On my way back to the office, I stopped off at Callie’s health food store and juice bar to grab a prepackaged salad. As I stood in line to check out, I looked at my watch and saw that I’d been out for two hours. Yikes! I hotfooted it the rest of the way and burst through the glass doors, only to halt in my tracks at the sight of Beverly standing in the lobby with a client. They both looked up in surprise.
“There you are,” said Beverly. “I was looking for you. Mr. Jameson was telling me about a wonderful opportunity I think you’d be perfect for.”
Inwardly, I groaned. Lately, all the opportunities Beverly gave me involved after-hours events she didn’t want to attend herself. I was saved from having to respond when the door opened behind me. Beverly’s smile froze in place, as her eyes betrayed a flicker of alarm. I turned to see Detective Rhinehardt amble toward us.
“Afternoon,” he said. “Sorry for the interruption.”
“Good afternoon,” said Beverly, stiffly. At once, I realized the cause of her discomfort. The last time Detective Rhinehardt had entered the firm’s office was to summon Beverly down to the station for questioning. I was sure she didn’t relish the memory.
“I was hoping to catch a few minutes of Ms. Milanni’s time,” he said.
“By all means,” she said. “Keli, I’ll fill you in later on Mr. Jameson’s invitation.”
I led Rhinehardt to my office, where we sat at the small round meeting table in the corner opposite my desk.
“Here you go,” he said, setting a brown grocery sack on the table. “Your aunt’s things.”
I reached into the bag and removed a slim travel purse and a manila envelope. I couldn’t resist peeking inside the purse, but it didn’t contain much—only a couple of twenties, a ChapStick, an ink pen, a pair of reading glasses, and a few cough drops. I opened the envelope next and emptied out the contents: two rings and a necklace, all made of Black Hills gold. I fingered the delicate grape leaf designs and imagined Josephine wearing the jewelry.
Rhinehardt cleared his throat. “I have the ME’s report. Just thought I’d tell you about it in person.”
“Any surprises?”
“Not really. Toxicology was negative. No broken bones or contusions. One sprained ankle. Your aunt died from a single gunshot wound to her heart, clean through the back. She was shot at close range, less than 100 yards, with a twenty-two-caliber rifle. I’m guessing she probably didn’t suffer long.”
I imagined he said that to all victims’ families, but I appreciated hearing it nonetheless.
“As for time of death,” Rhinehardt continued, “the ME estimates it happened between four and five, the morning of Saturday, October 24.”
And Levi Markham happened upon the body an hour or so later, I thought. And he didn’t hear the gunshot.
“Twenty-two caliber,” I said. “That’s a common rifle, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It’s on the lighter side, often used by beginners and youth hunters. It’s usually for small game, but deadly nonetheless.”
“Is that the type of rifle that was stolen from the hunters’ cabin you told me about?”
Rhinehardt gave me a grim smile. “I knew you’d ask that next. Yes. It’s the same.” He wrinkled his brow and pursed his lips. “About that—I have some additional information. We lifted some prints from the gun cabinet and in other areas around the house. Forensics informed me this morning that they found a match.”
“That’s great! Right? Whose fingerprints were they?”
“The victim’s. Josephine O’Malley.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
After Detective Rhinehardt left, I did my best to concentrate on my work. But when Beverly peeked into my office, she found me staring into space. She cleared her throat.
“I have a special request of you, Keli,” she said.
The worry must have shown in my eyes, because she held up her hand. “I want you to take the rest of the week off. You’ve had a death in your family, and you’re not at the top of your game.”
“Oh, but I don’t want to fall behind,” I protested. “I’m okay, really.”
Beverly shook her head. “Nonsense. Crenshaw informed me that you’re the only family your aunt had around here. I assume you’re in charge of funeral arrangements, which is not a light burden. We’ll manage without you for a few days. I’ll ask Julie to reschedule all your appointments.”
I relented, and Beverly left me to shut down my computer and pack up. I knew she was right. Now that the medical examiner’s report was complete, Josephine’s body could be laid to rest. I’d have to call my mom and let her know.
