by Nancy Warren
I shuddered. This wasn’t like a cat bringing a dead mouse as a present, it was a cold-blooded murderer leaving a dead body in my shop for me to find. Why?
Rafe answered the question I hadn’t asked. “Someone’s trying to frighten you, Lucy.”
“Well, it’s working. And, again, why? And why didn’t he kill me when I went down there?”
“I don’t know.”
He paced up and down. I might have paced too if my head didn’t feel as though it might fall off my shoulders if I stood. “What did Dr. Weaver say when he examined Gran?” I asked Rafe. “Does he have any idea what kind of knife was used to stab her? Are we talking a butcher's knife? Stiletto? A steak knife?"
Gran had been following the conversation with an expression of increasing revulsion on her face. Finally, she said, "Would you like to see? The marks are still very fresh."
It hadn't occurred to me that, of course, I could examine her wounds myself. I didn't know much about the way vampires healed, but I guessed it wasn't the way people did. When I asked, Rafe said, “Vampires do heal much more quickly than humans, but your grandmother is still in transition. It will be a few more weeks before she’s fully one of us.”
This was excellent news. It had only been a few weeks since her attack so I hoped there would still be scars.
“We’ll just go into the other room,” she said to Rafe.
We went into the bathroom, and she bared her torso. As I looked at the damage someone had done to an elderly knitting shop owner, who also happened to be my grandmother, I was overcome with rage and a desire to hurt whoever had done this to her. There were two stab wounds. One in her belly and one in her chest. I thought she might have survived the one in her abdomen, but the one in her chest would have killed her. I wouldn't think it was an easy thing to stab someone in the chest. There are the ribs to get through, and one of the roles they play is to stop damage to vital organs beneath. Her killer had known what they were doing.
The scars were about an inch and a half wide, and there were round bruises at either side, as though two metal peas had pressed against her.
"Do these hurt you?" I asked.
She shook her head. "I don't feel much of anything, anymore. The one good thing is the aches and pains of old age are gone, too. I feel better than I ever did when I was alive."
"Well, that's good."
She looked at me with concern. "But I don't want you to be one of us. I want you to live your full and beautiful life and survive to be an old and crotchety lady."
"Gran, I want that too," I admitted.
"Then let's catch my killer."
I relayed my findings to Rafe.
He said, "We’ll get the knitting club onto it."
"I beg your pardon?"
"We've got a dozen vampires with not enough to do, who can go out at night. They can eavesdrop on conversations, get talking to people in pubs late at night. Think of them as your Baker Street irregulars."
He was right. What an extraordinary gift it was to have a dozen vampires helping me solve this crime. Sherlock Holmes had his Baker Street irregulars, and I had my Harrington Street immortals. I felt certain that we would find Gran’s killer, and whoever had stolen the order book. If Rafe and I were right, and it wasn't a rival knitting store wanting to steal our orders, then somewhere at this moment there was a very angry witch who, if she tried to cast a spell from that book, was going to end up knitting a jumper.
I had a pretty good idea who that witch might be and my blood began to boil.
“I do have a couple of tasks for the immortals,” I said. “Find out where Rosemary’s son, Randolph, is and get a sample of his handwriting. I’m sure he’s the one who penned that note that got his mother killed. Maybe they can get him talking while he’s high and find out who she saw that night. Who is Gran’s killer?” I didn’t care if she was family, if Violet or anyone connected with her had killed Gran, they would pay. By human law or otherwise.
“We’ll find out everything he knows,” Rafe promised. “What was the other thing?”
“Find out everything you can about Mr. and Mrs. Wright next door. Mr. Wright in particular. He showed me a dagger and I think it would make marks similar to those on Gran.” I fetched a notepad and pencil. I’m no artist, but I managed to draw the dagger with the curved crosspiece ending in two metal balls.
