by Kathy Dexter
The others grabbed pencils and started scribbling, erasing, and scribbling again.
After five minutes, Ally squealed, “‘Is,’ lines five and six.”
“‘In’ on line four,” Finn added.
Hunter shut out the babble of more letters being called. She’d delighted in inventing spells for the characters in her novel. That experience helped her now. She honed in on the rhyme scheme and the message from her grandmother.
After intense concentration on letters, words and meaning, Hunter held up her paper. “Another puzzle to solve.” The others gathered around while she read:
False face betrayal breeds
False heart dark evil feeds
Remove the mask of deception
Seek the meaning in reflection
Right is left
Left is right
Find the spell
To cast the light
Ally shook a fist toward the ceiling. “Thanks a lot, Mary.”
Hunter’s eyes glinted with amusement. “Give the woman credit. She took every precaution to protect the grimoire and still get it into my hands.”
“Yeah, and then a lot of nasty guys have come after it. And you.” Ally scowled. “What kind of grandmother puts her granddaughter in danger, anyway?”
“What happened to her?” Lou asked as they returned to their seats.
“According to my aunt Miranda, her parents, Mary and Angus, were killed in a car accident,” Hunter said.
“Ha!” Finn snapped his fingers. “That could be the one Logan wanted me to check. Something about faulty brakes.”
“Or perhaps something more deliberate?” Lou said.
“You mean my grandparents might have been murdered?” Like her parents? Hunter gulped a deep breath and shook her head. Too much of a leap, woman.
“Not too farfetched,” Lou said. “You have to ask why Mary Hawthorne went to all this trouble to concoct some fancy cryptogram, which only holds another puzzle.” Lou steepled his fingers against his unshaved chin, his brown suit rumpled as usual. “Makes you wonder if she knew trouble headed her way.”
“Why didn’t she tell anyone?” Hunter said. “Her daughters. The Gyld. Instead, she hid her journal in a fairytale book she inscribed to me. A three-year-old. What was her reason for that?”
“Too bad we can’t ask her.” Ally sighed and leaned back.
“Maybe you can.” Finn’s glance held speculation. “Twyla Temple might be able to contact her.”
“Speak to the dead?” Ally frowned at him. “Are you talking about a psychic? What nonsense!”
Lou poured some coffee and took a long swallow before he spoke. “Finn’s suggestion might not be as crazy as you think.”
Ally tilted her head. “You don’t seem the type to believe in such things, Lou.”
“You got me pegged, Miss Ally.” Lou set his cup on the coffee table. “Not easy to swallow the mumbo jumbo that goes on in this town.”
“Yet you think Twyla Temple can communicate with my grandmother’s spirit?” Hunter thought about the possibility of a psychic doing more than reaching Mary Hawthorne. What about contacting Meredith Sloane, too? The prospect tripled Hunter’s heartbeat and left her breathless.
“Been to one of her séances.” Lou pushed the words out as if they somehow clung inside his mouth. “Saw a ghost. Riley’s mother.”
“Are you sure?” Ally shook her head. “Sorry. I just find it hard to believe.”
“So did I,” Lou said. “Until she saved my cat.”
“Can’t hurt to at least talk to Twyla.” Finn stood. “I have to head back to the office. Between finishing the lead story for the Sunday edition, I’m going to dig into records for anything suspicious about Mary Hawthorne’s car accident.”
Lou volunteered to go with him. “Two sets of eyes should make the search go faster. Plus as a former police detective, I have contacts who might cough up some details missing from the police reports or news stories. You have a phone and a computer I can use?”
“Sure thing, Lou.” Finn clapped him on the back. “Glad to have your expertise.”
“Hey, we can all go.” Ally grabbed Hunter’s arm. “Here’s your chance to read the news stories about your parents’ deaths as well. Remember? We planned to do that when we first arrived in town.”
