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

by Shawn Thomas Odyssey

  “Oh, I see,” Oona said, her face going quite red. “I’m here to do research, actually.”

  The librarian gave Oona a skeptical look and was just about to say something when the daytime guard opened the door.

  “Hello, Mrs. Shusher,” he said.

  “Good morning, Victor,” she replied and stepped over the threshold into the museum. Mary gave Oona a fleeting glance and followed her mother inside.

  When Oona started to follow them in, the guard put up a hand to stop her. “Sorry, but the museum and the library open at nine o’clock. You’ll have to wait outside for a few minutes.”

  “Oh, I see,” Oona said, but as the guard began to close the door, she added: “What time do you change shifts from the night shift to the day shift?”

  The guard peered at her for a long moment. “No offense intended, miss, but Inspector White told me you’d probably be back, asking more questions. And he said I don’t need to answer any of ’em.”

  Oona shrugged, as if it did not matter. “Yes, of course he did. Inspector White thinks you can’t decide for yourself who to talk to.”

  “Huh?”

  “And maybe he’s right not to trust you. Maybe you’re a suspect, and he thinks that you’ll accidentally let something slip to me . . . and I will solve the case before him.”

  The guard frowned. “Me, a suspect? But I’m the one who found Elbert tied up. I cut him loose. Why would I have anything to do with it?”

  “Elbert?” Oona asked. “That’s the night watchman’s name?” She had a vague recollection of the guard having told her this before.

  “That’s right,” the guard said. He sounded indignant. “Elbert Hackelsmith. And I don’t care what the inspector thinks, I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Oona said. “Now what time did you say you usually switch from the night shift to the day shift?”

  This time the guard did not hesitate. “Seven o’clock every morning.”

  “And that’s what time you found the night watchman, Elbert Hackelsmith, on Tuesday morning?”

  “That’s right,” said Victor the guard. “Found him lying there on the floor all tied up. Mr. Glump, the curator, came in a few minutes later. Told me to fetch the police, so I did, lickety-split. Took the constables nearly two hours to find what was missing.”

  “The Faerie Carbuncle,” Oona said. Again she experienced that uneasy feeling at the thought of the potential power the magical gemstone could bestow its owner. She reminded herself that the spell to activate it was long lost, but still, this did not make her feel much better.

  “Yeah. The glass case was broken and everything,” said Victor. “The thieves didn’t take anything else.”

  Oona looked past the guard, trying to get a look at the clock in the entryway. “Is it time to open?”

  The guard turned. “Oh, look there. So it is.”

  He stepped aside and let Oona inside.

  “Thank you, Victor,” she said, and headed upstairs toward the library.

  The guard watched her go, shaking his head as if realizing that she had just tricked him into giving her information he had not intended on giving.

  “I never was a suspect, was I?” he called after her.

  “How should I know?” Oona said. “Inspector White is quite good at accusing innocent people.”

  She glanced back to see the guard’s expression turn from irritation back to concern.

  “That was clever of you,” Deacon said as they ascended the steps. “Yet I don’t see the significance of it. What does it tell us?”

  “I don’t know,” Oona said. “But it’s good information to have. It gives us a time frame. The victim, Mr. Elbert Hackelsmith, was attacked at around nine o’clock in the evening and then found at seven o’clock the next morning.” Again she thought of how the name Hackelsmith was somehow familiar. “By the way, what do we know about the night watchman?”

  Deacon paused, as if searching for the correct data. After a moment he said: “According to the Dark Street Who’s Who, Elbert Hackelsmith is the night watchman for the Museum of Magical History and has been for nearly ten years. It is his only job on record. He is single and lives alone. He is the son of Wendell and Wanda Hackelsmith, both prominent undertakers.”

  Oona pushed through the library door. “What else?”

  “Nothing factual. There is a rumor that his parents, the Hackelsmiths, were vampires. But this is unproven, and likely something people say because the Hackelsmiths worked with the dead for a living.” Deacon began to chuckle, as if he had just made an amusing joke.