“And now that you’ve given your orders, young lady, you can eat some dinner and go to bed,” Gran said, quite sternly. I was only too happy to obey. She fed me soup and toast, and then a couple more gingersnaps before sending me off to my room. Nyx padded behind me and jumped on the bed. I was never so happy to have her company. I heard the low voices of Gran and Rafe in my lounge, and I knew they’d keep watch all night.
When I woke, Monday morning, Gran and Rafe were still there. Gran poured me a cup of coffee and while I drank it she said, “Rafe and I are agreed that you should close the shop today.”
Naturally, I refused. I was made of sterner stuff. I’d had managed to survive heatstroke and sandstorms and various indignities when I'd gone to visit my parents on their archaeological digs. I thought I could manage one mostly-sleepless night and a headache.
And try not to think of a murderer who’d now killed two people connected with the wool shop.
I felt better after a shower, though the water touching my scalp made me wince.
A couple of painkillers helped, and, as I ate my breakfast, I asked Gran who could benefit from our family grimoire, since it seemed clear to me that whoever stole the order book had believed it was the spell book. She looked puzzled. “Most witch families have their own spell book. I suppose another witch might want ours, if there was a spell they particularly wanted, but it would be very unusual.”
“Well somebody wanted it enough to kill two people for.”
“Do you think that’s what they wanted?” Gran asked.
“What else? The break-ins, the murders, what is so valuable in that knitting shop?”
Gran looked confused and sad. “Most witches are lovely women who celebrate female power and want to preserve the earth and help people. We aren’t killers.”
“Violet Weeks is part of our family, and she came to the shop Saturday. I swear she was looking around the whole time she talked to me and then tried to get me to invite her upstairs.”
“You think she was after the grimoire?” Rafe asked.
“It’s the only lead I’ve got.” And it was a weak one, I had to admit. My ring hadn’t even warmed when she was around. If she was a good enough witch, I suppose she could have deactivated it, or whatever the Wicca term would be for turning off my ruby ring’s early warning system.
“But I don’t understand,” Gran said, looking bewildered. “If Violet Weeks stole the order book, thinking it was the grimoire, then who has the real grimoire?” Gran rubbed the heels of her hands against her eyes. “Oh, I wish I could remember things. I think I must have hidden it.”
Rafe and I exchanged a glance.
“I don’t remember why, but I was worried about the grimoire. Yes. I’m sure I tucked it away in a safe place.”
My voice sounded hollow as I asked, “I don’t suppose you remember where you hid it?”
She squeezed her eyes hard, concentrating, and finally opened them and even before she shook her head I knew she hadn’t dredged up the memory of where she might have hidden the grimoire.
Someone knocked on the door connecting the shop to the flat. We all looked at each other and Rafe stood. I saw a flash of white at his mouth as he headed silently down the stairs. He returned a minute later with Sylvia and Alfred.
“Alfred paid a visit to Rosemary’s son while you were sleeping.”
It was great having detectives who worked while the rest of the world slept. “What did you find out?” I asked him eagerly. Alfred might not look like a heavy who’d get answers out of a guy with a pit pull tattooed onto his neck, but I suspected Alfred had hidden depths.
He shook
his head. “Bad news, I’m afraid. Randolph Johnson overdosed. He was dead when I got there, a needle sticking out of his arm.”
My first thought was, at least Rosemary was spared that pain. “Are you sure it was accidental?”
He shook his head. “Don’t think it was. Looked to me like the kid was packing up to leave when somebody helped him to an overdose.”
Rafe nodded. “Hoping the cops would think he killed his own mother, so high he didn’t know what he was doing. Was she killed there, as well?”
Alfred’s long nose seemed to quiver as though with scent memory. “Don’t think so. Impossible to be certain. The smell of death was strong, but I think it was all from the boy.”
Gran reached over and grabbed my hand. “Lucy, you can’t go into work today, it’s not safe.”
I couldn’t stand the thought of cowering in my home while Gran’s, and now Rosemary’s, murderer walked the streets. “I’m as safe there as anywhere. Customers come and go all day, and I only have to yell to have a dozen sleepy vampires come to my aid. Am I right?”
