They must have had some idea of what he was going to say, the expectant way they were looking at him. “It’s Amelia Parker,” he said. “We met. She, ah, needed a ride. And here we are.”
The two women blinked back at him, speechless.
Rather blunt. You might have frightened even them.
His mustache crinkled in a wry smile, and he spread his hands as if to say, just so.
“I … see,” Judi said, nodding. “That’s how you know so much about the murder, then.”
The cat swished its naked tail and stalked along the counter to Frida’s waiting hand, arching her back as the woman stroked her.
He set the mug on the counter. “I’m not really here about the Harcourt murder or Amelia Parker,” he said. “Let me be straight with you. I’ve come to talk about Amy Scanlon.”
The silver-haired woman blanched and leaned against Frida. Brow creased with concern, Frida steadied her.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” Judi said, and Cormac didn’t deny it. “We felt it, but we couldn’t guess how, or why. About a month ago, right? Late at night, I started sweating and shaking and couldn’t stop.”
“I’m sorry,” Cormac said.
“What happened? How? Did you know her, you must have known her.…”
“Hon, do you need to sit down?” Frida asked, both hands on Judi now.
“No, no, it’s all right,” she said, patting Frida’s arm. “What on Earth am I going to tell her parents? I kept telling them she’d come home when she was ready. She’s an explorer, nothing they could do or say would stop that, but I made them believe she’d come home some day.”
“You know what she was, then?” he asked. “You know what she was into?”
“I … I’m the one who initiated her.”
Cormac drew a set of folded sheets of paper from his jacket pocket. “Then maybe you can interpret this.”
He watched their reaction to the printed sheets from Amy’s book of shadows. Judi raised the pages, her gaze narrowed with interest. Frida—she took a step back, as if she didn’t want even a stray look at them.
He said, “A friend of mine, I guess you could say she inherited the book of shadows. We’ve been trying to break the code. Amy mentioned you in her diary. We thought maybe you could help.”
Frida glared at him. “Would you excuse us a moment?” She took hold of Judi’s arm and pulled her to the back room for another hushed conference. The cat looked after them, then licked its paw with great concentration.
Cormac listened closely, but they conducted their argument in whispers and he couldn’t make out what they said. Probably discussing whether this might be some kind of scam and if they could trust him. He wondered what his aura—auras—said about that.
But the question is—should they trust us? Honestly?
The two women emerged, Frida glowering and suspicious, Judi looking thoughtful. Side by side, they stood on one side of the counter and regarded him, as if he were a customer asking about T-shirt sizes.
“Mr. Bennett—you have all of Amy’s book of shadows, don’t you? The whole thing?”
“Yeah. I can get you a copy, if you can help with the code.” He didn’t mention that most of it was already online. Let them figure it out.
They looked at each other, a silent conversation between old friends, and he guessed they wanted more from him than the book.
“I have a question, Mr. Bennett. Why? I know—knew—Amy, and maybe I didn’t know exactly what she was working on, but I have some idea what she was capable of. Why do you want access to that? Why should I help give you access to that? Assuming I can.” She stood resolute, though her eyes were pink, on the edge of shedding tears.
He looked away, chuckled. “That’s a really long story.” He should have known just asking them wouldn’t work—he looked like a hit man.
“It’s Amelia Parker, isn’t it?” said the ever-suspicious Frida. “She was a wizard then, and she still is. So what’s she need Amy’s book for?”
Tell them it isn’t for me, it isn’t for us. Tell them the fate of the world—
They’d never believe that, he thought back. However true it might be.… The whole story really was long and unbelievable—even more unbelievable than him carrying around Amelia. Kitty could get away with just asking, and would be able to think up an explanation that sounded important without sounding outlandish. He gave it a try.
“Amy got mixed up with some very dangerous people,” he said simply. “I need to find out what she knew about them, so that no one else gets hurt.” There, that sounded good. Didn’t it? In the back of his head, Amelia was watchful.
That seemed to put Judi at her ease. Frida, not so much, but Judi was the one who gave the decisive nod. “I think I can decode this for you, Mr. Bennett. But I need something from you first.”
“That’s fair.”
“You’re obviously experienced in the arcane. You certainly seem to have a unique perspective on things—Amelia Parker is here now, isn’t she? She’s listening to all of this?”
“That’s right,” he said.
“Then you might be just the person we need for this.”
Out with it, Amelia grumbled.
Settle down, Cormac thought.
It was Frida who said, “I think we need your help.”
He didn’t show the surprise he felt. What could these two biddies possibly need his help for?
Judi said, “Let me tell you a story, Mr. Bennett.…”
* * *
“IN 1895, a man named Milo Kuzniak came into Manitou claiming to have found gold in the hills west of town. No one believed him—people had been looking for gold in the area for going on fifty years, any gold to be had was already found. The rush was over. He persisted, filed claims, bought equipment, camped in the hills, ran off passersby with a shotgun, and bragged in town about what he would find. Generally made a nuisance of himself.”
They’d retreated to seats in the back of the store. Customers came in at one point, and Frida helped them when they bought some candy. She came back with a teapot and refilled their tea.