Hunter hadn’t forgotten. However, solving Mary Hawthorne’s riddle seemed more important, and Hunter had a glimmer of what it might mean. If she was right, she could translate the grimoire. But she couldn’t tell the others. She didn’t want to put her friends in any more danger than she already had. That meant she had to test her theory when she was alone. Maybe she could find an excuse to slip away while they pored over the files.
“Give me a few minutes to clear away this mess and freshen up,” she said.
“We’ll take care of the dregs from lunch.” Ally gathered the plates. “You go get ready.”
Hunter smiled her thanks and started toward the stairs. As soon as the others moved toward the kitchen with their hands full and their backs turned, she grabbed the journal and Lexa’s poster of Henry the Sapphire Dragon. She knew how to hide the journal so it would be safe. She fled to her bedroom.
CHAPTER 29
L OGAN SAT BEHIND HIS DESK and surveyed the room, now mostly emptied of the screeching, cursing, and bellowing protestors arrested at the book signing. Some, with witnesses willing to state they’d not taken part in the violence, had been released into an attorney’s custody until court opened Monday. The stone hurlers and culprits who’d defaced museum property waited in crowded jail cells for bond hearings.
Logan sourly eyed the stack of reports and took his time drinking the rest of his coffee.
Chief Stoner parked his body in the chair beside the desk. “You have all the prisoners squared away?”
“Pretty much. Dave Jones is still at the hospital having his hand treated.”
“You’ve interrogated. . .the others?” The only life in Stoner’s face seemed to be flecks of red flames in his eyes.
Logan called to the sergeant. “Mack, bring coffee.”
“You don’t have to coddle me, detective. Tell me how it went with Reenie.”
“She refuses to talk to me. So I’m leaving her alone with a policewoman for a while. Same for my stepmother.”
Stoner drummed his fingers on the desk. “You think they’ll confide in a female.”
“I figure if they have enough time to contemplate what they’ve done, with only four stark walls and a uniform for company, they’ll either want to persuade us they’re innocent or convince us they were in the right. Either way, they should provide more information, more evidence, about the organization behind the protest.”
“So it wasn’t a publicity stunt staged by the author of that kid’s book?”
The chief couldn’t still believe that fantasy, could he? “Not when Dave Jones tried to stab her. Lucky she fought back or we’d have a murder on our hands.” Logan kept his voice even, but anger simmered below the surface. The chief had too easily accepted Jones’ story about an unidentifiable buyer of the gas can with the incriminating fingerprints. Despite the obvious assault at the cottage, with destruction as its purpose, Stoner had nixed providing more security at the museum. As a result. . .
“You kept things from gettin’ out of hand, Logan. I shoulda given you the security detail you asked for.” Stoner stared into the distance, his gaze unfocused. “I couldn’t accept the idea that people in this community would actually become violent over a children’s book.”
“You really think that was the reason for the protest?” Heat circulated through Logan’s chest. Why couldn’t this man accept what happened? And why wasn’t he removing himself from an investigation that involved his wife? Logan chose his words prudently. “If Reenie and Sylvia would open up, we could learn more about who and what was behind it all.” He leaned back in his chair, but kept his eyes on the chief. “Who knows how much psychological damage was done to the children
?”
A muscle spasmed along Stoner’s tightened jaw. “Let me question Jones. I can squeeze him for information. Use family connections to get him to talk. If that doesn’t work, I’ll use my position as chief to scare the crap out of him.”
Logan opened his bottom drawer and drew out a yellowed folder streaked with old watermarks. He tossed it to the chief. “Maybe this will provide some leverage.”
Stoner arched an eyebrow. “Digging into old case files?”
“Just like you did with the Sloane case. This one involves the Hawthornes.”
“The original owners of the museum? Killed when their car smashed into a tree. That was an accident.”
“You were on the force then?”
“Just starting out. I didn’t have anything to do with that particular investigation.” Stoner opened the folder and read the top sheet. “Looks like the mechanic who serviced their car that day verified everything was in working order.”
“Signature?”