She didn’t look convinced, but Rafe said, “She’s right, Agnes. We’ll keep an eye out.” He turned to me. “I’ll get Hester out of bed to act as your assistant until someone more suitable turns up.”
“Hester? That surly teen?” I could think of few creatures I’d like less as my assistant.
“She’s an excellent knitter, besides, she sleeps most of the night as well as the day and when she’s awake she watches garbage on television or hangs about gaming.” I had to smile. He sounded like an irritable parent. “She’s got power, though. You’ll be safe with her around.”
I’d prefer to hire a new assistant myself, but I couldn’t get one instantly. Rafe’s solution gave me some protection, so I nodded. Sylvia walked forward and offered me a bag. "This should cheer you up.”
Inside the bag, of course, was a sweater.
Sylvia had gone for glamour. The sweater she had knit was black and silver and looked like something created by an Art Deco designer. It featured intricate geometric patterns and when the light struck it the fabric shimmered. "This is too beautiful to wear in the shop." I said. “It's like something you'd see on a designer runway."
"I know," she said. “As an actress I learned early the importance of costume. You may feel fragile today, but wearing that sweater will fortify you. I promise.” So she had been an actress. It made sense.
I slipped on the sweater and she was right. It did cheer me up. I wore black trousers and a very simple black T-shirt so the sweater had no competition. I added big silver earrings and, once more, the silver chain with the cross that I had purchased from the antique dealer. Sylvia surveyed me critically. "Red lipstick, my dear. You're pale and have dark shadows under your eyes, the red lipstick will draw the eye to your mouth."
"No one will have eyes for anything but this beautiful sweater," I said. But I went to my meager cosmetic supplies and found a red lipstick that I’d bought one Christmas. I felt a bit overdressed for a knitting shop, but everything in my life and been so extraordinary since I'd arrived here that looking like a glamorous 1920s movie star seemed perfectly ordinary.
The police had quickly determined, as Rafe had suggested, that Rosemary hadn’t been killed in my shop, which meant the crime scene people were gone within hours. It still gave me a very strange feeling to walk into that shop, knowing Rosemary wouldn’t be coming in today, or any day. I had to keep blinking away the image of her lying in the back room like a broken doll.
Maybe I hadn’t liked her much, but she had done a good job when I’d reopened the shop and I wanted to avenge her death as well as Gran’s.
Fortunately, since I wasn’t exactly on top form, and my assistant was both undead and uncooperative, Monday was a quiet day. Hester yawned in an exaggerated fashion every time I asked her to do anything and moped around wearing all black, though her jumper at least was hand-knitted. Fortunately, the initial rush to visit Cardinal Woolsey’s and express condolences or stock up, in case the place shut, had passed.
Nothing dramatic happened, for which I was grateful except that, like the days before, my sweater aroused so much interest that, as Sylvia had predicted, we sold all the silver and most of the black wool. Once more, it was impossible to find the pattern, since she had invented it, but I managed to find two or three patterns that could be adapted.
When there was a lull, Hester got out her cell phone, stuck earbuds in her ears and zoned out. “Hester, if we don’t have customers, look busy. Tidy the patterns, sweep the floor.”
She stared at me sullenly. “Or what? You’ll dock my pay?”
I may not have had four centuries of practice being a hard ass, but in my twenty-seven I’ve learned a thing or two. I stared her down and said, “Or I’ll tell Rafe and let him deal with you.”
“Ooh, I’m so scared,” she said, opening her brown eyes wide, but she took her earbuds out and smartened up after that. I let her go at four so she could ‘grab a nap’ before heading out on whatever wild adventures she had planned that night.
At the end of the day, when I'd taken the deposit to the bank and returned, fatigue and the remains of the headache caught up with me.
I’d arranged to have the locksmiths arrive after five, which involved a lot of grumbling and a large premium. I also asked for a price on an alarm system with security cameras.
