“Like you,” Greer said, “we are not creatures of the human realm. I am Fae and my friend, Festus McGregor, is a shapeshifter.”
Festus stepped beside Greer and offered Mrs. Turk a half bow. “My pleasure, ma’am,” he said. “Thank you for seeing us.”
The spirit’s gray form rippled uncertainly. “I do not think I had a choice,” she said. I do not show myself in the daylight hours, but when you came inside, you brought power with you. What have you done to the house? The motion of the passing years has stopped.”
“A mere bit of magic to ensure that we are not detected,” Greer said. “We would like to ask your help with a matter of great importance.”
Mrs. Turk frowned. “I have not left these premises since my death,” she said. “What help could I be to you?”
“A few weeks ago someone like us, a person with power, concluded a deal in a local restaurant,” Festus explained. “He bought something that could hurt a lot of people, and now we don’t know where he is. We’re trying to find out where that deal happened. Can you appeal to the local spectral community for information on our behalf?”
“Oh,” Mrs. Turk said. “Is that all? Of course. We have a number of spirits associated with local restaurants and establishments that sell alcoholic beverages. If you’ll excuse me briefly, I’ll ask now.”
“By all means,” Greer said. “We would be most grateful.”
As they watched, Mrs. Turk’s form faded to near invisibility. All that was left was a cloud of vague, wispy fog. After a minute or two, she came back into focus. “A man such as you describe had dinner in a small restaurant on South Wilmington Street near the First Baptist Church. The deceased pastor sensed his presence and feared a devil threatened his flock.”
“Please assure the late minister that the man we seek is not a devil, though he certainly does not war on the side of the angels,” Greer said. “Also let the pastor know that we will be visiting the area shortly and that we mean neither he nor his flock any harm.”
Mrs. Turk nodded. “I will do so,” she said. Then, with faltering hesitation, she asked, “Could you not stay a few minutes? I cannot recall when last I spoke with someone from the world of the living. Perhaps I could play the piano for you?”
Festus and Greer exchanged a glance and Festus inclined his head slightly in agreement.
“By chance would you play something by Chopin?” Greer asked.
“Oh!” the ghost said, brightening to the point that a suggestion of color filled in the outlines of her form. “That would be lovely. I am quite fond of Mr. Chopin’s nocturnes.”
As Mrs. Turk settled herself at the keyboard, Greer whispered to Festus, “You’re nothing but an old softie.”
“Hmphf,” he grumbled. “I’m no such thing, I just figure living or dead, everybody wants an audience now and then.”
“I repeat, you’re an old softie,” Greer said, laying her hand on his arm, “and a very nice man when you get it in your mind to be.”
“Hush,” Festus said, a blush spreading over his cheeks, “dead lady playing.”
When the impromptu recital ended, and they had taken their leave of Mrs. Turk, Greer and Festus returned to the foyer and positioned themselves for possible video surveillance. With a few whispered words, Greer released the stream of time.
As planned, they circled the first floor, stopping periodically to engage in mock-scholarly conversation. Once outside, the pair exited the park onto Mimosa Street without bothering to say anything to the security guard.
“Are you sure that doesn’t leave a hole in our ‘visiting scholar’ cover story,” Festus asked as they crossed the empty street and ducked under some trees at the back of a funeral home parking lot.
“Quite sure,” Greer said. “I planted the memory of our cordial departure in his mind with the initial mesmerization. If anyone should ask, he will offer up quite a tidy little story about our time at the house complete with earnest assertions affirming our bona fides. Shall we?”
Festus took her hand, and they made a short flight to the First Baptist Church, an imposing red brick structure with a high, cross-bedecked steeple. No sooner had they landed than a ghost in pastor’s garb came rushing out of the sanctuary brandishing a Bible.
“Get thee behind me, devil!” he commanded.
Greer shook her head, covering her eyes with one hand. “My dear fellow,” she said patiently, “I kept company with the chief translator of the King James Bible. The phrase you are looking for is “get thee behind me, Satan.’ You have my word that I am not Lucifer nor am I in his employ.”