Stoner squinted. “Can’t make it out. Looks like a child’s scrawl.”
“I agree. So I sent an investigator to gather signed paperwork from several service stations in the city. We got a match on the scribble.” Logan stopped for effect. “Dave Jones.”
“So?”
“I staked out Jones’ garage two nights ago.” He saw the thunder forming in the chief’s face. “On my own time since you felt your wife’s cousin had provided an acceptable explanation for his fingerprint on the gas can dropped at the cottage.”
“Questioning my findings?” Stoner’s knuckles whitened as his grip tightened on the folder. “You defyin’ me, West?”
“No, sir.” Well, maybe. But Logan would do his job, despite a meddling boss. “I followed your orders to search for other evidence to identify the perps.”
“And?”
Logan summarized the conversation he overheard between Jones and Dr. Paul Fleming, directing the chief’s attention to Jones’ mention of jobs he and his men had done for Fleming, including the museum break-in. “Jones’ mention of ‘tinkering’ with brakes twenty years ago in a deal with Fleming caused me to do some research into car accidents during that time period. That led me to the Hawthorne file.”
“So you connected dots suggesting Fleming hired Dave Jones to cut the brake line on the Hawthornes’ car when they brought it in to be serviced. What would’ve been the motive?”
Logan shrugged his shoulders. “Something to ask when you interrogate him.” He reached into the folder for a handwritten note. “Ten years ago Meredith Sloane requested a copy of the investigation into her parents’ accident. This memo indicates she was supplied with that information.”
“So she would have seen the mechanic’s report, possibly known Dave Jones worked on her parents’ car.”
“What if Meredith went to talk to him, began to suspect he’d tampered with the brakes. . .?” Logan waited for a moment before continuing. “Jones came after Hunter with a knife. His weapon of choice? One he might have used to slice a brake line? A knife was used to kill Connor Sloane. And perhaps his wife. All of these only coincidences? I don’t think so.”
Stoner’s eyes darkened. He started to say something, but the sergeant, face pale, hurried toward them without the requested coffee.
Logan had a bad feeling. “What’s wrong, Mack?”
“Bad news, boss. Dave Jones escaped from the hospital.”
Logan rocketed to an upright position. “What! How?”
“We’re not sure. The cop guarding him is still unconscious.” Mack checked his notes. “Patrol cars are searching the neighborhoods around the hospital. Our men are looking for witnesses and checking every possible route Jones might have taken.”
“See if a cruiser is available to check out his gas station on Druid Lane. I’ll head there myself.” Logan started out of his chair.
Stoner rose. “I’m going with you.”
“Not necessary, Chief.”
Stoner forged ahead of Logan toward the front door. Grabbing car keys, Logan caught up with the police chief on the steps outside.
Once on the road, Logan concentrated on getting out of the downtown area. Traffic was heavy on a Saturday afternoon, and, as they neared the hospital, barricades brought cars to a complete stop as men in uniform checked each vehicle.
A tall young man with an athletic build, rumpled civilian clothes, and a badge attached to his belt hurried to Logan’s unmarked car and saluted the chief who sat in the passenger seat.
Logan rolled down his window. “Any sign of Jones, Carter?”
“No, sir.” Carter’s gray eyes gleamed with intelligence. “We’ve interviewed hospital personnel. One nurse who’d just arrived on duty told us he ran past her outside the emergency entrance. She didn’t know who it was at the time, but his behavior made her suspicious and she watched him for a few minutes. A black car stopped and picked him up, then drove east.”
“Are you sure it was Jones?” Stoner snapped.
Carter stood at attention. “Ponytail. Thin build. Weblike tattoo on neck. My sister has a pretty good eye for detail, sir.”
“The nurse?” Logan asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“How long ago did she spot Jones?”
“About fifteen minutes.” Carter’s brow furrowed. “She didn’t know he’d escaped from custody until one of her coworkers told her. She immediately called me. My day off, but I hurried down here to help. I sent a couple patrol cars in the general direction she’d indicated. But a black car and no license plate number. . .”