I was just finishing up one last client email, when my phone buzzed. It was a text from Zeke. He said he had some information for me that would be best delivered over two stiff drinks. I replied at once and told him to meet me at the Loose in an hour. Then I called in my reinforcements.
A short time later, Farrah and I were sitting across from each other sipping wine spritzers at our favorite nightclub. Happy hour had yet to begin, so it was relatively quiet. I filled her in on the news from Detective Rhinehardt.
“Well, that’s not incredibly helpful, is it?” she said, stirring the ice in her drink.
I shrugged. “Dunno. One thing I do know, though: Aunt Josephine certainly didn’t shoot herself in the back.”
“Right. And then get rid of the gun before she died.” Farrah rolled her eyes. “There weren’t any other fingerprints at that house besides hers?”
“None that didn’t belong there. Also, get this—the house wasn’t broken into. Only the gun cabinet was busted.”
“It was an inside job? Who owns this house?”
“Some guys from upstate who all have solid alibis for last Saturday.”
We nursed our drinks as we pondered the possibilities.
“So, Josephine got into this house somehow,” said Farrah, repeating the obvious.
“Yep. I’m guessing it’s where she was staying. Rhinehardt said the house was tidy, but her prints were all over—in the kitchen, bathroom, bedroom.”
“At least we know Fern and Gil were telling the truth about her not staying with them.”
“True.”
“And she was the one who stole the gun that killed her.”
I nodded. “People can stop assuming it was an accident. She was shot at close range, directly in the back. She must have either given the killer the gun, or the killer took it from her. It was probably someone she knew.”
Farrah gave me a sad, sympathetic look, and I shook myself. I was a big believer in the power of one’s attitude. Gloominess never helped anyone. This was why I suggested the wine spritzers in the first place. They were light, refreshing, and sparkly—just what I needed. Throw in a little spell in the guise of a positive intention, and you had yourself a magical potion.
I lifted my glass and grinned. “To finding answers.”
Farrah brightened. “To finding answers,” she echoed. We clinked glasses and took fortifying sips.
“Hello, ladies,” said a smooth voice at our elbows. It was Zeke, in full hipster garb, from the top of his high, coiffed hair to the tips of his ankle-high boots. I had to admit, he pulled off slim burgundy pants and a checkered blazer in a way most men couldn’t.
“What do we have here?” he asked. “Is it Mary and Rhoda grumbling about the patriarchy? Or Lucy and Ethel plotting a zany scheme? I’m guessing the latter.”
“Oh, brother,” said Farrah. She scooted over to let him sit down.
“Those references are way too old for you,” I said.
Unlike Farrah and me, the young waitress seemed to be impressed. She appeared at our table to wait on Zeke with a finger in her hair and a pout on her lips. He didn’t seem to notice.
“I’ll have what they’re having.”
“What?” I said, in mock surprise. “No martini?”
Farrah snorted. Then she asked the waitress to bring some appetizers. Turning to Zeke, she said, “Your treat, slick. Right? Since you called us he
re?”
“I asked to meet with Keli,” he said, looking slightly vexed.
“She’s kidding.” I shot Farrah a look that said, “Behave,” and gave Zeke a reassuring smile. “Now what is it you have to tell me?”
Zeke looked around the room, then leaned in and cupped his hand around his mouth.
“Really?” said Farrah.
I shushed her and drew near to Zeke. “I’m listening.”
“You were right,” Zeke said. “Fern is part of a network known as the Sisterhood. It’s worldwide. I’m not gonna tell you everything they do, ’cause you wouldn’t believe me anyway. But your aunt Josie was part of it in the beginning, back in the early seventies.”
“Then what?” I asked. “Wait, do you mean from the beginning, or only in the beginning?”
“Only at the start, I think. She left Edindale to do work for the Sisterhood, but then she went off on her own. Fern wasn’t too happy about that. Josie got involved with some other people. Later, she started her own organization, called Sister Seeds.”