“Then some strange things started happening. Horses shied away from his claim. A photographer hiking with his equipment in the area fell and broke his leg, and the men and burro sent to carry him back to town became hopelessly lost. Moans and screams were heard from the land late at night, but no one ever saw mischief afoot. Those who went to investigate didn’t find anything, but they felt a powerful dread the further into Milo’s claim they went. A point came when most men refused to go there at all.
“Milo started telling wild tales, that he’d found a book of spells and was now a powerful magician, that he’d summoned ghosts to do his bidding and guard his territory. He had otherworldly traps and torments designed to repel intruders. This must have been intriguing as well as frightening, but no one had any way of proving it. The stories grew more sinister as time went on. The people of Manitou loved nothing more than a good scary story, and this was a whopper.”
You ever hear about this guy? Cormac questioned Amelia.
No, I never did.
Judi continued. “Then local gentleman Augustus Crane decided to do something about Kuzniak and his tall tales. He was a great believer in magic, held séances in his house, was well known in Spiritualist circles. The town held him in high esteem, because he brought such a scientific gravity to his proceedings. One could not help but take him seriously. It was, he decided, up to him to stop this magical menace before he did real harm. The area wasn’t big enough for two self-proclaimed magicians. He studied his books, asked advice of the great Spiritualists of his day, organized the spell he would use to put Milo Kuzniak in his place. Then he went to Kuzniak’s claim, where the man had camped out.”
I have heard of Augustus Crane, Amelia said. People were still mourning him when I arrived in town.
“They had what might be called a wizards’ duel, a showdown at midnight under a full moon. Some of the folk from town, ot
her members of Crane’s Spiritualist circle, came with him to witness. None of them could say exactly what happened. Crane challenged Kuzniak. Kuzniak refused to give way. So Crane cast a spell that was designed to weaken Kuzniak, remove his magic—remove his will to antagonize the town. Crane believed the spell would weaken him to the point of sickness and drive Milo back to wherever he’d come from. But that didn’t happen. None of that happened.”
The flair for storytelling Judi had brought to the walking tour came through here. “Milo stood unflinching before him—at a loss, observers said. Not even bothering to work a magical defense. But this was a ruse. Milo had made preparations before Augustus arrived, and he was very well defended when Augustus cast his spell. As soon as he did, Milo’s defenses came to the fore, and rather than defeating his opponent, Crane himself was struck dead where he stood. Some claimed they saw a bolt of lightning strike him from the clear sky. Some say the burst of electricity traveled up from the ground and electrocuted him. Others say the power came from Milo Kuzniak’s eyes, or his outstretched hands. Whatever it was, Augustus Crane ended up flat on the ground, dead.”
“You left this story off the walking tour,” Cormac said.
Judi ignored him and made the mystery at the heart of her story plain. “To this day, no one knows what killed him, only that it was magical. Mr. Bennett, Frida and I want to know what Milo Kuzniak did to kill Augustus Crane. Was it something in the land? Some spell or artifact? Crane might not have been Merlin, but he knew what he was doing, and still Kuzniak was able to not just defend himself, but kill Crane on top of it. No one’s been able to figure it out.”
Over a hundred years, and the incident was still a mystery—what made them think he could track it down? Ah—because he had a hundred-year-old magician along for the ride. Maybe he was better equipped than most. Call it magical archaeology.
He asked, “What happened to Kuzniak? Did anyone go after him for killing Crane?”
Judi shrugged. “He left town and disappeared. No one could prove that he’d done anything to kill Crane, but Crane’s friends in town knew he must have done something and weren’t at all happy. Lynch mobs still happened in those days, and ultimately his mining claim wasn’t worth sticking around for. He died of a heart attack in Glenwood Springs about ten years later. Unrelated, near as anyone can figure.”
Frida scowled, as if she could dismiss the whole thing, but she remained tense and stayed close to Judi. She said, “This area’s full of ghost stories and tall tales. Some of Crane’s friends were more than a little crazy—table-rapping Spiritualists. Crane may have just dropped dead of a heart attack, and they came up with this wacky story to make his death seem strange and mysterious. Do wizard duels like that even happen outside of books?”
“They do, once in a while.” He’d been in a couple himself. He’d almost rather face off with six-shooters at high noon.
Judi said, “This would all just be a historical curiosity, but we’re pretty sure someone’s been poking around Kuzniak’s old claim site. I leave the story off the tour for a reason—I don’t want someone thinking they can learn what happened to Crane and maybe use that power themselves. You say you want what’s in Amy’s book to keep anyone else from getting hurt, and I believe you, Mr. Bennett.”
“Call me Cormac,” he said, because it seemed like the right thing to say. He didn’t feel much like “Mr.” anything.
“All right, Cormac. We’d like to learn what Kuzniak did in that duel, and what killed Crane, before someone else does. To keep anyone else from getting hurt, like you said. As someone who believes in fate, I can’t help but think you came along for a reason.”
“Yeah,” he said, quirking a wry smile. “To ask about Amy Scanlon.”
“You see? We can help each other.”
He felt like he’d been tricked by a couple of grandmas, but couldn’t figure out where the gotcha was. And really, he could just turn around and walk out.
