“So, possibly the girl’s name is Summer Greenfield?” David asked, scribbling in his pad.
Zinnie burst into hoarse laughter. “CPI Trew, she won’t be a girl anymore. Summer will be a woman. I’d imagine in her late twenties, or so.”
“What about ‘Deevie?’ Have you heard anything from her lately?”
Mrs. Kramp stared at David. “She took her own life when her little girl was seven years old. Barnabus’ handiwork. Summer spent the rest of her childhood years in another kind of slum from her childhood home. North Illwind’s state run School of Corrections for Girls.” Zinnie tossed her head back and downed the rest of the pino grigio from her glass. She pursed her lips.
“And, Barnabus. My husband, Barnabus didn’t do a damned thing about it. Except make a load of unfulfilled promises. So damaging.”
Zinnie slammed her glass on the table. “He let his little girl live a frightening life with nobody to trust, nobody to love her, nobody to …” her words sounded strangled.
“Barnabus knew? He knew he had a child? Did he ever see her? Did he contribute toward her upbringing? A trust fund, anything like that?”
David shot me a warning look. I was getting too involved. Too passionate. I felt it too. Perhaps it was the strain of the last couple of days. The stress of seeing the chief so close to … close to what? Death?
I gave my friend a slight dip of the head to let him know I had heeded his warning. I sat back in my chair and feigned casualness.
“He knew, yes,” Zinnie said. “He never saw Summer. But, as I said, he made them plenty of honied promises. That he'd visit his daughter and take her horse riding. That he would send money. That he would send for both of them when the time was right.” Zinnie paused. "Empty. Every last one of them. All empty promises."
She pulled some hand cream from her purse and snapped her bag shut. Piling on a dollop of scented lotion, she worked her hands vigorously.
“Both Deevie and Summer were duped. It’s as simple as that, I’m afraid. They were both played by a senselessly cruel and cold man. My husband.”
David and I looked at each other.
“I’m sure that must have been very hard to learn about,” I offered. “Did you try to contact Deva or Summer?”
Zinnie shook her head and wiped her eyes with her forearm.
“I did not. I thought about it, but with Barny’s political career and his illustrious position within Shields’ cabinet … well, as a ‘good’ wife, I couldn’t put my husband’s work life at risk,” she stated.
“Understandable,” David said. “Know where this ‘Summer’ is now?”
“I do not.”
The chief smiled and changed tack. “What about Shields? What was Barnabus relationship like with the governor? I mean, they surely must have worked on some pretty big issues. Did they always see eye to eye?”
“I’m sure they rarely saw eye to eye, chief,” Zinnie commented. “However, seeing as Barny was a sycophant to Shields, that kind of bickering was never really a problem between them. Gideon is a tremendously powerful man, in case you’re not aware. And, if you think you can get a handle on just how powerful he is, then you’re wrong. He’s far more influential than you could ever imagine. So, no, Barnabus never disagreed with the governor.”
Zinnie twisted at her ring finger. I noticed that where the ring should have been, there was just a simple band of slightly less tanned skin.
She wasted no time.
My friend guffawed. “Even with the power that the God that is Gideon holds, surely Barnabus would have a whole load of physical evidence on all of the governor’s ‘good’ deeds?” David said sarcastically.
Zinnie Kramp stiffened again. I saw her left eye twitch.
“Ah, well, the person foolish enough to try and ‘out’ Governor Shields for his out-of-the-public-eye ventures wouldn’t live long enough to ‘spill the beans,’ as it were,” she countered.
“Sounds ominous,” David muttered.
“Like a thriller novel, only real life,” Zinnie said.
“Did Barnabus keep any files on Gideon?” I asked. “Something that could hurt the governor’s reputation? If he did, and you know where they are, perhaps you’d be better off giving them to the chief here for safe keeping?”
Another gravelly laugh from the widow. “How perfectly naive of you, Ms. Jenkins!” Zinnie slapped her hand on the table to show us just how delighted she was with my question. “You think my home hasn’t already been ransacked by Shields’ men? You honestly believe that the Chief Warlock would allow some time for silent respect for my late husband?” She slapped the table again. “Pah! Shields’ was around my house only a couple of hours after the blast. If there was anything on the governor in our home, it’s certainly not there now.”
