Yeah, that worked great until yours truly came along.
“You mean until I screwed up and let Brenna out,” I said bitterly.
“Which set the stage for someone to finally kill her,” Chase said. “There are no accidents.”
“How long was it after Adeline’s death that Barnaby and the settlers came to America?” I asked.
“Four years,” Chase said. “Barnaby created a haven for peaceful Fae in part to atone for the wrongs he believed he’d committed.”
The version of the Magical Reformation that Myrtle shared with me made no mention of Barnaby’s personal tragedy. The official story is that the rising evil of Proditor Magicae or “traitor magic” created “made” witches and wizards hungry for power — which is the truth. Their ambitions knew no limits. To them, murder meant a flick of the wrist, nothing more than a few whispered words in Latin.
To Barnaby, his wife’s murder meant the light in his world — in his very soul — almost flickered into extinction.
“How do you know all this?” I asked.
“Barnaby and I have played chess together for years,” Chase said. “It’s taken decades of brandy and cigars, but he finally told me the whole story. I think part of him needed someone other than Moira to know the truth. Barnaby was the first person who sought sanctuary in The Valley — for himself. Magic can be a great and terrible force, Jinx. Filled with the same passions and prejudices that motivate humans.”
“Why are you telling me this now?”
His eyes filled with tears. “Because if I lost you like that, I’d do the same thing Barnaby did until someone paid for your life in blood.”
“I repeat,” I said, “that’s not happening. The losing me part or the blood part. We’re going to find out who killed Fish Pike and put a stop to this before it goes any farther.”
Now, you’d think after that nice little exchange where my boyfriend told me he’d rip somebody’s throat out for me — which is a literal statement when you’re dating a werecat — everything would be all warm-and-fuzzy-dramatic with the heroine (that’s me) swooning over the manly manliness of my significant other.
You’d be half right.
There was mild swoonage followed by a kiss — and then we had a fight.
Had I lost my mind, you ask?
Well, this probably isn’t going to come as a surprise, but we had problems other than dead Fish. Unfortunately, Chase couldn’t know about those problems, and now, in light of the morning’s discovery, I wasn’t going to tell him and put even more on his shoulders. That’s why he couldn’t understand my reaction when he said he thought we should all go to The Valley immediately, and I said no.
I agreed with him that discussing Fish Pike’s murder with Barnaby, Moira, and Myrtle was a good idea, I just didn’t agree that I should come along. And I couldn’t tell him why.
“You’ll be safer In Shevington,” he protested. “Just pack a bag and stay at the Inn for a few days until we can get this sorted out.”
“No,” I said, “and that’s my final answer. I am not leaving everyone here at the store unprotected. Besides, I’m going to The Valley in the morning with my mother. Now, come on, let’s go down to the lair and look at those pictures.”
“Honey,” Chase said, “we found a body on the sidewalk. Come along and let me keep you safe.”
I’m not sure what set me off, the “come along,” which seemed to carry an unspoken addendum — “and don’t worry your pretty little head” — or the “let me keep you safe.”
Truthfully, my reaction had a whole lot more to do with the jangled state of my nerves than being mad at Chase, but he was straight in the line of fire all the same.
“Chase McGregor,” I said hotly, “Don’t you ‘honey’ me. I’m perfectly capable of keeping myself safe. I’m not going to the Valley, and that’s final.”
He backed off and came downstairs with me, but he wasn’t happy about it.
Tori had her laptop set up on the big worktable. Festus was sitting by the machine, directing Tori to enlarge an image as we came into the room. The old cat looked up, and I saw something flicker across his eyes. His head swiveled from me to Chase and back again, but he had the good sense not to ask if anything was wrong. Instead, he said, “Son, you need to look at this. I don’t think a werecat killed Fish.”
“Why not?” Chase said, moving to stand behind Tori’s chair.
