LAST RITE
Maggie Devereaux Mystery #3
Stephen Penner
Published by
Ring of Fire Publishing
Last Rite
Maggie Devereaux Mystery #3
©2013 Stephen Penner. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity with real persons or events is purely coincidental. Persons, events, and locations are either the product of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously.
Cover image from richsouthwales.
Cover design by Stephen Penner.
ALSO BY STEPHEN PENNER
Maggie Devereaux Paranormal Mysteries
Scottish Rite
Blood Rite
Highland Fling (Short Story)
David Brunelle Legal Thrillers
Presumption of Innocence
Tribal Court
By Reason of Insanity
Case Theory (Short Story)
Beyond a Reasonable Doubt (Short Story)
Other Novels and Short Stories
Mars Station Alpha
The Godling Club
Capital Punishment (Short Story)
Children’s Books
Katie Carpenter, Fourth Grade Genius
Professor Barrister’s Dinosaur Mysteries
Table of Contents
1. Rude Awakening
2. Keeping Up Disappearances
3. Terror on the Highland Express
4. Nightmares Come True Too
5. Resting Places
6. Why Can’t You Be Traist?
7. Body of Evidence
8. Message in a Bottle
9. I Demand an Explanation
10. Hanging Propositions
11. Claim Check
12. Research Assistance
13. Graveyard Shift
14. Witch Grave?
15. Evening Constitutional
16. Apartment Hunting
17. Fancy Meeting You Here
18. Yes, Mama
19. The Witch Bone Is Connected to…
20. Picking a Destination
21. Driven Crazy
22. Maid to Order
23. Now I Really Need a Drink
24. Everything in Its Place
25. Big Dig
26. Sinclair
27. The Best Laid Plans
28. Science through the Ages
29. Greyfriars Kirkyard
30. Rare Books
31. Bluidy MacKenzie
32. You Have the Right to Remain Silent
33. Small Time Criminal
34. Canadian Know-Who
35. Looking Backward
36. Ayrsduff
37. A Midsummer Night’s Jog
38. Séance
39. Brìghde’s Journal, Interrupted
40. The Truth Hurts
41. Destined to Fail
42. Half-Baked Explanations
43. Recovered and Discovered
44. Last Rite
Epilogue
About the Author
1. Rude Awakening
Her name was Maggie Devereaux.
She had the worst headache of her life.
And something smelled awful.
Those were the only things she was sure of as the fog blanketing her mind began to recede. She opened one eye. The light stabbed into her brain like a saber. She squinted against the pain and tried to recognize her surroundings.
She had no idea where she was, not specifically. Generally, though, she was reasonably certain she was in a hotel room. The ugly, patterned bed cover and the nondescript watercolor prints on the wall confirmed that.
Forcing open the other eye, she stared up at the white stucco ceiling. There was no way she was going to try sitting up. Not yet. Not if she didn’t want her stomach to eject itself through her nose.
She rolled her head to the side to catch a glimpse out of the window whose existence was suggested by the light coming from that side of the room. Sheer drapes blocked the details of the view, but her eyes rested on something else anyway.
The note on the pillow next to her.
She started to prop herself up onto one arm, but decided against it as her brain threatened to explode through her skull. Instead, thick clumsy fingers grappled with the paper, then raised it toward the ceiling so she could read it safely from her necessarily prone position.
Maggie,
1. I don’t know where the Book is either.
2. You didn’t do it.
3. Neither did I.
-Sinclair
Maggie closed her eyes again and tried to will away the throbbing between her temples. It didn’t work.
Book. What book? She liked books.
Sinclair. She knew a Sinclair, didn’t she? Sinclair Lewis? That sounded familiar. He wrote a book, right?
Images started to float through her mind. A blond man with a goatee and a scar on his cheek. He was handsome. A dark-haired man with bright blue eyes. He was even more handsome. An older couple in a shop. A policewoman. A baby. Two babies. A castle. A university. A book.
The Book!
She sat straight up in the bed.
“Arrrgh!” She doubled over again into a fetal position. The pain radiated down her spinal cord and into every nerve of her body.
What had she done to herself that made her entire body hurt from the inside out?
The agony subsided enough for her to recall her last thought: the Book. Her Book. The Dark Book of Rites and Damnation. Instinctively, her hand reached out for the tome. Part of her knew it wouldn’t be there, but she still wasn’t firing on all cylinders, and she usually kept the book close at hand. She remembered that much, although she was having trouble remembering why. So when her hand confirmed the ancient book wasn’t lying next to her atop the hotel bed, she wasn’t sure where else it might be.
‘I don’t know where the Book is either.’
She opened her eyes—slowly—and surveyed the room again. She had to get up. The Book was missing. She didn’t know where it was, and neither did Sinclair, whoever he was. Who was Sinclair? Not Sinclair Lewis. Not an author. But something about books? A librarian? No. And did he know about the Book too? She thought no one knew.