They are setting us to investigating a murder that’s over a hundred years old. Can we even do this?
We can try, he answered. What’s one more mystery to take on, on top of all the others?
I’m not sure I trust them.
Then that puts us all on even ground.
Judi and Frida waited for his answer.
“I’d like to think it over. See if there’s even enough to go on to track this down,” he said, turning to leave. “I’ll get out of your hair until then—”
“Wait—you never said how Amy passed away. Is there anything else you can tell me about what happened to her?” Judi leaned in, on the verge of reaching out to him.
He said, “No. I’m sorry. I wasn’t there, it was my friend who was with her. I’m mostly doing all this for my friend.”
The aunt said, “Is it possible—could I talk to this friend? I’d just like to know as much as I can. It’s been over a year since I heard from Amy, and I just … I’d like to know.”
He understood the request. What he didn’t want was to drag Kitty back through that trauma—there was a reason he’d insisted he could do this on his own. He knew if he asked her to talk to Judi, Kitty would say yes. Best to let her make that decision, he supposed.
You could counter-bargain. Tell her Kitty will talk to her if she’ll decode the book for us.
Cormac mentally shook his head. That wouldn’t be right, when the woman was just looking for some closure.
“I’ll see if she wants to talk,” he said. “She may not want to.”
“All right. Thank you.”
He nodded at them and left the shop.
Chapter 5
AMELIA WAS familiar with the Spiritualist movement, which rose to prominence in the second half of the nineteenth century. More than familiar with it, she’d dabbled in it herself in her quest to learn everything she could about the occult, its practitioners, and the methods they used. The core idea of Spiritualism: through the guidance of a medium performing certain rituals, one might be able to communicate with spirits who have passed on. Primarily, people hoped to speak to loved ones and be assured of their comfort on “the other side.” But others hoped to learn arcane secrets, to speak with great magicians and sages of the past, to gain power. Mostly, the only power these mediums displayed was the ability to dupe their clients and acquire their money.
Even when she was alive, she’d begun to hate the Spiritualists because, in general, they made her job harder. She couldn’t simply follow stories of magic and ghosts and otherworldly monsters. No, she had to make judgments, don an air of skepticism, and investigate before she truly began investigating. Was this person making claims really a psychic communicating with dead spirits, or a charlatan cracking her toes under the table? It was all a supreme waste of time.
In her current experience, as a spirit who actually had passed on and returned, most people were less inclined to willingly speak with the dead than such beliefs would suggest. She’d tried for a century before finding someone able to listen to her—Cormac. Speaking with the dead in reality was not a safe parlor-bound activity, as the old Spiritualists insisted. No, in all the stories that had a seed of truth to them speaking with the dead required hardship and sacrifice, journeys to the underworld and copious amounts of blood.
Since meeting Cormac and coming back to life, she learned that the movement still existed in one form or another. She learned about the Cottingley Fairies and the great rivalry between Harry Houdini and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle over the photographs. The skeptical Mr. Houdini, Amelia decided, was a man she’d have very much liked to speak to, another reason to curse her early death that prevented such a meeting. But Sir Arthur believed utterly. Amelia thought the creator of the great Sherlock Holmes really should have known better. However, the First World War and accompanying horrific loss of life had inspired a renewal of interest in Spiritualism. Sir Arthur had lost a son in the war. Amelia supposed she could forgive him for succumbing to an emotional response.
Amelia had started on her path bec
ause she desperately wanted to see fairies, exactly the kind of fairies that those little girls made cutout pictures of and posed in their garden. That alone should have raised doubts—the pictures were just what a late Edwardian little girl would imagine a fairy should look like, based on all the storybooks, paintings, and drawings surrounding her. Reality never matched expectations so precisely, in Amelia’s experience. A hundred years ago, photography was still new enough that no one could believe that two young girls could falsify pictures. Photographs were the great truth-tellers, the artificial eye; they could not lie as paintings could. Except they could, and they had been made to lie from the very beginning. What would Sir Arthur make of the current era of computerized photo manipulation? How could one ever find the truth?
One simply had to keep looking, keep asking questions, and take nothing for granted.
* * *
THE DRIVE back to Denver seemed to take forever.
Do you know, Frida and Judi—I think they’re together. As in a couple.
That had occurred to Cormac. He figured it was none of his business.
I had a spinster aunt, one of my mother’s sisters, who lived with another spinster friend of hers. The family always spoke of how lovely it was that they got along so well and could live together with such economy without troubling their respective families. But there was much the family didn’t say about them as well, and I wondered.
He got a hint of the memory as she rambled, an image of two dowdy middle-aged women standing arm in arm as if holding each other up, dressed all in black like they were shadows. They’d babysit sometimes, and Amelia remembered them teaching her croquet, when Amelia was young enough to wear her hair in pigtails tied up with big satin bows.
It seemed an alien world to Cormac, and he had nothing to say. But he suspected that, yes, there had been more to the women’s relationship. The thought amused him, the two hiding behind propriety so stiff and formal that no one even questioned.
Low Midnight (Kitty Norville Book 13) Page 4
