"What do you want?"
The eager Sinder had taken a leave of absence. "Making sure you're okay. I've sent you several text messages."
She looked at me with a bored expression. "Really, Guinan. Like you care."
I looked at her unmade bed. She didn't ask me to sit. I pressed on. "Were you, by any chance, at the police station today?"
She lowered her head. "I was there for an hour this morning. I just didn't want to come to school afterward."
"Why did you have to go to the station?"
She sighed heavily. "The detective was here yesterday. She asked a bunch of questions about me and Desmond, then my altar. She called this morning and asked my mother to bring me to the station."
I wasn't surprised.
She folded her arms. "Ione must have told her about the altar. I mean, how else would she know? I doubt you said anything."
I confirmed I hadn't.
Sinder tugged on her ponytail and plopped down on her bed. I brushed crumbs off the desk chair and sat down.
"You know how she is. She thought it would be hilarious to tell the police about it." Sinder rubbed her face and appeared on the verge of crying. "Ione must have brought up...this thing...that happened a long time ago." She took a deep breath. "The summer she and Desmond got together, I came up with this dumb spell to break them up. He and I laughed about it afterward."
"Did you really believe your spell would work?"
"Yeah," she said, maintaining eye contact for the first time since I'd arrived. "They had this fight, you know? For a minute, just for a second, I thought it worked."
I nodded. "And Desmond told Ione."
"And that...bitch...who claims she doesn't believe in magic, told the cop."
I couldn't blame Ione. In a homicide investigation, everything was fair game. "Can I see your altar again?" I didn't wait for an answer. I opened the door and pulled on the light. I stared at a bare board.
"The detective took my stuff. All of it."
I spun around. "Why?"
Sinder shrugged. "Maybe she thinks she'll find cyanide or arsenic or something. Whatever." She laid back on her bed and closed her eyes.
I turned off the light and shut the door. I suspected what the detective really wanted—the bottles of oil.
"Are you coming to school tomorrow?"
"I don't know," she said, her eyes still closed. "The one good thing about having a drunken mother is she doesn't care if I go to school or not."
My cheeks grew hot. "What about your father?"
She snorted. "He's in California with his new family. But he sends a check every month and pays tuition."
I searched for something comforting to say. "I grew up apart from my parents since I was ten. I saw them only on holidays and—"
"That's nowhere near the same thing," Sinder said, sitting up. "Your parents love you. Your grandfather loves you. Everybody loves you."
The edge in her voice was so sharp, I flinched.
"Desmond sort of had a crush on you, but you probably didn't notice."
I dismissed it. "I was new blood, as they say. Something different to look at. That's all."
"Yeah, well, maybe I need to start over at new school."
I wanted to tell her that starting over never seemed to work out the way you expected. "If you ever need to talk, you can call me. I hope you know that."
Her pressed her lips together and swallowed. "I'm sorry. A lot's been going on. But things have to get better. November is Mourning Moon month in the pagan calendar. Time to leave the past behind, celebrate new beginnings."
The words hung in the air like a fresh scent. I left Sinder's house feeling like some kind of teen cop. Brown leaves on the sidewalk crackled beneath my feet. I tried to imagine Desmond having a crush on me. All I noticed was light flirting. He did that with most girls, even the kind I knew he'd never go out with. He'd been charming and easy-going. He seemed the polar opposite of a bully.
I also found myself wondering whether Ione really was a virgin and what made me question it. I didn't know Desmond or Ione well enough to presume they'd done the deed. Sinder hadn't brought it up.
You didn't ask.
When I arrived home, I was halfway up the stairs when my mother appeared at the top.
"What's wrong?"
"Why do you always ask me that?" she said. "Does something have to be wrong?"
I noticed both her hands balled into fists. She saw me looking and relaxed them.
"What's wrong?" I repeated.
She pulled her hair behind her ears. "That detective called. She wants you to come to the station tomorrow morning."
Chapter Fourteen
"Granddad, I can't eat anything."
"Nonsense. You need something on your stomach."
I stared at the eggs he'd slid onto my plate and the bowl of fruit he'd taken from the fridge. My stomach ached at the sight of them.
"Why in the world are you nervous?" he said. "We went over this last night."
I picked up a fork and cautiously speared a chunk of cantaloupe. I put the whole thing in my mouth. Its cold juice settled my stomach. My grandfather tried to convince me last night that Detective Czarnecki wanted my insight into the case.
"Granddad, the way you said it sounded cool. I don't think that's what's going to happen."
"She can't admit she wants your consultation," he said, refilling his coffee mug. "But the police sometimes work with psychics." He eased himself onto the chair across from me. "And since I'm here, maybe I could help them with—"
"You're way out of your jurisdiction, Dad." My mother swept into the kitchen and went straight to the coffee pot. "I've been thinking about what you said the other day, about us helping Guinan as a family." She filled a mug and leaned against the counter, facing us. "I don't know if three deaths in four months is a coincidence or a pattern. Either way, I can't pretend it isn't happening. Reggie and I need to help her deal with it."