They were looking at a picture of the ragged tears on Fish Pike’s chest. I could plainly see five tracks lying equidistant from each other furrowed into the ruined flesh. I’d had micro versions of that same injury on my arms from more than one irate house cat who needed dosing with the all-purpose “pink stuff” from the vet.
“Do you see it?” Festus asked.
Chase nodded. “I do,” he said, “but what do you think the killer used for a weapon?”
“Hold it,” I said. “The non-felines in the room need an explanation.”
Festus held up one front paw and extended his claws. “See how flexible my claws are?” he asked, drawing them in and out.
I nodded.
“The slashes should be deeper in the middle and more shallow at the beginning and end of the wound,” he said. “This looks like the sharp points were jammed in, dragged through the flesh, and pulled straight out.”
Leaning forward, I stared at the picture, but I just didn’t see what he was talking about. “Sorry,” I said, “you’ve lost me.”
Festus hopped off the table, scoring a three-point landing, and limped over to one of the leather wingback chairs. Without preamble, he gave it a vicious slash with his right front claws.
“Hey!” I said indignantly. “No scratching the furniture!”
“You’ll get over it,” Festus said. “Just look at the damage.”
Glaring at him, I approached the chair, bent down, and considered the mark. The track started with a faint scarring of the leather that grew progressively deeper until stuffing spilled out at the center of the gash, which then petered back out to a trail of scratches.
“Okay,” I said, “I get it. I think you could have found a better way to demonstrate, but I get it. An animal didn’t leave those gashes.”
“Oh, no,” Festus said, “an animal did carve old Fish up, but that animal was a man.”
Point well taken.
“So what does this do to your theory about a transient?” I asked.
“I’m not ruling anything out,” Festus said. “We don’t know enough yet.”
“How was the . . . wound . . . in the throat made?” I asked.
“You mean the gaping hole where his throat should be?” Festus corrected me.
“Uh, yeah, that,” I said.
“I think his throat was cut,” Festus said, “and then the killer used something to expand the wound so it would look like the flesh was torn away.”
My stomach roiled, but that was hardly the time to get squeamish. “How can you tell?” I asked.
“The flesh is torn,” Festus said, “but the little bit of the aorta that’s left is cleanly sliced.”
I sat down heavily on the arm of the chair. “Which was done first, the gashes or the cut throat?” I asked.
“That I don’t know,” Festus said, hobbling back to the table and jumping up to resume his post by the laptop. “But I can tell you that dagger wasn’t the murder weapon, the blade is too short.”
“Then why use it to pin the note to his chest?” Tori asked.
Chase reached down and clicked the trackpad on the laptop. “That’s why,” he said.
I got up and joined them. The laptop’s screen showed a closeup of the handle of the dagger, which was emblazoned with an emblem showing a lion’s head wearing a crown.
“What is it?” I asked.
“If you read the heraldic description,” Chase said, “it’s ‘a lion’s head erased Proper crowned with an antique crown.’”
“Huh?” I said.
“It’s the central element of
the McGregor family crest,” Festus said.
Well, there went any lingering doubt about the intended recipient of the message.
“What about the ‘cat in the bag’ thing?” Tori asked.
Beau, who was standing by the bookshelves holding a large volume, spoke up. “Although I am familiar with the phrase ‘let the cat out of the bag,’ I have been endeavoring to determine if there are any alternate meanings. According to the good Mr. Webster, the phrase does indicate the revelation of a secret, but I have discovered a secondary definition suggesting the phrase can be taken to mean the inclusion of an outsider into an inner circle of knowledge.”
“It means whoever did this knows I’m a werecat,” Chase said. “Choosing to kill Fish Pike has to do with his halfling heritage.”
The Colonel closed the book and replaced it on the shelf. “Does it?” he asked, as he rejoined the group. “Perhaps the message is regarding Mr. Pike’s association with Brenna Sinclair. Surely it is not a coincidence that the chosen victim was so recently in league with a sorceress who violated these premises. Could the message not be taken to indicate that we are about to learn things we do not wish to know?”
