Festus and the triplets, still in cat form, snored in a fur pile on one of the other cots. They’d come trotting in just before Tori and I crashed, totally full of themselves over the success of their operation. Sheriff John Johnson was in for a nasty surprise when he returned to the Pike house, but Furl assured me there was ample and aromatic evidence to pin the whole caper on marauding raccoons. I couldn’t imagine that half a dozen coons could be capable of the kind of destruction the triplets described — until I did a Google image search.
After we had eaten, Tori and I went upstairs. We made casual small talk, determined that the chessboard wouldn’t be learning anything interesting from us. It rankled that we couldn’t be working with the others, but our presence in the store was an important diversion. Thankfully, we enjoyed an unusually busy morning, which helped to keep my mind off of the ongoing search. Rodney was nowhere to be seen, but I knew he was there somewhere, hiding and watching. I found a package of his favorite treats ripped open in the storeroom, so the little guy was not only holed up but also well provisioned.
At noon, Tori said, “We need more take-out cups.”
“Okay,” I said, looking at her oddly. The extra take-out cups were in a carton in the storage closet at the back of the shop. Right where she put them.
“They’re in the basement,” she said with slightly exaggerated emphasis. “Downstairs. Would you mind getting them for me?”
Oh!
“Sure,” I said, trying not to sound lame, “but there are a lot of boxes down there. Where did you put them?”
“I really don’t remember,” she answered. “You may have to hunt for them. Take your time. If you need help, just holler.”
She was as curious as I was to know what was going on down there. The manufactured errand created an opportunity for me to go downstairs and get a report.
Everyone was pretty much where I’d left them, except the werecats were awake, and the triplets were back in human form. Beau, Moira, and Myrtle had books and papers spread on every available surface in the lair. Beau looked like he was completely in his element. After all, he was an old soldier, and we were coordinating a campaign of sorts.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
Moira rubbed her eyes. “Slowly,” she said. “Barnaby is in the stacks with Kelly and Gemma testing the scanning incantation. It should be ready for you and Tori to try when you close the shop for the day.”
“Have you found anything so far that shouldn’t be here?” I asked.
“Yes and no,” Moira said. “We have located some items that are not in the inventory of the collection.”
That sounded promising. “Like what?” I said.
“Nothing that would affect Myrtle,” she said, “although I’m afraid Chase took quite a tongue lashing from the Skatert-Somobranka.”
“The what?” I said.
“The most ill-tempered tablecloth you can imagine,” Chase said, walking into the lair and setting an armful of objects on the table. “These don’t have inventory tags,” he told Moira. “I thought you should check them out.”
He turned toward me and leaned in for a kiss, which I deflected and converted to a hug. “Everything okay?” he whispered in my ear.
“Too much of an audience,” I whispered back.
Straightening up, I said in my regular voice, “Tell me about this Scattered Sambuco.”
Chase chuckled. “Skatert-Somobranka,” he corrected me. “It’s a Russian artifact that magically produces a feast when it's laid out. Fold it up, and the cloth cleans everything up for you.”
“Now that,” I said, “is a keeper.”
“Not really,” Chase said. “Unbeknownst to me, the thing is sentient and has a real hang-up about respect. I apparently offended it and was presented with three dozen rotten eggs for my troubles, complete with a thorough chewing out. How was I supposed to know the tablecloth was sick of cooking and officially retired?”
“You make it sound like a bitchy overworked housewife,” I said.
“That’s exactly what it is,” he shuddered. “Just trust me on this one. Stay away from Aisle 632, Section B, Shelf 42. It’s the one with the stench.”
“Got it,” I laughed. “Anything else?”
Beau spoke up. “This, I am afraid,” he said, pointing to something on a side table. I looked closer and recoiled in horror. The artifact looked like a mummified hand with a candlewick sticking out of each finger.
“Please tell me that thing is made of wax,” I said.