The minister, keeping the Bible raised in front of his chest, eyed Festus. “What about you?” he demanded.
“Me?” Festus purred. “I’m sweet as a pussycat.”
Stifling a laugh, Greer said, “We are only here to investigate the previous devil you encountered.”
The preacher nodded. “That man was most certainly evil,” he said. “He had the smell of brimstone on his very soul.”
“Right,” Festus said, “brimstone. Got it. Could you point out the joint where he had dinner?”
Pursing his lips in self-righteous disapproval, the minister gestured toward a restaurant a couple of doors down. “There,” he said, “that is the den of iniquity.”
“Den of iniquity?” Greer asked. “It looks like a perfectly respectable establishment.”
“Hardly,” the minister replied. “They serve intoxicating beverages.”
Craning his neck for a better look, Festus said, with interested eyes, “They do?”
“Indeed,” the ghost said, “but I assure you such things did not occur in the vicinity of this house of God when I was alive.”
“I have no doubt,” Greer said drily. “Thank you for your help.”
The preacher turned and floated back through the nearest wall, then stuck his head back out of the bricks. “I will be in the sanctuary should you need assistance in doing battle with the minions of Beelzebub.” And with that, he was gone.
“Some people get smarter after they die,” Festus said. “That guy wasn’t one of them.”
“Now, now,” Greer said, “he is simply following the faith of his convictions. Shall we speak to the restaurant staff?”
“You go on without me,” Festus said.
Greer arched an eyebrow. “You are turning down the chance for an intoxicating beverage?”
“If I go back to Briar Hollow with booze on my breath I’ll have to listen to that boy of mine lecturing me about acting my age,” he said. “Chase is a good guy, but I’m telling you, he does not take after my side of the family.”
“So I gathered,” she said. “Very well. I’ll make the inquiries. Are you going to wait here?”
“I’ll be down there,” he said gesturing toward the alley. There are three cats behind that dumpster. I want to talk to them.”
Greer peered into the dim space between the buildings. “I don’t see anything,” she said.
“Of course not,” Festus replied, already limping away, “they’re in invisible mode.”
“I thought you said these were street cats, not Fae creatures,” Greer frowned. “How can they be invisible?”
“Shows how much you know,” Festus said. “All cats can disappear at will. It’s one of the mysterious feline superpowers. Now scat. They won’t talk to me if you’re around.”
As he approached the dumpster, Festus called out a greeting in Felinese. After a few seconds, a black cat looked out cautiously. “Do you truly speak our language?” she asked.
“What,” Festus said, “you thought I was just some crazy old human wandering down the alley meowing?”
The black cat stepped into plain view, followed by a calico and a gray, tiger-striped tom. “It’s been known to happen,” the black cat said. “Humans are a most peculiar lot.”
“They are indeed,” Festus agreed.
Craning her neck to look over her companion’s heads, the calico spoke up. “What are you?” s
he asked. “You smell like us, but you look like them.”
Festus stopped about six feet in front of the trio. “I’m a werecat,” he said. “In my small form, I’m a ginger tom. My name is Festus McGregor.”
“If you are a werecat,” the black cat said, “you know we do not give our true names.”
“I do know, Little Sister,” Festus said. “I don’t need to know your name, I just wondered if you sensed anyone pass by here recently who gave off an aura of power?”
The gray tom arched his back and hissed. “We did,” he said, “and he was with the deer man.”
“The deer man?” Festus said. “Some guy was down here with deer?”
The black cat drew her whiskers back in disdain. “Are you sure you’re not human?” she asked. “Because that’s about as bright as something a human would say.”
“Hey!” Festus said, pointing an accusing finger at the gray tom. “I’m not the one talking about ‘deer men.’ I’m just trying to figure out what ole Hissy Fit over there means.”
At that, the gray tom let out with a menacing yowl, which Festus returned in kind.