  Oona gave him a disapproving glance, and then all at once it came to her . . . where she had heard that name before. Of course, the Hackelsmiths had been the undertakers who had handled the funeral arrangements not only for Oona’s father but also for her mother and baby sister.

  She came to a sudden halt, thinking how small the world of Dark Street was.

  “Are you lost?” came a familiar voice. It was Mary Shusher, who was pushing a cart full of books toward the far end of the room.

  “Oh no,” Oona said, but then, reconsidering, she added: “Actually, yes. Can you point me in the direction of the art section?”

  Mary pointed toward a wall of books close to the reference desk and then came to a stop. She looked as if she were about to say something. She considered Oona for a moment and then in a hushed tone said: “Thank you for not telling my mother about my secret. Maybe one day she will understand.” She gestured toward the cart full of books. “But until then, it’s a life of shelving books, I’m afraid. By the way, now that I’ve had time really to think about it, that food your faerie served us last night . . . I know I ate it, and loved it, but I can’t actually seem to remember doing so. It’s like I ate it in a dream. Isn’t that strange?”

  Oona nodded. “You know, I had a similar feeling this morning. I figured it must have been the faerie ingredients and magical technique that somehow wiped it clean from my memory. I asked Samuligan about it, and he said he did it on purpose . . . to be kind.”

  “Kind?” asked Mary, clearly perplexed.

  Oona had had the same reaction earlier that morning.

  Yes, kind, Samuligan had said. If I had not done so, then every meal from this time forward would be compared to that one . . . and no meal would ever be able to compete. You might have even stopped eating all together because all other food would seem boring, dull, and gray. By adding an ingredient of forgetfulness, your next meal will now be judged on its own merit . . . as it should be.

  Oona had marveled at this, astonished that the faerie had had such forethought. Samuligan was truly a master of magic.

  But when Oona recounted the conversation to Mary, the assistant librarian frowned at the cart of books. “Yes . . . or perhaps the meal was not as good as I thought it was. I just don’t know.” She shook her head in earnest confusion. “Well, I really should get back to work. Good day.”

  The two of them parted company, Mary rolling her cart in one direction and Oona and Deacon venturing in the other. The art section turned out to be one of the largest sections in the library. The two of them began scanning the shelves for the name of the book Isadora had told Oona about the previous night. Because of the alphabetical system of organization, Oona found the book in no time.

  “This is it,” she said excitedly and hurried to a nearby table. She set the book down and stared for a moment at the cloth cover: Knots: The Art of Abraham McGillicuddy.

  Opening to a random page, she discovered a full-page illustration of one of the most unusual knots she had ever seen. It looked like a dog’s head, with long droopy ears and sad eyes. She was not surprised to read that the name of this particular knot was the Sad Dog Knot. The opposite page displayed several much smaller illustrations that showed the various steps that were needed in order to achieve the knot using a single piece of rope. Tiny arrows showed which end of the rope slipped into which loop.

  “Extraordi
nary,” Deacon said from her shoulder. He leaned forward to get a better look.

  “Quite extraordinary,” Oona said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  She turned the page to find an equally fascinating knot known as the Pharaoh’s Pyramid, in which the rope formed a perfect four-sided pyramid. The slim book was filled with page after page of unusual knots, all of which were dazzling to the eye even in the illustrations. Oona could only imagine that they would be even more spectacular when actually tied in a piece of rope.

  And then she found it, the page containing the Rose Knot. There it was, illustrated in its complex glory. Deacon let out a short gasp, and Oona placed a hand to her mouth. She found the image to be wondrous and yet ominous at the same time. The knot was so complicated that the instructional illustrations filled not only the entire neighboring page, but took up the two following pages as well.

  Oona was impressed that Isadora had been able to accomplish it the previous night. It started her thinking. “You know, Deacon, if this book was part of the public library’s collection, then anyone would have been able to check it out. Anyone could have learned to tie these knots.”