“It is not,” Beau said with evident distaste, “but according to Moira, this particular specimen is a forgery, which I have now confirmed by reviewing the recipe contained in Volume 2 of the Compendium Maleficarum, circa 1608.”
“A recipe?” I said. “For a human hand candle?”
“Yes,” Moira said distractedly, “to create a proper Hand of Glory one must have the left hand of a hanged murderer. That is a right hand.”
Man, I hate it when that happens.
“So what does it do?” I asked.
“This one does nothing,” Moira said. “A functional Hand of Glory has the ability to unlock doors and to freeze individuals in their place. According to our records, this one was acquired to stop a spate of scams attached to its repeated sale. Beyond that, it is purely decorative in nature.”
Decorative? Uh, no.
Beau correctly interpreted my reaction and said helpfully, “It’s on the list of things to be returned to their proper shelves.”
Dang straight.
Myrtle was seated in one of the wingback chairs by the fire with a large book open in her lap. I went over and sat down on the hearth beside her. “How are you?” I asked.
She closed the volume, holding it in her lap lightly with the long, elegant fingers I so admired. “Better since Moira covered me with a protection spell,” she said. “All I can really do at the moment is peruse our inventory records and act as a Fae . . . ” A frown creased her features before she looked at me appealingly. “A mechanical device used for the detection of radiation.”
“Geiger counter,” I said softly.
Myrtle sighed. “I should know that,” she said. “I danced with Hans Geiger in Berlin before the second World War.”
“I didn’t realize you’d been back to Europe,” I said, trying to get her mind off the memory lapse.
She smiled. “My curiosity has always been both my blessing and my curse,” she said. “I have visited many times and many places in human disguise.”
“Who were you when you danced with Hans Geiger?” I asked.
The golden glow washed over her and I found myself looking at a flapper version of Myrtle, complete with bangs and heavy eye make-up. “Did you do the Charleston?” I grinned.
“Not with Hans,” Myrtle said, transforming back to her golden self. “He was a bit of a stick-in-the mud, but in the night clubs of Berlin? Well, that was a different matter.”
On an impulse, I reached over and took her hand. “We’re going to find an answer,” I said.
Myrtle folded her hand over mine. “The only answer any of us have, Jinx, is to work with what the Fates give us,” she said. “I have no say if Clotho decides to cut the thread.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I don’t know what you mean.”
“There are three Fates,” Myrtle explained, “the sisters, Lachesis, Atropos, and Clotho, the youngest. They spin the story of our lives. Clotho’s thread is that of longevity.”
“You’re not done with your longevity,” I said firmly.
Myrtle smiled again and squeezed my hand. “You should get back upstairs,” she said. “I’ll see you this evening.”
I went, but I didn’t want to. Tori was wiping down the tables in the now empty espresso bar when I closed the basement door.
“So,” she said, “did you find the cups?”
Her eyes asked a different question, and mine gave a different answer, but what I said aloud was, “Yeah, lots of them.”
&
nbsp; Unfortunately, she had to wait the rest of the day to get the real answers, and some of them did have to do with cups.
You know how strange little old ladies save butter tubs and jelly jars?
Turns out we have a whole collection of “lost” chalices.
It would appear that in the world of magical paraphernalia, when in doubt, enchant a freaking cup.
When we finally did get back downstairs, Tori took one look at the display piled up on the third work table that appeared in the lair and dubbed them all the “Dixie Cup Collection.”
“This really could be the scene from the Indiana Jones movie when he has to figure out which one is the Holy Grail,” Tori said, examining the tags on the cups. “The Chalice of St. Drogo,” she read. “Who the heck is St. Drogo?”
“Drogo is the patron saint of repulsive people,” Aunt Fiona said brightly.
“Really?” Tori said.
“Well, actually,” Fiona explained, “he’s an all-purpose saint. He’s also supposed to protect people with hernias, sheep, and coffee shop owners.”
I stared at my aunt. “And you know this how?” I asked.