No, someone else knew. Someone knew about the Book. Or the magic.
Magic? There’s no such thing as magic. Her own mother had told her that once.
Maggie closed her eyes again and took in a deep breath. She was lost, in pain, and confused. Handsome blond man knew about her book. Someone else knew about her magic. And she didn’t even know what magic he knew about.
It was a “he.” He knew about the magic.
The cuter guy. The dark-haired one with the blue eyes and the sparkling smile.
Iain.
Iain!
And then the memories came flooding back, every one of them a hot poker in her brain, setting fire to her synapses. Her mother’s death. Her grandmother’s death. Going to Scotland.
Meeting Iain.
Studying under Professor Macintyre. Meeting Kelly Anderson. The murders. Sergeant Warwick. Inspector Cameron.
Devan Sinclair.
The kidnapped baby. The trip to Wales. The trip to Ireland. The castle. Sarah MacKenzie.
The Dark Book.
The magic.
Iain.
“Oh, Iain,” she moaned. The last clear memory she had was of Iain walking away from her, ignoring her tears, ignoring his name as she called after him. Walking away from her. Forever.
That memory hurt more than the spikes in her skull and she finally managed to pull herself into a sitting position. She lowered her head into her hands and tried to remember where she was. But it w
as no use. Her last memory was of Iain walking away beneath the castle in Visegrád. So, she must be in Hungary.
She raised her head and looked toward the nightstand. There was definitely a telephone and some hotel stationery there. She also definitely couldn’t read it from that distance without her glasses that were also resting atop the nightstand. A tender scoot and an outstretched hand later she was pulling her glasses on and tucking her thick auburn hair behind her ears. She picked up the small notepad next to the phone.
‘Hotel Regency. Edinburgh.’
Edinburgh. Of course.
She lowered her head into her hands again. She had absolutely no memory of travelling back to Scotland, and certainly not to Edinburgh.
Why was she in Edinburgh?
How had she gotten there?
How long had she been there?
And really, what was that horrible smell?
The pain in her head, and the accompanying nausea, seemed to be subsiding as she remembered things. But try as she might, she couldn’t recall how she’d ended up in a hotel room in Edinburgh. That bit of amnesia remained, and with it a dull throbbing in her head and a tender uneasiness in her gut. Still, she felt better enough that she thought she could make it to the bathroom. Some water on her face and a cool washcloth on her neck sounded like just the ticket. Besides, she really had to pee.
Maggie stood up gingerly and extended a hand to the wall. One eye open, she slowly felt her way to the bathroom. As she approached, at least she thought she knew what the smell was. Along with everything else she’d forgotten, she must have forgotten to flush. She flicked on the bathroom light.
“Ahhhhhhh!” Her own scream split her aching head right down the middle.
But she didn’t care about the pain.
She only cared about the blood-soaked dead man in the bathtub. And the subsequent pounding on the door.
“Police! Open up!”
2. Keeping Up Disappearances
“Aw, crap,” Maggie said as the adrenaline dumped into her bloodstream.
She knew she needed to get away from the cops. It didn’t even occur to her to open the door and tell the truth. Dead man in bathtub plus police at door equals climb out window.
The knocking became louder and she heard them fiddling with the door handle. She looked at the man in the tub. She didn’t recognize him, although she wasn’t sure she would have anyway through all the blood. Still, there was something familiar about the scene.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out her cell phone. She stared at it for a moment. It was a new model; she didn’t remember upgrading. But it only took a minute to find the camera app. She snapped a quick picture of the scene, then returned the phone to her pocket.
She tried to run back to the bed, but her headache prevented it. Instead, she walked quickly, pulled her backpack from the floor and crossed to the window, scooping up the note from Sinclair along the way.
She could hear the door unlocking as she opened the window. Looking out, she discovered she was on the second floor. It was too far to jump, but she was out of time. The hotel room door was opening.
“We’re coming in!” they shouted.
“And I’m heading out,” she whispered to herself.
She turned herself around and backed out of the window, holding onto the sill. She lowered herself as far as far as she could, then let go just as the police burst into the room.
She dropped to the pavement below with a painful shock to her ankles. She actually crumpled to the concrete alleyway and fell onto her backpack. For the first time since she’d regained her senses, she was glad she didn’t have the Dark Book. Landing on that would have hurt.
She sat for a moment and rubbed her ankles. Her mind raced as she imagined what the police would think when they found the body. Her heart raced as she wondered whether she’d be able to walk again before they realized she went out the window.
Then she remembered something.
She didn’t need to jump. She could have used the magic to lower herself safely. She remembered the first spell she ever cast: Mhaidhid inh chuimriachan anh-í chonrig riátsha cho inh Thalum. Its translation: ‘Tear asunder the bonds which chain this object to the Earth.’ That might have been a good thing to remember before jumping out of a second story window.
Then she rubbed her sore ankles and remembered something else.
There was no healing spell.