Chase frowned. “Maybe,” he said, then faltered. “I don’t know. I need to talk to Barnaby. I’m going to The Valley.”
He looked at me hopefully, and everyone else in the room seemed to be waiting for me to say something. So I did.
“Be careful,” I said. “Let me know what you find out.”
A shadow of irritation crossed Chase’s face, but all he said was, “Okay.”
Before he and Festus headed off into the stacks, Chase did hug me, but there was no kiss.
“Well,” Tori said, as soon as they were out of earshot, “that went well. Not.”
“He’s got a lot on his mind,” I said. “Come on, let’s take a walk. Beau, you’re in charge until we get back.”
The Colonel, who now had several volumes from the shelves, spread out in front of him on the table, nodded absently, then remembered himself and said, “Is it wise for you to be out of doors with a killer abroad in the land?”
I love it when he talks like some old movie script.
“It’s broad daylight,” I said, “and Tori will be with me. We won’t be gone long.”
Tori followed me up the steps and out the back door. We went down the alley, crossed the street behind the grocery store, and continued for another block until we came to a bench left over from the bus line that no longer came through Briar Hollow.
“You okay?” Tori asked.
“A dead body on the front doorstep and a fight with my boyfriend all before lunch?” I said. “I’ve been better.”
“I guess you noticed Myrtle didn’t find any of that important enough to show up?” Tori asked.
“I did,” I said grimly.
“Are you sure we can’t tell Chase what’s going on?” Tori asked.
“We’re taking enough of a risk that Myrtle will hear us as is,” I said, “assuming that she’s even listening. Was all the stuff delivered?”
“Yes,” she said, “it’s in my apartment. How are we going to explain all this to Beau and Darby?”
“We’re sticking with the ghost story,” I said, “because it might be the truth. We could be blowing this whole thing out of proportion.”
“God,” she said, running her hand through her short, spiky blond hair, “I really, really, really hope we are because I’m pretty sure the unsolved murder is gonna keep us plenty busy.”
Before you decide that we had turned into evil rogue agents about to go over to the dark side or something, let me explain. I couldn’t go with Chase that day because Tori and I planned to set up a surveillance camera in the espresso bar. We couldn’t risk Myrtle finding out what we were doing, which should have been a very difficult thing to do.
The fact that it wasn’t difficult — and that she didn’t seem to be paying the slightest bit of attention to the dead body on our front doorstep — only made our fears more serious.
5
Let me break down the timeline of that weekend for you. Myrtle looked at the chessboard the Friday before we found Fish Pike’s body Sunday morning. On Saturday, Tori waited until the end of the day when I was closing up the shop to come over and sit down on the tall stool beside the register. When I finished counting the money, she still hadn’t said anything.
“Okay,” I said, “what’s going on? I know that look.”
“Myrtle’s in Shevington working with Moira, right?” Tori said.
“Yeah, she is. Why?”
“Take a walk with me,” Tori said.
For the record, Tori and I don’t take random walks. Something was definitely up.
“Uh, okay,” I said. “Lead off.”
I followed her out the front door and across the street to one of the benches on the courthouse lawn. We both sat down, and Tori got right to the point.
“I think Myrtle is lying to us,” she said.
“Whoa!” I said. “Where did that come from?!”
“Look, Jinksy,” Tori said, “I’m not happy about this either, but her behavior just doesn’t add up. Hear me out.”
“I’m listening,” I said. “Is this about the chessboard?”
“That, and a lot of other things,” Tori said.
If anyone else accused Myrtle of lying, I would have ripped their head off, but I trust Tori.
She wouldn’t get me out of the store to talk unless something had her bothered.
“What things?” I asked.
“For starters, how come Myrtle didn’t know Brenna Sinclair was setting up shop right here on the courthouse square?” Tori asked.
At the time, fresh off spotting Brenna casually leaning against a doorframe across the street, I wanted an answer to the same question. Myrtle explained her reaction away by saying that since Brenna had lost her powers, her energy no longer stood out in the crowd — which is what I said to Tori.