“I know about that,” I said. “At least, a little bit. Is it a nonprofit, or what? I can’t find any information about the company.”
“That’s because it was never legally formed. It’s an underground organization.”
“But why? What’s so secret about distributing seeds?”
Zeke sat back and gave me a coy look. I wondered if he was trying to be cute, or if he just didn’t know the answer. The waitress brought his drink then, and a platter of assorted batter-dipped vegetables. Farrah passed out the little plates and filled hers. “What else you got, big guy?” she asked. “Did Fern say anything about who might have wanted Josephine dead?”
Instead of answering, Zeke stuffed a piece of cauliflower in his mouth and chewed it slowly. I recalled his tendency to say as little as possible and wondered if he was reaching his limit. The bar was starting to fill up, and we were losing our privacy.
“Zeke, tell me this,” I began. “Fern and Josie must have remained friends even after Josie went off and did her own thing, right? I mean, Fern admitted as much to me. She said Josie stayed with her a few times a year.”
“Sure. I guess so.”
“Then why won’t she talk about Josie? Why won’t she tell me what Josie was involved in?”
Zeke took a big gulp of his spritzer, then made a face. “Actually,” he said, setting his glass down. “She will talk to you.”
“She will?” I sat up straight. “That’s good news!”
“On one condition.”
Now my shoulders deflated. “What condition?”
“She said she’ll meet with you and talk to you about Josie, if you’ll do something for her.”
“Do what?”
“She wants to buy the property where the commune used to be. And she wants you to make that happen.”
“Oh.” I glanced at Farrah, who mirrored my own incredulity. “Is that all?”
* * *
I made it to the vet’s right before closing time. The tech told me they were prepared to board the cat overnight if need be, but she was glad I made it. She said the cat seemed restless. I peeked in the travel crate and was met with a wary, yellow-eyed stare.
“What’s that around her neck?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s a collar. Mila Douglas stopped by earlier today. She wanted to check on things and brought a gift.”
“How sweet.” And how like Mila. I admired the crescent moon charm hanging from the new black collar and decided I’d send Mila a big bouquet of flowers to thank her for all her help.
“The cat is healthy,” the tech went on. “And well-socialized. I understand she was a stray, but she’s clearly been around humans. She’s going to make a nice pet.”
I had a feeling the tech was right. I just hoped I’d make a good pet owner. As a kid, I’d helped take care of the family dog, but I’d never had a cat. I wasn’t sure if bringing this cat home was the right thing to do, but she seemed to have chosen me. How could I refuse?
When I got home, Wes was in the kitchen sautéing garlic and onions. I set the pet carrier on the floor and opened the door. The cat streaked out and headed for the bedroom.
“Hungry?” called Wes.
“Smells heavenly,” I answered, coming up behind him. I helped him finish preparing dinner—pasta and salad—and set the table. As we ate, I told him about my day, frustrations and all.
He listened quietly, then put down his fork. “You know,” he began, “just because you keep asking all the right questions, doesn’t mean you’re gonna get the answers you want. Sometimes mysteries remain unsolved.”
I frowned. “How can you say that?”
“I just don’t want you to make yourself crazy over this. I mean, maybe it was an accident, maybe it wasn’t. Maybe there’s someone from your aunt’s past who tracked her down, shot her, and then left. That person could be long gone.”
“That’s not a very positive thing to say. How about some hope? Some optimism?”
“Look, the cops are good at what they do. They’re the experts. That police detective, Rhinehardt, he seems pretty good. Why don’t you let him sift through the evidence and follow the leads? You don’t need to take this on.”
“You sound like Crenshaw,” I grumbled.
After dinner, I told Wes I needed to be alone for a little while. I found my tarot deck in my cedar chest and brought it to the spare room. As I was closing the door behind me, the cat appeared by my feet.
“You want to join me? Okay, but I’m shutting the door. There aren’t any secret passageways or hidden exits in here, like in your old house.”
While the cat explored the room, I sat cross-legged on the end of the spare bed and watched her. It had been almost twenty-four hours since I’d taken the kitty—with Mrs. Hammerlin’s blessing and gratitude—and I hadn’t heard from the older woman since then. I took that as a good sign.
