“I don’t know how you can say a nasty thing like that,” Elena’s Swedish accent weakened on the word that. She pulled her jacket closed, but didn’t zip it up, so it fell apart again a second later.
Maggy could tell by the steel in Hunter’s eyes that the poor dear man hadn’t considered himself prey. But he got it now and his jaw went rigid.
“Told you,” said Smokey. People snickered in the crowd.
Hunter shook his head and looked around making eye contact with everyone. “Even if Elena lit her own fire, that still leaves three incidents.” He raised his arms in supplication. “Let’s cut the gossip and get to the facts. Someone is out to get us.”
Maggy looked at her empty cup and decided to leave. The headache wasn’t getting any better. Politics take time and as usual, she didn’t have any to spare. She needed to walk Napoleon if she wanted to eat this week and then there was her afternoon job. She stood up and quietly slipped through the crowd.
Hunter called her name as the screen door of The Skuttlebut slammed shut behind her.
***
Napoleon, the neurotic poodle, looked more pathetic than ever. He had a bald patch the size of a hockey puck on his back. “What happened?” asked Maggy.
“I’m not sure, dear.” Mrs. Randolph adjusted her pearls which hung over her classically cut, navy-blue linen suit. “He scratched all night long, and his hair keeps falling out. Something is bothering him. We’re going to the vet later today.”
“I’m sure he’ll feel better after his walk,” Maggy said in a soothing tone reserved for Mrs. R.
With a poop bag in hand, Maggy hit the road. The poor mutt looked sad with his drooping ears. She’d give him an extra good walk. She rubbed between her eyes. The pain had dulled a bit. Putting on her sunglasses to block the light that made her migraines worse, she gritted her teeth. She could do this.
Once she and Napoleon hit their stride, stopping every few feet, so that he could mark his territory like the big, mean alpha he’d never be, she pulled out her cell and called Mei.
“Why didn’t you sit with me at the meeting?”
“I have a killer headache. I sat at the back near the door, so I could leave.”
Silence for a moment. “So tell me about your night.”
“Logan came to the Black Cat. You know, the dead guy’s brother.”
“Did you tell him?”
“Yeah, and you were right. It did make me feel better.” Maggy told her what had happened between them.
“And you pushed him out the door?” Mei’s voice rose.
“It seemed the wise thing to do at the time.” Napoleon pulled her to a grungy looking fire hydrant covered in graffiti.
“Sometimes,” Mei said, “it’s better not to think, honey. Twisting the sheets with a hot guy might take care of your migraine.”
“It’s the murder that’s got me edgy.”
“Did you call the police, yet?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow. I’m impressed.”
“I phoned Peterson and told him there’s a relationship between Jimmy’s murder and Brother XII’s buried gold.”
Mei cracked up. “Did he laugh?”
“No. He hung up.”
“At least you tried.”
The phone was quiet for a minute. Then Mei said, “I got to go. A kid just knocked over a can of paint. Take care.” Mei ran an artist’s co-op on Granville Island.
Maggy pulled on Napoleon’s lead. He really liked this particular hydrant for some reason. Picky poodle.
“Here, I’ll take care of him,” said a man whose familiar voice made her blood run cold.
She turned to see Edgar. His face, whiter than yesterday, looked longer. She threw him her “don’t-fuck-with-me I-gotta-migraine”’ look: crossed eyes, glazed with a threatening layer of vengeance.
Edgar picked up the dog and gave him an affectionate squeeze. Napoleon nuzzled his chin. “I’m good with dogs. This one’s upset. You need to be extra kind to him.” His voice dripped syrupy sweet, like the voice people use with newborn babies. Why do adults do that when they talk to pets? With luck Napoleon would give him a good nip. Surely he’d see through the human syrup.
Maggy continued to stare at Edgar.
“I’m sorry about running out on you at the library. I got spooked. This man . . .” Edgar stroked the dog.
“I know. I saw the man with a black hoody following you. What the hell, Edgar?”
“I’m sorry. It’s all my fault. Jimmy was taking so long to get back to me I decided to get more help. I wanted answers, so I hired another man to get information for me.”
“Okay. You lost me.” Was it the headache or the goofy story? Please let it make sense.
“I hired Jimmy to locate an area on the coast that fit a physical description my great-grandmother left in her memoir.”
“Got it.
“But Jimmy was taking too damn long, so I hired another guy to go looking.”
“The man in the library?”
“Yeah. Well maybe. I’m not sure. I never met the man.”
“How could that be?”
Edgar winced. “I hired a Decourcy Island fisherman over the phone, to study the local charts and locate caves. I didn’t tell him why.”
Maggy shook her head. How stupid could he be? “You know people on that island are used to gold hunters.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. Anyway, a couple days later the library guy turned up at my door. He said he knew what I was after and wanted to know everything I knew about the location of the treasure. I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about. He pushed me back into my house and threatened me.” Edgar looked over at the street. Maggy didn’t need to see the fear in his eyes; it vibrated in his voice.
“So what happened?”
“I was lucky. My housekeeper arrived, and he fled.”
“And since then?”
