Veiled Magic

by Deborah Blake

  She turned the digital voice recorder on and set about creating the ritual that would summon back the ill-fated thief. She lit quarter candles in each direction: north, south, east, and west. As the wicks caught fire, she asked the element associated with each quarter to come and protect her circle. First the power of Air, to the east, then Fire, to the south, Water to the west, and finally, Earth to the north.

  As each element responded to her call, she could feel the energy of the circle grow, and her magic stretched and rose in response. When she finally called on Hecate, her personal matron goddess, the air practically crackled with power. The circle was cast, and she was in protected space. It was time.

  She spoke the name of the dead man three times, firmly, while visualizing his face. The incense twisted and flowed before her, eventually seeming to solidify into the shape of a man. Marty “the Sneak” Williams “stood” on the other side of the table, looking dimly confused and a little peeved.

  Donata figured his expression was probably habitual, although it might have had something to do with the fact that he was standing over his own dead body. Nothing ruins a day like staring down at your own corpse.

  “Martin Williams,” she said formally, for the benefit of the recorder, “my name is Officer Donata Santori, and I am the Witness Retrieval Specialist in charge of your case. Anything you say can and will be used as evidence in a court of law, and I am recording this conversation in the pursuit of justice.” She paused, waiting for it to sink in. “Do you have anything you wish to say before you depart from this plane of existence?”

  “Hey,” Marty said. “Ya mean I’m dead?” He looked down at his body lying on the floor. “Aw, nuts.”

  Donata tried not to roll her eyes. The dead often took a while to adjust to the reality of their new circumstances, although most of them said something a little more profound than “Aw, nuts.”

  “I’m afraid so, Mr. Williams,” she said. It always paid to sound professional and respectful on a recording that might end up being played in a courtroom. “You appear to have died in the commission of a robbery, during which you killed a man, a restorer named Clive Farmingham. Do you admit to these actions?”

  Marty tried to scratch his head, although his fingers didn’t quite make contact with the area where his skull would have been in life. Postmortem coordination was an acquired skill, for the most part.

  “Um, wait—so I’m dead?” The thief was clearly not the sharpest pencil in the drawer. Donata could see why the Chief didn’t think he’d come up with the plan to rob the museum. She stifled a sigh. These kinds of things took as long as they took. And let’s face it—even though they’d called her in on a Sunday, which was supposed to be her day off, it wasn’t as though she had anything important waiting for her at home. She could give the poor guy another couple of minutes to catch up.

  “Afraid so, Mr. Williams.” She pointed at the stairs behind her. “Apparently you slipped on your way out and broke your neck. You didn’t even fall that far; it was just a freak accident.”

  “Man,” the thief whined, “I can’t catch a break. Shit. I slipped on the freakin’ stairs? Now I ain’t even gonna get paid the other half of the money for the job.” The ghost slumped into a kneeling position, ignoring the body that used to be his. “Man. Life just ain’t fair.”

  Donata blew air out through her nose and crossed her arms in front of her chest. The guy was dead, and the only thing he was worried about was not getting paid? He was really missing the big picture here. Still, it wasn’t up to her to judge the dead. So she might as well get the information she needed.

  “About the job, Mr. Williams,” she said, “can you tell me who hired you to steal the painting?”

  The ghost shrugged ectoplasmic shoulders, making the incense swirl into and out of the shape of his body. “Yeah, sure. Damn guy got on my nerves anyway. Actin’ like he was such a big shot.” He scowled. “Franco’s his name. He’s a procurer—you know, somebody wants somethin’, he finds a way to get it for ’em. No questions asked, so long as you’ve got enough money. Then he hires guys like me to fetch whatever the customer ordered.”

  A thrill of triumph ran through her. She’d gotten the answer to half of the Chief’s questions already.

  “So do you know who commissioned the crime?” she asked.

  “Huh?”

  She rephrased the question, using smaller words. “Who hired Franco to have you get the painting?”

  Marty’s face remained blank. “Uh, sorry. No idea. Not my part of the job. Franco just says go to the museum, get the painting, bring it back to him. That’s all I know.” His expression turned resentful. “And he told me the museum would be empty, except for the guard. Shit. That stupid art guy wasn’t even supposed to be here.” Smoke eddied around the edges of his form, starting to dissipate as the reality of his situation sank in. Donata recognized the signs; the spell would only hold the thief a little while longer.

  “Okay, I understand.” She attempted to sound soothing, despite her distaste for the petty criminal’s whining. Maybe he’d had a tough childhood or something. “Can you tell me anything about the painting itself?”

  “You mean, besides how butt-ugly it is?” The ghost made a strange sound, like a snort with reverb. His voice was starting to echo a little as he slipped closer to the other side. “All I know is that Franco had a special order from a major player—somebody way out of his usual league. He was really stoked about it . . . even snottier than usual.” Marty shook his head regretfully. “Man, he’s gonna be pissed I screwed this up. There was some big money involved.”

  Donata figured she’d gotten enough information for the Chief—probably more than he’d hoped for. Certainly enough to make a case against Franco, even if they might never know why someone wanted this particular picture. Some collector, probably. Time to send poor Marty on through the veil. Maybe he’d do better in his next life. She thought he probably couldn’t do much worse.