“Fine,” Tori countered, “that might explain why Myrtle didn’t know Brenna was back. But once Myrtle knew, she acted like it was nothing and dragged us off to Shevington. If Myrtle didn't pick up on Brenna being in town, why didn't Myrtle crank up her bandwidth and figure out why she was back?”
I had no answer for that one.
Tori pressed on.
“Why didn’t Myrtle do something to keep Brenna out of the store? And why couldn’t Myrtle sense the Amulet of the Phoenix? Bling that brings back the dead and it doesn’t raise a blip on her radar? Come on. That doesn’t even make sense.”
The “whys” were starting to add up fast.
“The amulet didn’t really bring Beau back to life,” I offered.
Even I thought the statement sounded lame.
Tori shot me a cocked eyebrow. “Close enough for government work,” she said. "Since Myrtle has been teaching me to play chess, she tells me all the time to look for patterns in the game. Well, I see a pattern alright, and it's full of holes. Myrtle is missing things, and I don't like it."
Neither did I.
Lying to Tori is not one of my superpowers. She had no problem reading my growing doubts.
“Yeah,” she said, “you see it, too, don’t you? Kinda throws a monkey wrench in the whole ‘didn’t know she was there because she had no powers’ excuse, doesn’t it?’”
“But why would Myrtle lie to us?” I protested. “She’s on our side. She’s one of the good guys.”
“I don’t know,” Tori said, “but it just seemed to me like that whole water-bug-whisperer routine she went through yesterday was nothing more than an act to get our minds off the real problem. Something is going on with that chessboard, that creepy coffee cup, and whatever it is you think you see at night. Myrtle is supposed to be this big deal ancient Fae, and she has zero information for us. I mean, seriously, Jinksy, what the heck?”
“That’s a good question,” I said. “They’re all good questions, but I don’t have any answers.”
“Yo
u want to know something else that’s weird?” Tori said.
I sighed. “Why not,” I said. “What is it?”
“Myrtle refuses to play a game with that chess set,” Tori said. “And she’s been refusing long before we asked her to check it for an onboard spook.”
“Does she say why?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Tori said. “You’re gonna love this. She says the pieces confuse her. Do you know how long she’s been playing chess?”
“I’m guessing a really long time?” I ventured.
“She learned with the Lewis chessmen,” Tori said like I was supposed to know what that meant.
“Okay. And that is important why?”
“The Lewis chessmen were made around 1200,” Tori said. “She’s been playing 815 years, but she can’t figure out the pieces on a novelty board?”
Tori was right.
We had a problem.
A big one.
Myrtle is the aos si, part of a race of beings known as the Tuatha Dé Danann that dwell in the Otherworld, which runs parallel to our world. She came with Barnaby’s original group but took a shortcut — under the Atlantic Ocean not over it. Myrtle tends to think outside the box like that.
The only person I’ve ever met who radiates anything near the kind of power Myrtle possesses is Moira. They work closely together. And in her way Moira is just as much of a knockout, but the women paint a study in contrasts — willowy, golden Myrtle beside sturdy, dark Moira.
If we couldn’t trust Myrtle, who else might be lying to us?
“We have to get some answers, Jinx,” Tori said. “We can’t do the things we’re being asked to do if we don’t trust the people around us.”
Tori was right. But that warm Saturday afternoon, sitting on the courthouse lawn looking across the street at the shop, we had no way of knowing where the search for those answers was about to lead us — right beneath our own home and into the regimental rows of shelves stretching into the blackest corners of the basement.
Before we went back inside, Tori and I agreed to keep everything we’d talked about just between us. She had ordered a night surveillance camera, and we decided to set it up the next day. For all practical purposes, we wouldn’t be lying when we described what we were doing to the others as a good old-fashioned ghost hunt. Tori intended to try a series of EVPs in the espresso bar that night just for show.
Witch on First: A Jinx Hamilton Mystery Book 4 (The Jinx Hamilton Novels) Page 5