As soon as the new lock was in, I secured the door behind me, went upstairs and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
I woke up, had some dinner and more painkillers and then I began to search for the grimoire. If witches were willing to kill for it, then I was determined to find the thing and, possibly, destroy it. Gran hadn’t been able to remember where she’d hidden the spell book, but common sense suggested it was in the house somewhere, especially as she’d asked Rafe to look after it for her when he returned from America. She’d been killed before he returned, but the book must be close.
I wanted to use my witch powers to help find the grimoire, but I had no idea how to access them. I went with the tried and true human method of finding lost items. I turned out cupboards, looked behind furniture, took every single book out of every bookcase. Nyx had a wonderful time, poking her head into open drawers, exploring behind the furniture, and generally making the job more playful. We found nothing.
Smut covered and dusty, I collapsed on the floor and played with Nyx before tackling the last possible hiding place.
The attic.
The attic in my gran’s house in Oxford was nothing like the one in our house in the States. It involved pulling a ring in the ceiling of Gran’s bedroom, then yanking down a ladder, and finally climbing up the ladder into a space too small to stand up in except at the very middle. There was some old junk up there, a few boxes, and three old steamer trunks. I knew I wouldn't rest until I’d turned them out, so I began systematically checking what was up here.
I began with the first steamer trunk, tossing billows of dust in the air as I opened the lid. The dust should have told me it hadn’t been opened in decades, but with magic in the house, who knew how Gran might have magicked the hiding place.
Inside the trunk were albums and boxes of photos. I opened the album on top. There was Gran and my grandfather getting married, and Mom as a baby, toddler and young child. Then many fewer photos taken in this house.
I flipped to the end of the album. There was Gran celebrating Cardinal Woolsey’s fiftieth year in business.
I put that aside to take back downstairs with me. Digging deeper I discovered a box of loose photos that showed Gran as a child. They were all black and white, but quite clear. Sure enough, a dark-haired girl a bit older than Gran shared most of the pictures with her. Was this my great-aunt? The one I’d never heard of until recently?
I’d be here all night if I looked at every picture, so I resolved to take one box of photos down with me, and that album, and return at regular intervals to sort through the rest. There was no grimoire in this trunk,
however, so I moved on to the next.
The second trunk smelled of lavender and moth balls. Inside was an old wedding gown, all packaged in tissue. Assorted clothes, some baby toys, old magazines and knitting patterns. Again, no grimoire.
I got to the third trunk and more junk met my eyes. I was beginning to feel that this was a hopeless task. I took everything out, wondering who would save a broken pair of opera glasses, handbags from half a century ago, old gloves and bits of fabric.
The last item was a mirror. A big oval hand mirror with interesting writing and symbols decorating the edges. I’d have to get my parents to interpret those for me. The glass was wavy with age but when I looked in the mirror I thought it reflected back a softer version of myself, something like the mirrors they use at cosmetics counters to encourage you to buy more. I was surrounded by the contents of all three steamer trunks and there wasn’t a book to be seen.
“Grimoire, where are you?” I wailed aloud up there all alone in the attic. I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and noticed that my reflection was breaking up in the mirror. It was like a still lake when you throw a stone in it, and as my image receded, another emerged to take its place.
I could feel my eyes widening as I looked. I saw a very ordinary bookshelf absolutely crammed with books. And, on the top, pushed there as though the person who owned the bookcase had discovered one more volume and had no more space, was an old volume, with a cracked leather spine. With a shiver of recognition, I knew I was looking at the missing grimoire.
Even as I tried to take a mental picture of the bookcase, looking for any clues as to where it might be, exactly, the image faded away and my own, very puzzled face, once again stared back at me.
I didn’t know exactly where it was, but I knew the grimoire wasn’t in Gran’s house or shop.
I’d recognized the setting, though. Wherever that spellbook was, I had been there. If only I could think more clearly.
I headed back down the ladder, clutching the mirror in one hand, the photo album and box of loose photos clamped between elbow and ribs. I’d have to return for the rest.