  “That’s okay, Marty,” she said softly, clicking the recorder off. The courts didn’t need to listen to this part. “You don’t have to worry about Franco anymore. You don’t have to worry about anything. It’s time to go home.”

  She lifted her arms and wove a pattern of arcane symbols through the smoke, and the form began to waver and stretch.

  “Home?” The thief gave her a hesitant smile, barely visible on his disappearing face. “Home?” A bright light shone behind him, and he vanished, leaving Donata standing in the circle with his corpse.

  “Yes, Marty,” she whispered to the empty room. “Your work is done now.”

  And so was hers. She’d done as the Chief had asked, and hopefully he’d be pleased enough to let her out into the field more often. Donata thanked the goddess, dismissed the quarters, and snuffed out the candles; she couldn’t believe it had gone so well.

  “Ahem.” Someone cleared his throat behind her with an apologetic sound. “Miss?”

  Aw, nuts.

  * * *

  When she turned around, the man she saw looked nearly solid, much more so than the ghost she had just been talking to. If she hadn’t seen his dead body by the scarred workbench an hour ago, she might have had to look twice to be sure he was really a spirit. But under the circumstances, she didn’t have much doubt.

  “Clive Farmingham,” she said to the specter, “I did not summon you. You are free to go.” She waved her hand toward the ceiling. “The light awaits.”

  Instead of disappearing as she’d expected him to, the ghost simply looked anxious, wringing his thin hands and scrunching up his brow as if trying to remember how to speak. Although he’d just done so a second ago. Donata sighed. This was why she did her rituals in a basement, damn it. Fewer uncontrolled variables. Obviously the spirit of the murdered restorer had somehow gotten caught up in her spell to summon the thief.

  She moved back toward her makeshift al
tar, intending to recast the circle and send the restorer on his way. But when he stepped in front of her and lifted his hands in a pleading motion, Donata reconsidered. He was awfully solid for a new ghost. Must have had unfinished business—that sometimes gave a spirit unusual energy and strength of purpose. So instead, she concentrated on sending her own aura flowing toward his. As long as a ghost meant no harm, that was a safe and effective way to ease communication between the living and the dead.

  Once she’d made it apparent she was paying attention, the dead restorer seemed to calm down a little. As her aura touched the wispy edges of his, she could hear his thoughts clearly enough—unfortunately, he was so upset, all she got were fragmented, incoherent bits and pieces. Some of it centered around the painting, but the rest were scattered memories of restoration technique, tools, and instructions, some guy named Ricky, and . . . pimentos? No, that couldn’t be right, could it? Was the guy really thinking about his lunch?

  Donata gathered her energy and sent it out toward Farmingham in soothing waves of blue light. Focusing on her own breath (since he no longer had any), she inhaled and exhaled a few times slowly. The serenity of her aura eventually leeched into his, and his frantic expression eased momentarily.

  She sat down on the floor, motioning to a space in front of her. After a minute, Farmingham drifted over to join her, closing the space between their auras even more.

  “There now,” she said, encouragement coloring her mental voice a bright orange, “isn’t that better? Why don’t you tell me whatever you have to say, and I promise I’ll pass it on to whomever you want. Then you can let go and move on.” This was usually all most ghosts wanted: to say their final good-byes, leave a message for a loved one, or confess to some perceived sin.

  But Farmingham shook his head, transparent locks of graying hair flopping around his anguished face. He pointed one trembling finger in her direction.

  Oh, for the love of the goddess.

  “You have to tell me something?” This just didn’t make any sense. She’d never even met the man before today. Not that you could exactly call this “meeting.” She tried again. “Is there something you need someone to know?”

  The restorer pointed at the painting, still lying on the floor where it had fallen. “The painting, Witch,” he rasped. “You must not let them have it.”

  “Them? Them who? Do you mean the thief?” She tilted her head in the direction of the body. “I assure you, he’s not getting anything, except another spin around the karma wheel. The painting is going to a nice, safe evidence locker. Nothing is going to happen to it.”

  If anything, her reassuring speech made Farmingham even more upset.

  “No, no!” he wailed. “Pentimento. Ricky knows. Not again. The Burning Times. Ricky!”

  Donata shook her head. What the hell was a pentimento? And what did it have to do with the Burning Times? A shiver ran down her spine, but she shook it off. This was getting her nowhere, and the Chief was waiting for her report about her ritual with Williams. She didn’t want to screw up and end up stuck in the basement for another seven years.

  “Look,” she said to the ghost, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It is obviously important to you, whatever it is, but I don’t know how to help you. You need to trust me when I tell you, the painting will be fine. Someone else will finish restoring it once the trial is over and it is released from evidence. In the meanwhile, it is time for you to move on.”

  The spirit let out a soul-searing shriek. “Noooooo. Ricky knows. Ricky will help.” His voice petered out into muttered babbling, mixed with what sounded like a frustrated sob. Donata knew exactly how he felt.