"Wait," I said, my mouth full of pineapple, "that death following me around stuff was just talk. It's not true." I looked at my grandfather. "Right?"
He avoided my gaze. My mother glanced at her watch. "Fifteen minutes."
The fruit suddenly looked slimy. I pushed away the bowl.
***
Detective Czarnecki's request had been annoyingly vague. Obviously it had to do with the case, but I wondered what more I could tell her. Part of the morning's nervousness was the anticipation of entering a crowded police station. But contrary to what I'd imagined, the place was practically deserted. At least the lobby was. My mother and I flipped through old magazines for half an hour. I kept checking my cell.
"Try to relax," my mother said. "Look at me. I'm relaxed."
We'd traded personalities. While I itched to bite my nails, my mother claimed to be as cool as a breeze. As I prepared to give her a snarky answer, Detective Czarnecki rounded the corner.
"Mrs. Jones, Miss Jones, thank you for coming."
My mother rose before I did and shook the detective's hand.
"Would you follow me, please?"
I stood on shaky legs, and my mother put an arm around my shoulder. The rest of the building was bustling. I avoided looking into offices as we made our way down the hall. Voices, laughter, printers, slammed drawers, and ringing telephones filled the air. We turned a corner and walked down another long hallway. The detective stopped at a conference room and gestured us inside.
"Coffee?"
"None for me, thank you," my mother said.
The room had a carpeted floor and a long table in the center. Several chairs sat haphazardly around it. A table in the corner held a coffee machine, Styrofoam cups, and packets of cream and sugar.
"Guinan?"
I blinked and looked at my mother.
"Are you okay?"
I gave a half-shrug and brushed my hair off my face. My mother and I sat beside each other.
"Well now," the detective said, plopping into a chair opposite us and ope
ning a file folder. "I called you here to clear up a few things before the...before I can move on to the next phase of the investigation."
"I want to help in any way I can."
She raised her eyebrows. "Good. You visited Sinder Gillespie the Saturday after Desmond's death?"
I nodded.
"Did you visit her before that day? Enter her room?"
"No."
She looked at a paper in the file. "You saw the contents of her closet. Her witch's altar?"
I glanced at my mother, who kept a straight face. "Yes."
"Describe what you saw."
I did so.
"And did you, at any time, touch those bottles? Handle them?"
"No."
"We've collected those and other items from Miss Gillespie's closet," she said. "Our lab has determined that the contents of one of the bottles contained peanut oil."
I gaped. For a brief moment, I'd allowed myself to consider the possibility of Sinder poisoning Desmond.
The detective seemed to be studying my face. "You maintain that you didn't touch or handle any of the items on the altar?"
My mother shifted in her seat. "Are you implying that my daughter put peanut oil in the bottle?"
Detective Czarnecki's penetrating gaze slid to my mother. "I'm just trying to determine the facts. There are serious charges pending, and we don't want to—"
"I can't have been the only person with access to that altar," I said.
"No," she conceded. "But according to Miss Gillespie, you were the most recent."
I sat straighter, my nervousness receding. "Did she accuse me of messing with her stuff? I was never out of her sight."
Something seemed off about this interview. The police could easily determine whether I handled anything in Sinder's closet. They hadn't requested my fingerprints, which led me to believe they didn't need them. Or maybe they assumed I wore gloves. But what's my motive?
The detective sat back and folded her arms. "Has anything happened in recent days you think might be relevant?"
I hesitated, noticing she hadn't answered my question. "The other day, someone left a note and marigold petals in my locker." I glanced at my mother. "I think it was a joke."
My mother shifted in her seat, her expression neutral. "What did the note say?"
"'When you die, no one will hear your thoughts.'"
Her expression faltered slightly, but she kept her composure.
"The flowers," Detective Czarnecki said, narrowing her eyes.
"Tessa Hicks planted marigolds in her garden," I said. "She also planted them in the woods over a box that contained a baby's nightgown."
My mother sighed heavily. "Blogs picked up on that detail. It's not just a sick joke. It's cruel."
"From now on, Miss Jones," the detective said, leaning her elbows on the table, "I want to know about anything unusual, no matter how trivial it might seem to you. Did you keep the note?"
I nodded. "It's in my bag in the car. I didn't bother using gloves. Whoever left it probably wore gloves when he or she handled it."
"I agree," she said, pushing her chair back. "I'll walk out with you and take a look at it. One more thing before we conclude." She bit her lip and glanced at my mother. "I've read about the Ridge Grove case, about your, uh, special insight."
Granddad's voice echoed in my mind. She can't admit she wants your consultation.
"If you have any insight into this case, I'd like to hear it."
My mother stirred and put her hand on top of mine.
I cleared my throat. "Do you believe in psychic phenomenon, detective?"
She smiled. "I believe in anything that will help me determine who killed that boy."
"I don't know how insightful it is, but I did listen to Desmond's final thoughts."
I averted my gaze so as not to see cynicism on her face and waited for the skeptical reply. But all she said was, "Go on."
I told her. It felt so strange talking to someone outside family or close friends about my clairvoyance. But I couldn't stop now. When I was done, I looked up to see her gaping at me.