Even though her magic-wielding ancestor, Brìghde Innes, was called a ‘healer’ back in 1620.
The mental assault of bits and pieces of disjointed information was disorienting. She didn’t know what she knew or why it mattered. Her head was starting to hurt again, nearly as much as her ankles. So she was almost relieved to be distracted from her fractured thoughts by the old woman who started yelling at her. Unfortunately, she couldn’t understand a thing the woman was saying through her thick Scottish brogue.
“Wutteryoo doonthar?!” the heavy set, gray-mopped lady shouted as she plodded over, her fat fist shaking in the air. “Yeel be bluckintha wayuh.”
Maggie blinked at the woman. She wished she had some way of just snapping her fingers and understanding her.
“I’m sorry,” Maggie replied. “I didn’t understand what you said.”
The woman huffed and shoved her meaty hands onto her hips. “Aye sayud, yoor bluckin tha wayuh. The trooksill no beyabuhl ta mayk tha duhlivrees.”
Maggie stared at the woman’s mouth as she spoke, hoping that might help her understand. She thought she got the last word. “Deliveries?”
“Aye, duhlivrees!” The woman cast her arms about at the loading dock behind the hotel. “Thayll be heyuh annee moomunt.”
“Deliveries,” Maggie repeated. She pulled herself painfully to her feet. Her ankles were going to be sore for a while. “Going to be here any moment.”
“Aye,” the lady huffed. “Annee moomunt.”
Maggie was about to ask for those few moments more, when she heard distant sirens approaching. It was time to leave.
“Right then, well, thank you,” she said. “No hard feelings and all that.”
The woman offered a reluctant smile then reached out and grabbed Maggie’s arm with surprising force. “Canaydiyun, then, are ye?”
Maggie thought for a moment, then smiled back. “Yes. Yes, I’m Canadian.”
The woman let go just as the back door of the hotel opened and out stepped two policemen. Maggie hitched her backpack higher and hurried away on stinging ankles, hopeful that the old lady would steer the police to be on the look-out for a Canadian woman with glasses and a funny walk.
*
“Canadian, eh?”
Sergeant Tomkins nodded his head. “Aye, ma’am. We extracted his wallet from his pants pocket. He has a driver’s license from British Columbia. It lists his address as Vancouver. We checked with the front desk. They said he wasn’t a guest here.”
Inspector Lindsey Benson tapped her lips as she visually examined the bloody carcass in the bath tub. The forensics officers were still photographing the scene and marking potential evidence for collection. “Had they any idea what he was doing here?”
“Here, in this room?” Tomkins clarified, “Or here, in Edinburgh.”
Benson pursed her lips and shrugged. “Either, I suppose.”
“No, ma’am,” answered Tomkins. “Neither.”
Benson looked down at him and frowned. She was a tall woman, six feet in heels, with fine blond hair pulled into a loose bun at the base of her neck. Tomkins was a bit on the short side and drank a little too much to keep his gut trim. He smiled at his superior. “But I knew to ask about both.”
Benson smiled. She had a lopsided smile that was creasing a wrinkle on her right cheek, to go along with the beginnings of the crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes. At least the knee-length skirts hid the varicose veins. Damn getting older as a woman. Men had no idea.
“Good job, then,” she said. “And follow up. I want to know why he was i
n Edinburgh, and why he was in this room.”
She tapped her lips again, only partly to wave away the smell of blood and feces filling the small bathroom.
“Who was this room rented to?”
Tomkins pulled out his notepad. “Eh… The girl at the front desk said it was a bloke name of Sinclair. Devan Sinclair.”
*
“Sinclair,” Maggie muttered as she examined the note again. “What was he doing in Edinburgh?”
She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and looked around the neighborhood she found herself in, the rows of slate-roofed townhomes snaking along the street toward the shops at the next busy intersection.
“What am I doing here?”
She shook her head and looked down at the note. Sinclair knew about the Dark Book. And he must have known about the dead man in the bathtub. What else could he have meant by ‘I didn’t do it’? But then, why would he just leave her there with a dead body in the next room?
Then she remembered her phone. Or rather, that she had taken a picture with her phone. She pulled it from her pocket and quickly navigated to the photo gallery. A swipe and screen-pinch later and the photo of the dead man filled the screen.
She saw it immediately. And she was afraid she knew what it meant.
*
“Hey, I hadn’t noticed that before.” Tomkins pointed at the dead man’s face. “What do you suppose that means?”
Benson leaned down as the last photographs were taken and the forensics officers retreated into the main part of the hotel room. She examined the corpse’s face, crusted red and black with blood.
“Is that…?” she started.
“A stone,” Tomkins finished. “Across the bridge of his nose.”
Benson frowned. “Well, it must mean something. I’m just not sure what. It is damn odd, though.”
“That’s not the only thing that’s odd,” said the tall brunette woman who had slipped into the bathroom to stand over the body. “This whole scene looks staged somehow. The body is just…wrong.”
Last Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 3) Page 1
