused. “Well, I don’t know what chicken fricassée tastes like, but it sounds like you should be proud of yourself.”

  “But that’s just the thing,” Mr. Bop explained. “It doesn’t matter what I think. It’s what the critics think that matters, and all of the food judges agreed that the chicken was perfectly cooked . . . all except one. Miss Mary Shusher said it was too dry. Mary Shusher is always quite hard to please, everyone knows that . . . but dry? My chicken? Never. So I told her exactly what I thought, and . . . and unfortunately, arguing with the judges is not allowed, and I was disqualified. The winning dish went to Miss Isadora Iree instead.”

  Oona’s eyebrows shot up at the mention of Adler’s sister. It was hard to imagine the pampered, arrogant Isadora Iree in a cooking class.

  Remembering her own experience with Mary Shusher, Oona felt the need to console Mr. Bop. “You know, my uncle Alexander, who is quite wise, says it’s more important that you love what you do than that other people—” But Oona abruptly stopped. A realization occurred to her. “Did you say that Mary Shusher was at your cooking class on Monday night? Are you sure?”

  Mr. Bop nodded, his jowls jiggling vigorously. “Of course I’m sure. I kept thinking about it all day yesterday.”

  Oona turned to Deacon. “And yet when I spoke with her yesterday, Mary said that she was at home at nine o’clock with her grandmother.”

  Deacon took in a sharp breath. “By Oswald, you’re right!”

  Oona peered up at the hat-shaped library across the street. “She lied.”

  “But why?” Deacon asked. “If she had a legitimate alibi for the time of the crime, why would she try to hide it?”

  Oona began to stride diagonally across the street in the direction of the museum. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

  “It was nice talking to you, Miss Crate,” Mr. Bop called after her. “Thanks for trying to cheer me up.”

  Oona darted quickly between two moving carriages—causing one of the horses to whinny and a driver to shout something indiscernible at her—before reaching the other side of the street.

  “Well, that was rather rude,” Deacon chastised from her shoulder.

  “What?” Oona asked, and glanced vaguely back toward the street. “Yes, who was that who shouted at me?”

  “I was referring to you,” Deacon said. “You didn’t even say good-bye to Mr. Bop.”

  “Oh,” Oona said, and stopped on the third museum step. She turned and raised a hand, meaning at least to give Mr. Bop a wave, but he was already heading back up the street. “Well, I’ll apologize next time I see him.”

  She stared for a moment at the theater across the street. An idea came to her, and she felt a surge of excitement. Why she hadn’t thought of it the day before, she did not know. She thrust a finger in the air and resumed her stride up the stone steps. “Come along, Deacon. Let’s see what excuse Mary Shusher has for her lie.”

  ***

  “Mary’s not in today,” Adler said. “She’s got the day off.”

  He leaned on the reference desk, his threadbare top hat cockeyed on his head, frayed bits of cloth dangling from the brim. Oona had yet to see him without it.

  “I see,” Oona said, and then in her best library whisper told Adler what she had learned from Mr. Bop.

  “So Mary lied,” Adler said quietly. “I wonder why.”

  Oona leaned over the counter. “I don’t know. But Mr. Bop said that his competitive cooking class takes place every Monday and Wednesday.”

  Adler looked thoughtful as he bent forward, their faces now quite close. Oona’s pulse quickened.

  “You know, my sister’s in that class,” he said. “All the girls at the Academy of Fine Young Ladies are supposed to engage in extracurricular activities. Most of ’em go for dancing lessons, or piano, but Isadora liked the idea of competitive cooking. I don’t think it was so much the cooking part but the competitive bit that attracted her.”

  Oona rolled her eyes. She knew from personal experience just how competitive Isadora Iree could be. The girl had tried to cheat her way to victory in the Magician’s Tower Contest and had still been quite a poor loser when Oona had come out victorious.

  Oona leaned in even closer, batting her eyes. “Well, Mr. Bop gave the impression that Mary is a regular judge. I was just thinking, if you know where the cooking class is, we could show up there tonight and . . . question Mary Shusher . . . together.”

  The two of them stared at each other for a long moment, and Deacon jumped uncomfortably from Oona’s shoulder onto the countertop.

  Adler glanced at the raven, blinking like a boy coming out of a daze. Finally, he said: “Sorry, I can’t.”

  Oona pulled away from the counter, wondering if it had been too bold to ask him to go somewhere so late at night.

  Adler cleared his throat. “It’s just that I have that really big test tomorrow at the alliance—the one I told you about—and I really need to study tonight so I can pass.”

  “Ah, yes,” Oona said awkwardly.