“You gave her quite a fright, you know,” I said. “Poor Mrs. Hammerlin heard you knocking things about but was unable to hear your mewing.”
Ignoring me, the cat continued to stalk about the room, poking into the closet and sniffing the shoes on the floor. Finally, she jumped to the wide windowsill and settled down.
“What should I call you?” I asked. “Midnight? Spooky? Luna?”
She half-closed her eyes, and I chuckled. “I guess I’ll have to get to know you a little better first.”
Returning to my tarot deck, I removed the cards from their velvet pouch and held them between my palms. I took a deep breath. “What I need is guidance,” I murmured.
Usually, I went to Mila when I wanted a tarot reading. She was skilled at interpreting the cards and all their subtle nuances. But sometimes I liked to draw the cards on my own. It was another way to communicate with the Divine, like a direct line to Spirit. All I had to do was ask the question, then open my heart to receive.
As I shuffled the cards, I thought about what I should ask. My main question, of course, was who killed Aunt Josephine. The second question was why? But those inquiries were so specific. I was afraid I’d have difficulty parsing out the answer from the image on a tarot card. With my level of experience, it was probably best to ask for direction. What should be my next step?
Closing my eyes, I placed the deck on the bed in front of me and hovered my hand over the top. “What should I do to solve this mystery? What do I need to do?”
I opened my eyes and cut the deck. Then I flipped over the top card.
“Knight of Wands.” I stared at the illustration on the card. It showed a young, determined-looking knight on horseback, with the horse rearing up on its hind legs. The knight held a big, sprouting stick, his wand, in his right hand. The horse’s mane and the plume on the knight’s helmet resembled flames, as did the edge of the knight’s tunic, which was yellow and decorated with pictures of a salamander. In the background was a desert and three pyramids.
“What is this supposed to mean?” I muttered. “Am I
supposed to go on a journey? Am I going into battle?” I tried to recall what I knew about this card. It represented action and adventure. It was a high-energy card, full of passion and heat. It could signify sudden change, or challenges to come.
I tossed down the card in frustration. How does this help me? The only advice I could glean here was to hold on tight.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. I glanced over at the cat. She stirred but didn’t move from her perch by the window.
I leaned back on the decorative pillows, piled high on the spare bed, and let my eyes drift shut. It had been a long day, following a late night. I felt I should probably cast a spell, or maybe try another form of divination, but I couldn’t muster the energy. Ironic, I thought, considering the tarot card I chose.
I was so sleepy. A lot had happened the past couple of days. And it was only last night that I thought I saw Aunt Josephine’s ghost. Seemed like ages ago.
What was she doing in Mrs. Hammerlin’s house?
The next thing I knew, I was transported to a dark forest. It was unfamiliar, unlike any forest I was used to. It seemed to be swampy, with drooping cypress trees and a misty fog. Hidden dangers lurked in the darkest shadows. Snakes, alligators, monsters. My pulse quickened. Suddenly, I heard a noise—footsteps, crashing through the underbrush. It was Aunt Josephine! Someone was chasing her. I ran after them. I wanted to help. But I was on a treadmill, never getting any closer . . . until, out of nowhere, I felt a burst of energy. As if propelled by fire, I rushed forward and grabbed the man who was pursuing my aunt. I whirled him around and looked into his face. It was . . . Levi Markham! The writer in the cabin. But why?
There was another crash, and I awoke with a start, confused. Lightning flashed, and the cat jumped from the windowsill to my altar, knocking a book to the floor.
“It’s just a storm,” I told the cat. I pushed myself off the bed, as the cat hopped off the altar and darted into the closet. “I didn’t know you were such a fraidy cat.”
I moved to pick up the book. It was the copy of Silent Spring that had appeared on my front porch. I had placed it on the altar next to my aunt’s picture. Now, as I retrieved the book from the floor, I noticed it had landed with the pages open. I flipped it over and read the chapter title: “Rivers of Death.”
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