  “Look in the front to see who else has checked it out,” Deacon suggested.

  Oona did so. A card had been stuck to the inside front cover with the words property of dark street public library printed at the top. Below this were lines where anyone who had checked the book out would need to sign their name. There was only one name: Isadora Iree.

  Oona ran a hand through her long black hair, shaking her head. “It seems that Isadora is the only one who has ever checked this book out. And the date is from last week. But look at how old this book appears to be. Strange that no one has ever checked it out before.”

  “Perhaps it is newly acquired,” Deacon reasoned.

  Just then, Mary Shusher was returning to the reference desk with her cart. Oona carried the book to the counter and opened it to the inside cover. She pointed to the card.

  “I was wondering, Mary, if Isadora Iree is really the only person who has ever checked this book out?”

  Mary glanced at the card but was already shaking her head. “Not likely. That is part of a very old collection of art books. In fact, I know I have shelved it before, back at the old library.”

  Oona tapped her finger on Isadora’s name. “Then how come she is the only one who signed it out?”

  “Because those cards are new,” Mary said. “We got rid of the old cards when we moved to the new library because my mother wanted to start the system over fresh. Every book got a new card.”

  “Oh,” Oona said, shoulders sinking slightly, but then all at once she brightened. “Do you remember who checked it out from the old library?”

  Mary shook her head. “It was a long time ago. I’m sorry.”

  Oona nodded. “Well, would you mind checking it out to me? I should like to take it home.”

  Mary removed the name card from the front of the book and handed Oona a fountain pen.

  “Sign your name here.”

  Oona did so, and Mary dropped the card into a file box before placing another card into the book, this one printed with the due date.

  Oona thanked Mary and headed toward the exit. With the book tucked beneath one arm, Oona pushed through the library door and nearly ran right into Mary’s father on the steps that led down to the museum.

  “Ho-ho! Watch where you’re going there, miss!” Mr. Shusher said.

  The two of them did a little dance, trying to get around each other.

  Perhaps it was because Oona was so frustrated with not finding any real clue as to who the thieves were that she couldn’t stop herself from blurting out: “What is it that you are hiding, Mr. Shusher?”

  Mr. Shusher came to an abrupt halt. “I beg your pardon?”

  His highly lined face scowled, and his eyes squinted at her from beneath the brim of his bowler hat.

  “Be careful,” Deacon whispered in her ear.

  Oona ignored him. “Yesterday, Mr. Shusher, I overheard you say to your wife that you had hidden something. What was it?”

  Mr. Shusher continued to stare at her for a long moment, his face a mask of anger. Finally, he stepped toward her and began cracking his knuckles. Oona could not tell if it was just a nervous habit of his, or if he was trying to be threatening. Either way, it was quite unnerving.

  Oona moved against the stair railing, and Deacon puffed up his chest menacingly on her shoulder.

  Mr. Shusher jabbed his finger at her. “You mind your own business.”

  Oona held the knot book up in front of her like a shield. Mr. Shusher’s eyes flicked briefly toward the cover, and then as if realizing what he was doing, he shook his head and turned his back on her, disappearing through the library door. Oona let out a quick breath and placed her hand on the rail to steady herself.

  “That was reckless,” Deacon said. He shook his feathers as he shrank back to his normal size. “What possessed you to confront him like that? He might be one of the Rose Thieves, for all we know.”

  Oona was nodding. She started back down the stairs. “Mr. Shusher and his wife certainly have had access to this book. Who knows the library’s collection better than the librarian? Do you think he recognized the book when I held it up?”

  Deacon shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  Oona’s mouth twisted to one side. “I couldn’t tell, either. It happened too fast.”

  Deacon looked thoughtful. “But then again, they both have alibis for the night of the theft.”

  Oona pushed through the museum door and squinted against the outside glare. “They supposedly have alibis, but we can’t be certain. After all, Mary had a supposed alibi, but she lied, didn’t she?”