“Oh,” she said, “I’m a three-time champion in the Shevington Metaphysical Trivia League. You all should join. We have great potlucks.”
“Okkkaaayyy then,” Tori said. “So unless ugly, herniated, sheep-raising coffee shop owners can help Myrtle, I’m guessing we don’t need Drogo.”
“You do own a coffee shop,” Aunt Fiona said.
We chose to ignore her.
“It’s a shame we don’t have the actual Holy Grail,” Tori said. “That’s supposed to be able to cure anything.”
Moira put down her pen. “You are misinterpreting the legend,” she said. “The Holy Grail isn’t an object, it is the spiritual quest that each living soul takes in this life. The literature of the 12th century objectified the Grail to make the concept more comprehensible for the uneducated. The name of the Grail knight, Percival, means “piercing the vale,” describing the path we all take between the light and the dark.”
While she was speaking, Mom and Gemma walked into the lair, their arms laden with boxes and something that looked distinctly like Aladdin's lamp. Mom started humming a little tune that sounded vaguely familiar, so I asked her about it.
“Oh,” she said, “when Moira talks about the Grail legends I always think about this old song the Carter family sang. My grandmother loved it. It’s called Lonesome Valley.”
“What are the words?” I asked.
Mom sang it for us in her clear, sweet contralto. “You gotta walk that lonesome valley, you gotta walk it for yourself, ain't nobody here gonna walk it for you, you gotta walk it for yourself."
“Well,” Tori said, “that’s certainly cheerful.”
Myrtle, who was still sitting in her chair by the fireplace, said, “The words are realistic. We must each negotiate our journey alone.”
The group in the lair grew quiet. “You’re not alone, Myrtle,” I said. “We’re all here for you.”
“Which I appreciate, dear Jinx,” she said, “but we must be prepared. There may be no artifact affecting me.”
I looked at Moira. “What is she talking about?”
“It is my personal opinion that Myrtle is being somewhat fatalistic,” she said, “but it is possible that her energy may be in transition to another form.”
“What does that mean?” I asked in a strangled voice.
“Energy does not dissipate, Jinx,” Myrtle said, “but it can change form. That may be what’s happening to me. I think you must prepare yourself for that.”
“You’re not changing or transitioning, or whatever the heck you want to call it,” I said heatedly. “We are going to find something, and you’re going to be fine.”
With that, I turned on my heel and marched off into the stacks without looking back. When Mom found me, I was sitting huddled against a shelf, crying. She sat down with me and pulled me into her arms. I’d like to tell you she said something profound, but honestly? She cried with me. None of us wanted Myrtle to go away, and giving up wasn’t an option.
I said a little prayer while I sat there crying on my mother’s shoulder. “Please God, help us find something.”
And with some help from a rat, I got an answer.
20
Rodney sat on a high shelf above the espresso bar staring at the chess set. He knew he was supposed to be searching for anything unusual, but he couldn't imagine finding anything stranger than the game board. Last night when he'd come up to start his search, the pawns had been moved. Sometime around dawn, he looked away, or maybe he dozed off, and when he looked back, all the pieces were properly lined up. Whatever was going on in the store had to do with that board, and he was determined to be the one to figure it out.
The night before, he came quietly upstairs through his own private door and followed the baseboard around to the storeroom. Although rats don't have handy cheek pouches like chipmunks, Rodney retrieved one of his favorite cranberry granola bars from his bachelor pad. He carried the stick in his mouth as he negotiated the long way around to the spot he'd already decided would be his outpost. That meant he had to run silently behind the front counter, slip between the display cases under the front windows, and scale the magazine rack by the front door.
The climb brought Rodney to the correct level, but since he didn't want to be seen, he crept slowly from one shelf to the next. Long before the sun came up, he was in position with his stake-out snacks behind a stack of dish towels that served as both a blind and a temporary resting spot.