"That's...interesting. You say you hear their thoughts?"
"It's a combination of seeing and hearing. I see the words, and then I hear them." I shook my head. "I don't know if that makes sense."
"It does, in a way." The detective pursed her lips.
"What I heard could mean anything," I said. "I figured Desmond was talking about a girlfriend."
"Or an ex-girlfriend," she said, flipping through the papers in the folder. "Ione Hamilton told me she and Desmond dated briefly."
"At the funeral, Sinder Gillespie said that he wanted to get back together with her."
She raised her eyebrows. "Is that so?"
"But she didn't know that for a fact," I said quickly. "She was upset, obviously, and I think she was just speculating about—"
"Was she angry?" The detective wrote something in her notebook.
Was I getting Sinder in more trouble? Be honest. "I think it was more grief than anger. But I'm speculating."
The detective rose from the chair and straightened her jacket. "You've been helpful, Miss Jones. Again, if I have further questions, I'll be in touch."
Relieved it was over, I got up and drew in a deep breath. Walking down the same halls on the way out was a much different experience.
It's done. It's over. And I didn't throw up.
Detective Czarnecki followed us to the car to retrieve the note and the envelope. She took them with a gloved hand. "I'll have them dusted, although I don't expect to find prints." She placed both in a small plastic bag.
"Do you consider it a threat?" my mother said.
"It's hard to say at this point." In contrast to my mother's tone, the detective's was clinical. "It could become important. That's why I want your daughter to contact me if anything similar happens. Worst case scenario, I'll have more information than I need."
Lucky her. I didn't want to think about what such a scenario would be for me.
"One more thing," she said. The detective seemed to consider whether to continue. "It might not have anything to do with Desmond's death. Our investigation has turned up a rumor about students buying term papers and reports online. We haven't fully developed that angle, but if you could keep your eyes and ears open, we'd appreciate it."
"Detective Czarnecki," my mother said, "are you asking my daughter to do your job?"
The detective and I both stared at her.
"Of course, not. But you'd agree that your daughter has special insight. I'm giving her a piece of information that might be relevant." She turned to me. "But the information won't be made public. It's just a rumor I've filed away in the back of my mind."
She stared at me so intently, I realized what she wanted from me.
"Ladies, have a good day."
Granddad was right. Detective Czarnecki had so much as verified that she wanted my help. A consultant? My mind teemed with possibilities both dangerous and benign.
Chapter Fifteen
I wasn't in school ten minutes before someone told me to check the anonymous blog.
Love Spell Gone Wrong?
The Malcontent speculates that our own Sinder Gillespie '15, who's not at school today, either, might have unintentionally killed Desmond Drake after performing a "spell" that went horribly wrong. Here's what could have happened: she laced the dearly departed's food with some kind of potion. Then BAM! Lights out. More later.
I impatiently waited for the lunch period to discuss the situation with Luke, Embry, and Ione. When I arrived at the table, Luke was already there.
He stared at his cell screen in concentration. He looked up when I approached. "Have you seen the blog?"
I nodded and took the chair beside him. "Something weird is going on."
He raised his eyebrows. "Jones, you're the Mistress of Understatement."
I rolled my eyes. "What I mean is yesterday, when Embry and I went to Ione's house, we talked about Sind
er and spells and potions."
"And?"
"The next day, this blogger writes about the same thing."
He put his phone back in his pocket and opened a bottle of water. "So?"
I pressed my back against the chair and glanced at the door. "I think one of them might be the anonymous blogger."
Luke spit out some water and coughed. I couldn't tell whether he was being sarcastic or actually choking.
"I don't see what's so funny. Why not one of them? In fact, it could be you."
He grinned and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Could be anybody."
"No, it can't. It couldn't be me. Embry said it turned up a year ago. I didn't know any of you then." Eyes and ears open. I shifted in the chair and posed the question. "Luke, remember when Ione mentioned that guy, Casey-somebody, who bought a term paper?"
Luke's expression was hard to read. He slowly bit into his sandwich and took his time chewing and swallowing before answering. "Casey Markham. What about him?"
"Do you know anyone else who's bought one?"
"And if I did," he said, putting his sandwich down, "I wouldn't tell you. You think I'd rat someone out?"
I considered my next words. The detective mentioned the cheating for a reason. "It is an honor code violation. Do you think Desmond might have bought a paper?"
He snorted. "If he did, he didn't tell me. And screw the honor code."
His attitude didn't surprise me. "You're irreverent," I said.
He frowned. "Jones, you don't really believe a term paper writer would kill somebody to cover it up, do you? Seems kind of extreme, doesn't it? Then again, the extreme always makes an impression."
I repeated the phrase in my head. I held up a finger. "Hang on. I think I—"
"I know someone who bought a paper." Claire Capwell had sidled up beside Luke, unheard by either of us. "But I'd never tell. How are you holding up, Luke? I'm so sorry about Desmond. I don't remember when he was a jerk. He was always nice to me."
Mourning Moon (A Guinan Jones Paranormal Mystery #2) Page 9