“Might as well end the roadblock,” Stoner grumbled.
“Yes, sir.” Carter pointed to his right. “If you turn here, you should be able to continue east without too much trouble.”
“What about the patrolman who was injured?” Logan asked.
“He’s started to come around. We have a man waiting to take his statement.”
“Good. You know what to do to finish up here.” Logan returned Carter’s salute, backed up, and worked his way around the barricade as Carter had recommended.
“Why don’t you stay here and direct operations, Chief?” Logan suggested.
“I’m going with you.” Stoner’s voice sharpened with annoyance. “Carter seems to have a handle on things, but he should be in uniform.”
Eyebrows raised, Logan glanced at the chief. “He said it was his day off. Yet he hustled down here after his sister’s call. And he had his badge.”
Stoner frowned but kept quiet.
Logan spun onto Griffin Highway. Once past the mall, they crossed the railroad tracks into the warehouse district. Logan slowed for the turn to Druid Lane. More cars littered the street on a Saturday afternoon than during the late night stakeout. He pulled into the familiar vacant lot across from the ramshackle service station.
The back door hung open on a broken hinge.
Logan maneuvered out of the car and pulled his revolver from the holster under his left arm.
Stoner slammed his door shut.
Logan spoke with as much composure as he could muster. “I’d like to move in without notifying our suspect.”
Red coloring crept up the chief’s neck. “Been a while since I hunted down an escapee.”
“I don’t see any movement, so maybe he didn’t hear us.” Logan scanned the scummy building. Not even the broken blinds in the bush-shrouded front window swayed.
“Maybe he’s not here,” Stoner said.
“Probably be smart if he avoided the place. But then a man attacking a girl with a knife where all kinds of witnesses can identify him doesn’t indicate particularly brilliant thinking. We better check the place out.”
Logan led the way across the street.
He stepped onto the opposite curb about four beats ahead of Stoner.
With a thunderous, earsplitting roar, the world exploded into a blinding fireball of flames. The scalding blast flung Logan through the air and smashed his body against something solid. Breath whooshed fr
om his lungs. A hot blackness wrapped around him and clogged his nose, his mouth. He couldn’t breathe.
A deep, dark abyss swallowed him.
CHAPTER 30
O N THE DRIVE to the newspaper, Hunter considered her options. What reason could she give for slipping away in order to check out her theory concerning Mary Hawthorne’s message? At the same time, she really wanted to see those news stories about her parents and grandparents. Knowledge about the past might provide some insight into who had cast the spell to block her memories.
She followed Ally, Finn, and Lou through the glass-paneled door.
Ally puckered her lips and whistled. “You run a weekly newspaper out of this small space?”
“Sure. It’s perfect for this digital age.” Finn opened the gate into the main area. “Our website contains daily news items, and we only print a weekly for those who like the physical touch of paper and wish to cut out recipes, engagements, weddings, births, funerals, sports achievements for family and friends.”
“Even though I have an e-reader, there’s something about holding a book in my hands,” Hunter acknowledged.
“Exactly why we cater to both types of customers.” Finn moved to his computer.
“You can make a living doing that?” Ally asked.
An older woman with deep green eyes and short, curly black hair––except for an odd stripe of white spiraling around one ear––walked toward them. “Our online advertising is quite profitable. Thanks to Finn’s ability to schmooze. Plus we generate a good income from inserts––like grocery ads––in the weekly physical paper.” She smiled and introduced herself. “I’m Hannah Parker.”
“The slave driver who makes sure I do my job.” Finn bowed in her direction.
“Nice to be appreciated now and then.” Hannah’s voice purred, flecks of irony underlying the softness. She glanced sideways at Finn. “For some reason, our advertisers seem to believe Phineas Franklin––a name which apparently denotes wisdom and experience––can provide them with a profitable market in Mystic Lake. Luckily, their confidence panned out. For them and us.”