All day long he watched the humans come and go in the espresso bar. They were a strange species, so intent on doing things that made them unhappy. Like reading newspapers, for instance. Rodney listened for more than an hour as two old men argued over an article about something called “Congress.” They rattled the paper’s pages in one another's faces instead of chewing them up and making a comfortable nest, which every rat knew was the proper use for a newspaper.
Rodney enjoyed watching Tori run the complicated machine that produced both clouds of steam and rich, dark espresso. He wished he could hop down to the counter and ask for a cup of coffee, but it wouldn't do for him to desert his post. But, oh, the beans smelled so wonderful! And if he went down there, Tori would talk to him as if he were another person. Not that he didn't enjoy it when she cooed at him and scratched the bridge of his nose, but the best times they shared were when she told him stories and asked his opinion about things. After all, rats have brains, too.
Early on in their relationship, Rodney felt compelled to drive this point home. Tori left her laptop on, so he very carefully used the page with the cartoon at the top she called a “search engine” to look up “how smart are rats.” Words up to five letters were easy to spell, and he was working on doing better than that. It helped that Tori was pretty smart herself. It only took a couple of times patting a word on the computer screen for her to figure out he was asking her to tell him what the letters meant.
When she saw the article about rodent intelligence, she looked at him for a second, and then asked, “Are you trying to tell me something?”
Rodney nodded enthusiastically.
“You understand me when I talk to you, don't you?” she asked.
He nodded again.
“Okay, little dude,” she said cheerfully, “no more talking down to you.”
Since then, he'd been learning by leaps and bounds, watching movies with Tori in her apartment at night, and being part of the adventures that started down in the lair. Breaking his leg the night of the fight with Brenna Sinclair hadn't been so much fun, but the lady they called the Alchemist fixed that — and they’d let him wear a cast for a little while anyway.
Now his human friends had finally given him a real mission. Rodney was determined not to fail. That was the thought that kept him sharp and alert into the second evening, and that's when he saw it — the little witch stepping off the coffee cup on the
top shelf behind the espresso counter and taking deep breaths to inflate herself.
As Rodney watched, she hopped on her broom and flew to the chessboard where she began to laboriously arrange the pieces. She struggled with the ones that were taller than herself, and his sharp ears picked up the sound of her gasping breaths. He knew he couldn't catch the intruder there on the table, and after listening to Jinx talk about what she had seen inside the game board, Rodney really didn't want to get near the awful thing.
Instead, he ran lightly along the edge of the shelf being careful not to make any noise. He was so high above the tiny witch’s head; she never looked up. Sooner or later, she would have to return to her cup, and when she did, Rodney would be waiting.
When he reached the end of the shelf, Rodney watched the witch until her back was turned, straining to move a pawn. In a single leap, he made the counter, quickly ducking behind the pastry cabinet and springing over the top of the microwave to get to the shelf where the now empty cup sat. Shrinking back into the shadows behind several bottles of flavored syrup, he waited.
Minutes passed, and then he heard three sharp taps. Daring to peek out, Rodney watched as each of the pawns levitated on its own and settled back in place. The little witch flew to the basement door and hovered there awhile, clearly trying to listen to what was going on downstairs. Apparently, she couldn't hear anything, because she turned in mid-air and started back for her shelf. This was his chance.
When she landed beside her cup and stepped off the broom, Rodney came out from the shadows and squeaked to get her attention. It worked entirely too well. The witch shrieked in horror, raised the broom like a weapon, swinging it at him, yelling, “Go away you filthy rat! Leave me alone!”
Ignoring the slur on his personal hygiene, Rodney advanced on the figure, trying to keep an open expression on his face. For his troubles, she whacked him in the snout with her broom. That was entirely too much. He did, after all, have a right to defend himself. Glancing around, he spotted a carton of wooden stirring sticks.
Grabbing one, Rodney struck an en garde pose, holding the makeshift sword in one paw and gesturing at the witch with the other to come at him.
Witch on First: A Jinx Hamilton Mystery Book 4 (The Jinx Hamilton Novels) Page 17