“That’s enough!” the black cat said. “I will never understand why you toms feel the incessant need to have these ridiculous face-offs!”
“He started it,” Festus growled sourly.
“Whatever,” the black cat said. “He meant the man who was with the powerful one smelled like deer.”
“You mean he smelled like he’d been around deer?” Festus asked. “Like he was a hunter?”
“No,” the cat replied, “he smelled like he was a deer.”
8
Thankfully we had enough customers for the rest of the morning that Tori didn’t give me any more grief about using my magic to spy on Chase — or for instantly jumping to the conclusion that he’d accepted Ann Marie’s invitation.
I spent a lot of time telling myself he had higher standards — or that he better. The idea that I had gone out with a man who would go out with Ann Marie did not sit well with me.
And then, when I realized just how high school that sounded, my annoyance at myself only grew. Staying busy seemed the best antidote for my runaway thinking.
A little before closing time, Mom and Gemma came through the back door juggling paint cards, tile samples, and carpet swatches. Both of the newly acquired buildings included upstairs apartments currently under renovation and redecoration.
After we locked the front door and turned the “Closed” sign over, Tori and I settled in to listen to the imaginary merits of “Minced Onion” versus “Calming Aloe” before pronouncing the near identical paint shades “pale green.”
“Do you need to get your eyes checked?” Mom demanded. “Can’t you see that Calming Aloe is darker? I want the kitchen to be light and airy.”
“Then paint it white,” I said.
Yep, you guessed it. I do not while away Sunday afternoons glued to the Home & Garden Channel.
“Just like your father,” Mom muttered darkly. “If Jeff had his way, every room in the house would be white, and we’d have beige carpet. Beige carpet with six dogs.”
I let that one slide. They were still working out the logistics of housing my father’s canine pack in an apartment. He’d commandeered what had been the laundry room to serve as a kennel. In exchange, Mom got a knocked-out front-loading washer and dryer set, even though it meant figuring out how to run plumbing into an extra walk-in closet.
The move won Dad a state of truce, but at best I’d term it “fragile.” Don’t get me wrong. Mom loves the dogs, but she was going to have to see the arrangement in action to believe it could be made to work.
Since Dad routinely uses my four cats as an argument in favor of his dogs, I could easily find myself on the wrong side of the ongoing debate. But the thing is, cat owners have a major advantage called “litter boxes.” Not to mention the one time I tried to put a harness on Winston and take him for a walk, he collapsed under the weight of the straps and refused to stand until I removed the hideous contraption disarranging his fur.
Thankfully, before Mom could get started about the dogs, Tori emerged from behind the counter with a tray of bear claws. We made room on the table and Tori went back for beautifully frothed lattes all around — vanilla for me, cinnamon for Mom, and caramel for Tori and Gemma.
“So, what hideous color are you planning to paint your kitchen?” Tori asked her mother.
“I am going with white,” Gemma said. “The kitchen in my place was redone last year with retro black and white tile, so it’s in good shape. I am, however, taking that as an excuse to buy all new appliances in red.”
Brochures for KitchenAid Mixers and Keurig Coffee Machines immediately joined the growing pile of decor-themed detritus in the center of the table.
Leaning back and sipping my latte, I savored the moment. There they were, Mom and Gemma, color coordinating with ruthless efficiency while Tori tossed out her usual running string of off the cuff quips. Being with them made me feel safe and distinctly non-magical. It wouldn’t last, but that tiny bubble of normalcy soothed my still jangled nerves.
Not jangled from the encounter with Chase and Ann Marie, but from the dream vision of the theft of the Amulet of Caorunn. That thought, however, I kept strictly to myself.
The conversation veered off to plans for our Thanksgiving dinner at Uncle Raymond’s and then moved to the triple birthday celebration we’d have the first week of December for Tori, Connor and me.
Watching my mother plan a party for her son filled me with quiet joy. If Connor and I had grown up together, we probably would have experienced typical sibling jealousy, but I feel nothing of the kind now. I want my parents to have every joyous occasion with him possible after the long years they lived without him.