  “Which is precisely what Miss Crate should be doing right now,” Deacon said. “Studying.”

  Oona felt a knot twist in her stomach. She knew Deacon was right.

  “I do still plan on attending the rally tomorrow,” Adler said.

  “Yes, of course,” Oona said.

  “Anyway,” Adler said, “the class takes place at the Culinary Institute on the Lower North End.”

  Oona nodded. “I’m sure Samuligan will be able to find it.” Again that uncomfortable silence. And then Oona remembered the brainstorm she’d had on the museum steps while looking at the theater across the street.

  “Can you show me your books on theater craft?”

  “Theater craft?” Adler said. “Sure. Why the sudden interest in thea—” he paused, his eyes going wide. “Of course! There’s bound to be descriptions of knots in books on theater. They’ve got all kinds of ropes and pulleys they use backstage. You think maybe the Rose Thieves worked in the theater, and that’s where they learned to tie that fancy knot?”

  “It’s worth a shot,” Oona said.

  They hurried to the third-floor balcony, where they found a vast selection of books on theater. Oona couldn’t help but feel daunted by the sheer volume of books written on the subject, but Adler quickly explained that the majority of the books were plays to be performed, and books on the art of directing and acting. What they were looking for were books on the actual backstage craftwork and the construction of stage sets. It turned out there was a specific section for this, and Oona’s appreciation for the organization of the public library grew immensely.

  “Here,” he said, pulling several books from the shelves and handing them to Oona. He pulled another pile and tucked them under his arm. “And these as well.”

  Oona knelt down to open one of the books, but Adler had a different idea.

  “Come on,” he said. “There’s better light back downstairs.”

  “Oh, all right,” Oona said, wondering if Adler was just making an excuse to be somewhere less private.

  Back at the reference area, they laid the books out on a table and began their search. Oona found no reference to knots at all in the first book she looked at, Theater Dreams: Bringing Imagination to Life, by Horton Hob, and was hoping to have better luck with The Stages of Life: Understanding the Craft of Theatrical Space, by Gordon Glibbit Jr., when the door behind the reference counter opened and Mrs. Shusher the librarian stepped out of her office and approached the reference counter.

  Oona noted how the librarian was dressed in the same black lab coat she had been wearing the day before. Mrs. Shusher glanced toward the large clock on the wall. Adler jumped to his feet, as if to hurry back to his book sorting, but he stopped when a tall, thin man entered the library through the main doors and proceeded directly to the reference counter.

  “That’s Mr. Shusher,�
�� Adler whispered. “Mrs. Shusher’s husband.”

  “Mary’s father,” Oona said.

  Adler nodded. “I’ve only seen him once before, when he came in about a week ago. Not a very nice man, if you ask me. Told me who he was and that he wanted to see his wife right away. I put out my hand and introduced myself, and he looked at me as if I had just spit on his shoe. Oh aye, and so he just walks around the counter and calls through the door: ‘Mrs. Shusher, it’s me, Mr. Shusher.’ And she yells back: ‘Come in, Mr. Shusher!” And he goes in, leaving me with my hand sticking out like a dolt.”

  Oona watched Mr. Shusher approach the counter. Though smartly dressed in a crisp suit and an expensive bowler hat, his cleanly shaved face gave the appearance of being worn. Crow’s-feet lined the corners of his eyes, and his mouth was turned down at the ends. He seemed the type of person whose face had settled into a permanent frown, and Oona could see why Adler was reluctant to approach the counter.

  “Hello, Mr. Shusher,” the librarian said in a hushed voice.

  “Mrs. Shusher,” the man replied, removing his hat and holding it in his hands.

  “Is everything settled?” she asked.

  “Oh yes. Took care of it this morning after you left.”

  “Hidden?”

  Mr. Shusher spun his hat on his finger. “Where no one would ever think to look.”

  “Perfect. Now I—” She stopped speaking and turned her head to look at Oona and Adler, both of whom were staring back at her.

  Oona quickly looked down at the book in front of her.

  “Mr. Iree,” Mrs. Shusher said, her voice somehow soft and authoritative at the same time. She gestured to the books on the cart. “Are these all organized?”

  Adler took in an audible gulp. “I . . . ah . . . Miss Crate here needed help finding some books.”

  Oona looked up. Both Mr. and Mrs. Shusher were looking at her.

  Mrs. Shusher placed her hand on the sorting cart. “It seems she has found the books, Mr. Iree, so now you may return to your duties.”

  “Yes, of course,” Adler replied, and made his way back to the cart.

  Mrs. Shusher turned back to her husband. “Would you like to stay for lunch, Mr. Shusher?”