“That happened last week. I phoned Jimmy to warn him. But he wouldn’t listen to me. He told me not to worry; he could take care of himself. He said he was still looking. But he had been looking for a month and I got suspicious. I got to thinking that he’d figured out the location of the gold and planned to get it himself.” Edgar stopped for a breath and scratched Naploleon behind the ears. Maggy waited.
“I decided to follow Jimmy to see what he was up to. But I didn’t catch up to him until Tuesday night in the alley. He lay there covered in blood talking to you. I got out of the alley as quickly as I could. The next thing I know that man from the library started tailing me.” His had lowered his voice.
“Did you talk to the police?”
“No.”
“You don’t want to share the gold. Is that it?”
His shoulders sank a fraction. “I saw you in the alley. You said he didn’t say anything, but I saw you lean down and put your ear to his mouth. He told you something.”
“I was checking to see if he was breathing. He wasn’t.”
Edgar narrowed his eyes. “Listen, lady, even if he didn’t tell you anything, you’re in danger. The murderer probably saw you too.”
“Phone the police. You’re scared. They can protect you.” Did those words really come from her mouth?
Edgar looked deeply into her eyes as if he was about to do surgery on the back of them. “Why won’t you tell me what he said?”
“Do you think it was the man in the hoody who killed him?” she asked.
He let out a breath slowly. “I didn’t get there in time to see who stabbed Jimmy. When I arrived he lay on the ground and you were with him.”
She nodded. “Yeah, I confess. I talked. I said a prayer for him. It seemed like the right thing to do. He was dead.”
Edgar’s face dropped. Without another word, he handed Napoleon back to her, like a moldy bag of potatoes, and wandered off towards the city center, slumped under the weight of his quest for gold.
13
Edgar shifted his reading glasses. There had to be something in this damn jo
urnal that would get him to the gold. He read his great-grandmother’s second entry:
Cedar-by-the-Sea, October 30, 1927
I never dreamed life could be so exciting. Brother XII is becoming famous and our colony in Cedar-by-the-Sea is growing every day. He now has eight thousand followers contributing to our Foundation! Money is pouring in for our community, the Arc of Refuge. People are hearing the truth.
The brother is brilliant. The Chalice, his monthly magazine, reaches thousands all over North America. He has pamphlets too. But his speeches are my favorite. When he preaches to us about working together to build a better world, I know I am listening to the words of a prophet. Anyone who hears him knows he’s telling the truth given to him from beyond this world. His words echo in my being. He is lighting our way.
But, greatness draws evil. Scandal follows the good brother. People say the most wicked things about him. Any action he takes is misinterpreted and marked with a malevolent slant, painted by the devil himself. Evil is everywhere.
I watched him hypnotize a man at the Orpheum theatre in Nanaimo. Once in a trance, the man went down on all fours and barked like a dog. He actually barked. Completely in the brother’s control, he followed his commands. I couldn’t believe my eyes. And before us all stood Brother XII, small in stature, but large in power, with his signature red rosebud in the lapel of his black suit jacket.
My old friend Roger called the brother’s powers black magic, but he only uses his gift for good. I would call it—white magic. Or, better yet, not magic at all. It is the power from beyond, a spiritual gift given to the chosen ones. That’s how the brother explains it.
Tonight, he proved his capabilities to the gathering. I believe he can control us all, but he lets us find our own way. He harnesses his great powers for our own good, lets us choose between right and wrong. My path is to follow him.
I finished reading his second book, A Message from the Masters of Wisdom, and I have to say it gives me nightmares. The corrupt outside world is heading for destruction. People are living their lives without thought for the greater good. That situation cannot continue forever. I wish more people would listen.
We need to put all our energy into building our community, the Arc of Refuge, where we can stand by each other. There we will attain spiritual enlightenment. There we will be saved from the coming chaos. When he talks about the darkness ahead, I can feel it coming like a big, dark shadow growing in strength.
Brother XII refers to himself as the “Messenger of the Fire,” “The Whirlwind” and “The Day of Adjustment.” He is all those things.
But to me, at night he is simply my lover. Sometimes I call him Eddie. When he takes me in his arms the troubles of the world melt away and the looming shadow vanishes.
He does things to me, I would never write down. He says he learned how to please women in the Far East. Lately, he’s been asking me to do strange things. Things I never imagined. . . But, I will do anything for him. More about that later.
Tomorrow night he promised me a boat ride.
14
Music is the mediator between the spiritual and the sensual life. Ludwig van Beethoven
Logan kept thinking about Jimmy ’s last message. What was he trying to tell him? Waiting for his father to join him at the funeral home to make the final arrangements, he shuffled the two words in his mind. “Tell Logan—the Emer-Old.” Hmmm. He had to be referring to the Emerald Empress. But what about it?
The cleanliness of the waiting room irked him. Its sterility left no space for life. Jimmy didn’t belong here. The lump that had been in his throat since he saw his brother’s dead body thickened.
He tried to think of ways to make this easier for himself and his family, figuring that was his job as the oldest son. Strange thoughts crossed his mind. He wished he had a sacred talisman to remind them all of the joy his brother brought into this world. But this institution offered instead the faint smell of lavender, emanating from of a wall socket gadget. He hated lavender, had always hated lavender and from now on would really hate lavender.