  “You think the mother and father are lying as well?”

  “It is a possibility. We should find out more about this book club of theirs, and see if the Shushers were, in fact, in attendance the night of the theft.”

  Deacon clacked his beak several times. “Might I suggest you spend at least some time researching your next battle test?”

  “What, you don’t think I have done fine so far?” Oona asked.

  “You have done quite well, according to your uncle . . . but it couldn’t hurt.”

  Oona stopped at the curb and looked up at Samuligan, who was waiting patiently atop the carriage. He looked as if he were lost in some sort of trance. His dark eyes did not appear to be focusing on anything in particular, yet there was a slight curving about his mouth, a mischievous bend, and Oona couldn’t help but wonder if the faerie were preparing for the challenge later that day. It made her shiver to look at him.

  “Perhaps you are right, Deacon,” Oona half whispered. “If Samuligan is preparing for this challenge, I might want to do the same.” And then in a louder voice, which seemed to snap Samuligan out of his daze, she said: “But first we must pick up Uncle Alexander and Mrs. Carlyle. We have a campaign rally to attend.”

  Chapter Nine

  The Rally

  “Let me guess,” said Mrs. Carlyle. “That’s him there. The one in the top hat.”

  Oona, Deacon, the Wizard, and Mrs. Carlyle approached the crowd of people surrounding the stage. Samuligan, who seemed uninterested in human politics, had stayed behind with the horse and carriage.

  The sun was out, lighting up the park grounds like green carpet, turning the shade beneath the trees into welcoming shelter.

  Mrs. Carlyle pointed toward the growing crowd, but Oona knew precisely whom the maid was referring to. Oona had spotted Adler’s shabby top hat and ragged cloak from as far away as the park entrance. He stood near the edge of the crowd beside his sister, Isadora, and their mother, Madame Iree, the famous dressmaker.

  “Perhaps you’ll give us an introduction,” the maid said.

  Oona’s face went very warm.

  She was impressed by the number of people in attendance. There must have been at least three hundred people.

  “Looks
like a good turnout,” said the Wizard.

  “Indeed,” Mrs. Carlyle agreed.

  “She’ll need more votes than this to win though, don’t you think?” Oona asked.

  “She will indeed,” Deacon said. “But look at that fancy display. Must have cost a fortune.”

  Deacon was referring to the festive decorations that had been hung from the trees and draped around the stage. Molly Morgana Moon’s campaign staff had been hard at work since Oona had last seen the stage the day before. Signs hung from every tree limb, each of them displaying a printed photograph of the candidate’s smiling face.

  The image accentuated Molly Morgana Moon’s large eyes, which looked both concerned and likable at the same time. Above her image had been printed slogans such as a vote for me is a vote for you! and let’s take back our street!

  It was all very professional and quite expensive-looking.

  “Molly Morgana Moon has always been good at raising money,” The Wizard said. “She knows all the right people. Perhaps I was wrong, and she does stand a chance after all.”

  That was encouraging, Oona thought, and then came to a stop at the edge of the crowd right behind Adler. She tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Ah, Miss Crate,” he said, spinning around and tipping his hat.

  “Hello, Adler,” Oona said. “I believe you know my uncle, the Wizard.”

  Adler bowed slightly. “Of course. Good day to you, sir.”

  “And a fine day it is,” the Wizard said agreeably.

  “And this is Mrs. Carlyle, our new housemaid,” Oona said.

  Adler’s eyebrows rose slightly at being introduced to a housemaid, which was highly unusual, Oona knew, but he recovered quickly and tipped his hat. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Carlyle.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Iree,” Mrs. Carlyle said, and gave Oona an overt wink. “And don’t you think Miss Crate is looking lovely today?”

  Adler gave a half shrug before answering: “She does . . . but then again, she looks lovely every day.”

  “Really? Is that so?” said a sharp, disbelieving voice, and Oona turned to discover Isadora staring at her, arms crossed.