David leaned in across the table and laced his hands together in front of him.
“Well, I think that’s enough for now, Mrs. Kramp. Thank you for your time, it’s appreciated. We might have a few more questions for you a little down the road, are you sticking around on Glessie for a while?”
“No. I’m returning to Cathedral tomorrow. I’d rather not deal with all the questions and fanfare, but needs must. I have to take care of Barny’s funeral arrangements, after all.”
“Yes, of course,” I said. I smiled at Zinnie again, and she returned my warmth with a cold, flat stare.
The chief and I stood, said some awkward goodbyes and made our way to the exit.
“What did you make of that? I asked as we stepped out into a blustery October afternoon. Twilight already weighed down on the pale blue of the daytime sky.
David peered at me over his glasses. “Make of what? Kramp having a love-child, or the fact that Zinnie clenched up when we asked her about her relationship with Darkmore?”
“You saw that too?” I asked. “I wonder what Zinnie could be hiding?”
The chief pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know. But, I have a feeling we’ll be speaking to Mrs. Kramp.”
“Do you think she had anything to do with it? Do you think Zinnie tried to have her husband murdered?”
“Well, she’d stand to gain a pretty penny, I guess. Kramp would have left a packet of money in his insurance policy, so there’s that incentive for the grieving widow.”
“David it’s so sad, though. The story of Deevie and Summer?” I shook my head trying to clear the images of the sad story I’d mentally created for them.
My friend’s phone trilled. He held up a finger and took the call.
“CPI Trew,” he stated in his official voice. He stared at a spot on the ground while the person on the other end of the line spoke. “When?” David started pacing. “No, it’s okay. I’ll be there shortly. Thanks, Eve.”
David spun toward me.
“The Talisman suits are on their way,” he said. “They’re coming for the Warlock device.”
“Blast!” I stomped my foot against the wall. “What can we do, David? We need to analyze that weapon.”
“I know,” he said, scratching his chin. “I don’t know what we can do though, Hat. What I want doesn’t matter to them. They want to run their own tests, so they can do what they want.” David planted his hands on his hips and blew out a breath.
“I could ask Portia?” I said, pushing off the wall. “She’s always been able to pull some strings in the capital,” I added hopefully.
“Pull some strings? Rip out some hearts, more like,” David snorted. He really didn’t have the warm ‘n’ fuzzies for the old witch. He looked at me. “But, it’s definitely worth a shot. I’m going to the station now; I can see if I can hold the suits off for a bit. Think you could get hold of the Witch Fearwyn and see if she might be able to use her seemingly endless influence?”
“I’ll go back to the apothecary to get my broom,” I said, already mentally planning the fastest route to the Gorthland Swamps, where Portia lived. “Hold them off as long as you can, okay?” I reached for my friend’s arm, and he pulled away instantly.
“I will, don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll come to the station right after? We can take this time to talk to Eve about Kramp and his medication too,” he added.
I pretended not to notice the brush-off. “I’ll be there within the hour,” I assured him.
Our eyes met briefly, then David turned on his heel, leaving me momentarily flummoxed. For the love of Bast, my friend's 'hot and cold' routine was getting under my skin.
I shook my head and fell into a brisk stride as I carried my confused head back to The Angel.
Chapter Nine
“But it’s at least a mile thick; they won’t get through that for at least another year, man,” Shade was advising Carbon just as I pushed through the door of The Angel.
“What’s a mile thick?” I questioned, walking toward Millie and my cats, who had gathered for a little pow wow around the cash register. At least there were no customers, I guess.
“We’re talking about the waterfall, and the amount of stone the grumlins need to get through to weaken the flow,” Millie said. Her Unicorn hair was tied in a loose ponytail at the nape of her neck, but she had pulled the tail forward over her shoulder in a rainbow cascade.
“Ugh, I know,” I said, “It’s depressing to think about, but, guys, I don’t really have time to discuss this right now. I need to get out to Portia’s. Talisman is on their way to GIPPD to take the Warlock weapon away. And, we need to get it to Orville first, so he can take a look at it and see if he recognizes the signature at the core of the gadget.”