Logan shook his head. It just wasn’t fair. What the hell did Jimmy get into?
His father, who was usually more punctual than Big Ben, was twenty minutes late for their appointment. Logan got up and paced the small area.
His lawyer told him this morning that his ex, Kate, wanted an enormous amount of child support. As if he had money. How could he keep his business going without Jimmy?
Sasha kept losing weight and still had that horrible cough.
It seemed as though the walls of his life, that he had so carefully constructed were falling in on him from all sides. This was not his life plan. Everything was fucked up.
But there was Maggy Malone. A stirring of hope warmed him. She wasn’t his type at all. But she had to be the most provocative woman he’d ever met. Remembering the taste of her lips and the feel of her curves under his hands hardened his mast. He exhaled slowly. He’d like to tell Jimmy all of this. He had a way of laughing at the ups and downs of life that eased the soul.
Wonder what Jimmy would say about Maggy? He smiled. He knew what he would say: when life offers you something good, take it, especially when it’s in the form of a woman.
One hell of a woman that Maggy Malone—full of life and music that made him feel different, as if his senses were all on hyper-drive. And she was so damn sexy with that wild mane of blond hair that fell in curls over her well-rounded breasts. A man could get lost in her. “I put a spell on you . . .” The memory of her sensuous voice pulled at him.
Slow down buddy. She pushed you away. But maybe, she’d give him another chance.
Aroused like a buck in season in a funeral parlor, no less. He laughed out loud. Talk about black humor.
Get back to Jimmy’s dying words. “Emerald . . . Why say that with his last breath? Trust Jimmy to leave an enigmatic message.
Wanting a diversion, Logan picked up a magazine from the coffee table. On the table was a picture of a rose-covered arbor over a gate. On the first page he read: “Coffins: the best made products in America.” Coffins. Shit. He threw it down. His stomach turned and he swallowed hard. Not fair, not fair at all. But he would get his life back together, piece by piece.
At least he had figured out the where of the message. the Emerald Empress, a small sailboat they had bought under their company’s name five years ago, sat at the dock at the Kitsilano Marina.
The door opened and his father entered. His eyes were swollen and red, and his shoulders hunched. As they embraced, his father, a big burly man, did his characteristic three manly thumps on Logan’s back. Time to bury Jimmy.
15
“Music is the shorthand of emotion.” Leo Tolstoy
When Maggy climbed the steps to the stage of the Black Cat, the whole room hushed and Logan’s chest tightened. He’d run a red light just to hear her sing one more time.
The bartender, a young, dark-haired man with a sparse goatee, plunked a beer down on the glazed wooden bar in front of him. “Like Maggy?” he asked.
Logan cleared his throat. “Her intensity,” he said.
The kid laughed. “Yeah, right.”
Maggy strummed her guitar and adjusted her stool.
“Seriously. It’s like she pulls all of life’s sorrows into her music and makes them better.” Logan took a swig of his cold beer. Something about being near death made him philosophical. Like talking such shit could alleviate his pain.
“And sings it with the voice of a vixen,” said the bartender, studying him closely. “I saw you two together last night. Maggy could do with a good man.”
“Yeah, her voice is something, isn’t it.”
“My name’s Tommy, by the way. I’m always here.” They shook hands and then the bartender moved away to help another customer.
As Maggy started singing, Logan gripped his beer with a sweaty hand. A sensual heat flooded his senses, like a fine cognac burning all the way through his system. When she looked his wa
y and tilted her chin, he could barely swallow.
By the end of her first song, Maggy had made her mark with her sugary voice that could peel grapes. It spoke of life and pain and getting through it all. She melded with her music—with the blues. His fingers ached to touch her and he felt drunk, but it wasn’t the beer.
After her last song she came to him.
“Hey.” Her raspy voice licked at the edges of his aroused state.
“Hey.” A bead of sweat rolled down the back of his neck.
“Found the treasure yet?”
“Found you.” He moved closer to her and put his arm loosely around her waist. Weak line, buddy.
She stretched her soft, warm body against his and kissed him gently on the mouth. Then she whispered in his ear. “I have one more set tonight.”
Pulling her closer, he caught her sea-green eyes. “I love your voice.”
She moaned in a way that heated his blood to boiling point, and then she took a step away. “I don’t like to be rushed.” The way her eyes twinkled in the dark tavern lighting hinted that later she could change her mind. At least, that’s what he wanted to believe.
He ran his hand through her curls. They felt like finely spun silk. “You’re killing me.”
“Hmmm.”
“Excuse me,” said a man’s voice. They turned.
“Logan, this is Clarence, my boss. Clarence, I’d like you to meet one of our new patrons, Logan Daniels.”
He shook Clarence’s hand. The shake was weak and sweaty as if the man had just seen a ghost. He must have known Jimmy. People often did a double-take between them.
Clarence nodded his head towards the back of the bar where the rest rooms and office were. Maggy nodded and rolled her eyes. But after squeezing Logan’s arm, she followed her boss to the back.
***
Pissed off, Maggy squared off in front of Clarence’s desk with her hands on her hips. “What the hell?”
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