The sound of boot heels on the hardwood made me look toward the basement door. Beau crossed the space toward us, offering the group a half bow. “Is this gathering strictly confined to the ladies, or might a hungry soldier claim a pastry and join your company?” he asked.
Mom and Gemma scooted over and made a place for Beau, who snagged a chair from an adjoining table. “I fear,” he said, reaching for a bear claw, “that I have become nearly as addicted to these confections as you have, Miss Jinx.”
“Hey!” I said. “I am not an addict. I prefer to think of myself as an appreciative consumer.”
“Tell yourself that when your jeans start getting tight,” Tori said, taking another pastry for herself.
“And you’re immune to calories?” I asked.
Actually, she is. Tori eats like a horse and never gains an ounce. She came back with the response I expected since I’d heard it a million times. “I’m blessed with a high metabolism,” she replied, biting into the bear claw and depositing a neatly glazed frosting mustache on her upper lip.
In a thoroughly motherly gesture, Gemma reached over with her napkin and wiped her daughter’s face.
“Mom,” Tori complained, “I am not three years old.”
“That,” Gemma said, “depends completely on how you are behaving at any given moment. Grown or not, I am not having my child go around with a dirty face.”
The banter continued back and forth until Dad came wandering in with a stack of fishing supply catalogs under his arm. Even though we’d been munching on the bear claws, Darby materialized and asked if everyone would be staying for supper.
I suddenly realized this is how our new family life would look — a constant round of spontaneous gatherings and shared time both in Briar Hollow and in our other home, the Valley of Shevington.
That, much more than our combined powers, would always make us stronger than an embittered man like Irenaeus Chesterfield. The realization warmed and comforted me.
My state of cozy familial awareness was so strong; I even called Chase and asked him to join us for supper in the lair. We’d just pulled our chairs back when Greer and Festus, in human form, came walking out of the stacks.
“Hey!”
Festus crowed. “Is this good timing or what? I’m starved.” The words were barely out of his mouth before he shifted back to his ginger tom self, jumped clear of his discarded clothes, and landed on the table with a resounding thump.
“What does a cat have to do to get a plate around here?” he demanded. “Give me some of everything, and somebody cut up my roast beef.”
Shaking his head as he filled a plate, Chase said, “So glad to have you back Dad. There was far too much civility around here in your absence.”
Flicking his tail and narrowly missing the gravy boat, Festus said, “I’m perfectly civil, but I’m also hungry. Get a move on, boy.”
“Where have you two been?” I asked lightly, knowing danged well Festus had gone to Raleigh that day and apparently taken the baobhan sith with him.
“Christmas shopping,” Greer said, right on cue. I picked up a hint of a conspiratorial gleam in her eye.
Reaching for the rolls, I said, “Get any good buys?”
“I did,” she said. “I picked up a little something for myself.”
She took out a Louboutin shoebox and displayed a pair of black stiletto pumps that sent Glory into a paroxysm of shoe envy, which also served to deflect any further questions about the purpose of the Raleigh trip.
“You people have got to help a girl out!” Glory wailed. “You’re all witches for heaven’s sake! Can’t one of you shrink a pair of those heavenly shoes down to my size?”
That’s when Greer delivered the coup de grâce. “This pair,” she said, “belong to me, but these are for you. An early holiday gift.”
Glory took one look at the pink glitter mesh pumps with the six-inch heels and almost fainted into the mashed potato bowl.
“Really?” she gasped. “Greer! You bought those for me?”
“I did,” Greer said, taking her place at the table, “and I feel quite certain that after we dine someone in this company has the magical ability to make them a perfect fit.”
For the rest of the meal, Glory never took her eyes off the shoes — well, almost never. She spent a good deal of time glaring at every forkful that went into our mouths, willing us to eat faster and get on with the Louboutin transformation.
The Amulet of Caorunn (A Jinx Hamilton Mystery Book 7) Page 6