A lot of bouncing, pouncing, meowing and purring emanated from my frantically happy kitties. They didn’t hear anything I said past the words ‘Portia Fearwyn.’ A trip to the Gorthlands meant only one thing to them: they’d get to hang out with their ‘cuz,’ Hinrika, Queen of the Fae.
“Guys, no,” I said, putting up my hands. “This isn’t a social visit. Talisman is taking away the evidence. Can you see that this is kind of a big deal? I need to get to Portia to see if there’s anything she can do,” I explained, already walking toward the back of the shop where I’d find my broom. I stopped when I saw first a bottle, then a small box, fly from underneath the counter to land on the floor. I stared. Some clinking and rustling noises. My cats’ heads peered over the counter to see what the commotion was. Another bottle came flying out, and behind it a black curling tail.
“Fraidy?” I said, stepping closer. My eyebrows furrowed. “What are you doing down there, buddy?”
“We’re running low on supplies,” he whined. “We’re all out of Mother Night. When are we getting some more? I can’t find any!” My timid cat was on the brink of hysterics. He’s freaking out about hair dye? What the..?
The door of The Angel tinkled then, and a large-boned man with a confident stride, and sporting a trilby hat, made a beeline for the counter. My cats stopped their antics and gawked at the customer.
The man greeted me before I could take another step toward my broom.
“Ms. Hattie Jenkins, is it?” His eyes were charcoal gray and deep set. Black bushy brows matched a strand of errant hair peeking out from under his hat.
“Yes, may I ask who’s inquiring?” I said, stepping toward the counter once more.
“Ulrich Darkmore, ma’am,” he tipped his trilby in an archaic gesture of chivalry. “Darkmore of Shadow Supplies. You might have heard of it?”
“Yes, I’m familiar with your business, Mr. Darkmore. Millie told me you were here yesterday,” I said. “How can I help you?”
Darkmore produced a business card from between his leather-gloved fingers, placed it on the counter, and tapped it carefully with a black-leathered index finger.
“I would venture to say that you would also be helping me. I would propose this would be a mutually beneficial agreement, in fact.”
Ulrich smiled, but the warmth of it didn’t touch his slate colored eyes.
“Are you suggesting that you should be my supplier?” I asked, my tone neutral.
“I am, Ms. Jenkins. I have my ear to the ground, and let’s just say that I know of your impeccable reputation as an apothecarian, and also your deep respect for marvels of plant-life.”
I didn’t like the way Darkmore pulled at his lobe when he said he had his ear to the ground. It looked as if it was meant to be playful, but something about it irked me.
I felt a hint of pressure on my toe and looked down to see Fraidy looking up at me.
“Ask him if he has Mother Night,” he whispered. “Or any black hair dye, really.”
Fraidy had an expectant look in his eyes; a look that suggested he really believed I was going to ask Darkmore this question. Bless him.
I nudged my kitty away with my foot and looked at Ulrich.
“How do you know Zinnie Kramp?” I blurted. Well, can you blame me? The list of people we had lined up for questioning was getting a little out of hand, so, really, I had to grab the moment, right?
Darkmore’s eyes clouded briefly. He was clearly rattled by my bull-in-a-china-shop approach, but the smooth-talker recovered almost instantly.
“Ah, you saw us together at the courthouse, of course.” His lips pursed into a tight smile. It was as if he had something sour behind his teeth and he was trying his best to show it was no bother.
“Zinnie Kramp is a customer of mine. She had placed an order with me last week. As all that was required was a simple signature, we saw no harm in concluding matters while we were in the same room together. Or the same courthouse, together, as the case may be,” he drawled.
“What was the order?”
The Shadow Supplies spokesman’s eyes squeezed shut for a second. “Ah, well, likely of little interest to you, but it was garden ornamentation. Hematite chips for Ms. Kramp’s walled rose garden. The stones are widely used in gardens, as they offer such a regal contrast to the brightness of the flowers.”