  “Mr. Farmingham, I’m sorry, really I am, but I don’t know anyone named Ricky. I have to go now.” She got up and walked toward her altar and her magical supplies. “And so do you. The painting will be safe. Whoever ‘they’ are, they won’t be able to get it. You need to let it go and move on. The painting isn’t your problem anymore.”

  With practiced movements, she lit the sage stick and started to waft it around. As she concentrated on clearing the space, the ghost grew thinner and more transparent. Satisfied that he was safely on his way, she continued with the minor banishing ritual she used to help particularly stubborn spirits start on the next leg of their journey.

  Donata squinted as a bit of smoke blew into her eyes. She liked being able to help ghosts, but sometimes they were just too confused. She could definitely sympathize with that.

  Chapter Three

  “That’s it,” Donata said, handing the recording to the Chief. “Sorry he didn’t know the name of the guy who commissioned the robbery.”

  The Chief gave her a satisfied look and tucked the tiny tape away in a pocket of his uniform. “What you got is fine,” he grunted. “More than I expected. No way Franco can weasel out of this one, no matter how expensive his lawyer is.”

  Donata thought he was pleased with her, although with the Chief, it was always hard to tell. “So, am I done here?”

  The big man puffed out a breath that ruffled his mustache. “In a hurry to get back to the office where things aren’t so messy, Santori?” He gave her a measured look.

  Donata shook her head. “Not at all, Chief. Just figured I’d get a head start on the paperwork, if you didn’t need me for anything else here.”

  “Huh.” He handed her the painting that had caused all the fuss. “Fine. Then you can take this back to the lockup with you—save me carting it over later.”

  “Excuse me!” a high-pitched voice said indignantly. “You can’t take that painting! It’s valuable museum property. You might damage it!”

  George Turnbull, the museum’s curator, scurried over from the corner where he’d been hovering by the officer interviewing the security guard. A stout man with bristly sideburns who bore a startling resemblance to a muskrat, Turnbull had been getting underfoot since he’d arrived there.

  Chief O’Malley turned on one heel with surprising grace for such a big man and put on a meticulously polite face for the curator. Donata tried not to smile. Her boss was notorious for getting around pompous bigwigs without ever letting them realize they’d been “handled.”

  “Mr. Turnbull,” the Chief said.

  “Doctor Turnbull,” the curator corrected.

  “Of course. My mistake.” Chief O’Malley inclined his head courteously. “About the painting—”

  “You can’t possibly take the painting,” Turnbull said, full lips pursed. “We’ve only just acquired it. It’s a valuable piece, you know.”

  Donata and the Chief both looked at the painting dubiously.

  “I’m sure it is,” the Chief agreed. “And I assure you, the police will take proper care of it, once it is entered into evidence. I’m afraid that’s the law in cases such as this.”

  The curator huffed. “Impossible. The insurance paperwork alone—”

  “I understand completely,” said the Chief. “Although I expect that the insurance company would be more upset if the people trying to get their hands on it came back and ruined other more expensive artwork in the process.” He paused, and Donata struggled to keep her expression from disintegrating.

  “Wait. You think the men responsible for this will send someone else to steal the painting?” Turnbull’s face turned red with alarm. “Even after the first thief died?”

  The Chief nodded solemnly. “Oh, almost certainly. A dead man more or less means nothing to those kinds of people.” He smiled pleasantly. “Of course, if you insist on keeping the painting—”

  The curator shook his head rapidly, making his bewhiskered jowls quiver. “No, no, Chief O’Malley. I quite see your point. Obviously, the station is the safest place for the painting.” He hesitated, obviously caught between fear and duty. “Just let me wrap it up for you in archival paper and put it in a crate. It ought to be safe enough to store that way, even if
you don’t have the proper temperature controls.” He walked away muttering, clearly relieved to have found a compromise that took the painting off his hands.

  Donata glanced sideways at her boss. “Nicely done, sir.”

  He grunted. “Just take the damn thing down to the station and get it stowed away in the evidence lockers. If we’re lucky, we’ll never have to see it again.”

  Behind them, a stack of paperwork slid onto the floor. Donata looked around for an open window that might have created a breeze, but there wasn’t one in a museum, of course. She bent down to replace it and almost tripped over the untied laces of her shoes. For the goddess’s sake. She hated to admit it, but she’d almost be relieved to be back in her comfortable if dingy basement office. The real world was just too damn untidy.

  * * *

  “Sign here. Initial here. And here.”

  She sighed as the attendant at the evidence lockers pushed yet another piece of paperwork in her direction.

  “And here.” One ink-stained finger pointed at a blank space on the intake form. “Legibly, please.”

  Donata put her signature at the bottom of the last sheet and handed the painting over to the officer behind the counter. “There you go. It’s all yours.” She turned to leave.

  “Hey, not so fast,” the attendant said indignantly. He pushed the painting back in her direction. “Haven’t you ever brought in evidence before?”

  She thought about reminding him that she usually spent her days in a room two hallways down, talking to dead people, but she figured he’d like her better if she didn’t.

  “Sorry, not my usual area,” she said. She tried aiming a smile at him instead. “What am I missing?”