Hematite stones. I’d seen them. Blackish rocks with some kind of metallic ore running through their mass. I had heard from someone once that Hematite was like a Warlock status symbol. Only the most influential, powerful Warlock families used hematite stone a cosmetics for their flower gardens. The presence of these dark, metallic rocks in a backyard showed the rest of the Warlock community that the person had ‘might.’
I remember, too, a fairy story my mom used to read. There was a Warlock ritual in the book, and the primary objects used for the ceremony? Hematite stones. The stones themselves looked grave and somehow ‘unfriendly.’ No wonder the Warlocks liked them so much.
Darkmore stared at me.
“I thought Shadow Supplies dealt in baneful herbs,” I said.
“Vegetable, animal and mineral, Ms. Jenkins,” he corrected. “Now, let’s discuss terms of the contract, shall--”
“There will be no terms, Darkmore,” a clipped voice from behind Ulrich’s head, said. I peered over Ulrich’s shoulder just as he spun to see the owner of that chilly voice. Portia Fearwyn’s face was grim. “Hattie’s supplier is Dilwyn Werelamb, and that will not change, so I suggest you take your transaction elsewhere.” The Witch Fearwyn’s beady eyes were immovable. As far as I could tell, the old crone wasn’t breathing.
Darkmore guffawed. “I think Ms. Jenkins is more than capable of coming to her own decisions, Portia. If she wants to support the ramshackle, grassroots pretender, Werelamb, then let her.” Ulrich swung toward me and smiled. “But, I suspect Hattie here is a more discerning breed of businesswoman and knows that the future of Natural Medicines doesn’t lie with the likes of Dilwyn Werelamb.”
“So, you think the future of Natural Medicines is with arms dealers such as yourself?”
Oh. My. Goddess.
Darkmore said nothing; he just wiped his gloved hand across his mouth. Like he was cleaning up from eating a bloody steak.
“You will leave this establishment now,” Portia’s spoke in a whisper as she took one step closer to the man.
Ulrich stepped back, but he was too close to the counter, so it met with the small of his back.
His mouth worked at Portia, but he had trouble finding the voice to go with his oral dance.
“NOW!”
Okay, I swear I felt Portia’s bellow like a fierce gust of autumn wind on my face.
Ulrich didn’t wait around for Portia to say more; he was out of the shop in two strides.
I let out a giant breath I didn’t even know I was holding.
“This lady didn’t like that man,” Gloom said, first flicking her head toward Portia, and then unfurling her tail toward the recently fled Darkmore.
“Ulrich Darkmore is a foul human being,” Portia replied, shaking her head.
“Arms dealer?” Millie and I asked at the same time.
Portia nodded. “He’s been the Warlock’s go-to man for over a decade now, I’d say. All kinds of dark and magical munitions.”
“Okay, okay,” I said waving my hands, “First, the Warlocks have munitions? And, second, Ulrich’s a Warlock?”
“Don’t be naive, child,” Portia snipped. “Of course they have munitions. You think they wouldn’t have arms after being so badly beaten in the first Warlock War?”
“I guess, I just didn’t think about it,” I said, my cheeks flushing.
“And, no, Darkmore isn’t a Warlock. But, he was. He’s a card-carrying member of the wizard community these days, but I suspect that’s just a front so he can open more doors to further business opportunities.”
“How do you know all this about him, Portia?”
“We’ve been tracking him for years now. He has a site somewhere. For the weapons, I mean, but we still haven’t located it. We know it’s nowhere near his hanger on Phlange Isle. They’re using some powerful magic for the protection charms, though, and it’s likely a very deeply buried bunker, to boot, so it’s nigh on impossible to find,” she concluded.
“What family?” I asked. “You said Ulrich was a Warlock, what family did he come from?”
“None other than the Bloodstag’s,” Portia sniffed.
Bloodstag, Bloodstag, where did I know that name from?
“The Bloodstag’s of Cathedral,” Portia said, recognizing my temporary confusion. “Zinnie Kramp is a Bloodstag. By birth, at least. Ulrich Darkmore is --”
The Warlock Weapon (Hattie Jenkins & The Infiniti Chronicles Book 7) Page 9
