Murder, Magic, and Moggies

by Pearl Goodfellow

  Knowing it would be a while, I called out to Millie, “So what did you make of those writings I brought back?”

  “Wondered when you were going to ask me,” Millie called back. “Near as I can tell, they’re in Trick Tongue, a Romani language that goes back at least a thousand years.”

  “Trick Tongue? I don't get it; I can see all the words in English. Okay, so they don't make much sense, but I do recognize the words,” I replied while I placed the first beaker under the glass bulb, allowing the first few drops of distilled liquid to break free.

  “Yep, that's how Trick Tongue works,” Millie explained. “You'll see the words in English, and they all seem innocent and fluffy enough. But, it's the way you look at the text. It takes some practice, but you have to read in between the lines to spot the trick, as it were."

  "So, clever-clogs, are you going to tell me what it's saying, or --"

  “Sorry, Hattie, no,” Millie said, cutting off my question before I could finish. “I know enough to recognize what Trick Tongue looks like. But I’ve no clue as to what it's actually saying."

  I heard my assistant sigh from the open door of the kitchen. The drops from the bowl slowed and came to a halt as the temperature in the main apparatus climbed.

  “I just wish I had come back from the Isle with some useful information,” I muttered to myself more than anyone else.

  “What, the four blackened skeletons were just a harmless cabaret act?”

  I heard my cowardly cat's question, but his voice sounded muffled.

  I wish I hadn't shared the visual of the shallow grave with him, but I realized he did have a point.

  "Sweetie, that's what happens when you're involved in a smuggling --" My words got stuck in my throat, as my nervous cat came into view.

  "Fraidy, what the --"

  "It's for the fumes. It's a gas-mask. Gloom made it for me," came his stifled words.

  My timid kitty's face was partially covered by what looked like half of a ping-pong ball. No, wait, it WAS a ping-pong ball, cleaved carefully in half and affixed over Fraidy's nose and mouth by the aid of an elastic band around his head. I noticed his mischievous sister had even taken the trouble of drawing on a very clever imitation of the Hannibal Lecter mask. I heard Gloom tittering uncontrollably from the doorway.

  Turning away briefly to stop the laughter which was about to erupt from my mouth, I looked back at Fraidy, and his wide-eyed innocence just tipped me over the edge. I burst into fits of chuckles. He narrowed his eyes in annoyance.

  "Okay, okay, I'm sorry, my love, it's just that, I think your sister is pulling a prank on you." I wiped the tears from my eyes and tried to compose myself. "Come here, sweetie. Take that thing off. It doesn't even have any air vents, so you won't be able to breathe in a second."

  That did it. Fraidy's eyes widened in full-blown terror, and started running around the kitchen in blind panic. "Help! Help! I'm suffocating!"

  I could just make out the many sources of kitty laughter over his deafening screams.

  "Millie!" I shouted for my assistant. Millie came rushing in, scooped up the freaked-out Fraidy, availed him of his Hannibal muzzle and took him to the front to calm down.

  I noticed Shade, lying under the table that held the apparatus, holding his belly, his shoulders juddering from chortling so hard.

  "Shade, come on. You guys know better than to taunt your brother like that," I said, trying to keep the smile from my face.

  "Sorry, boss-lady," he replied, gaining his composure. "Did I do good, then? The key worked?"

  “Oh, you’re more than forgiven, you old tomcat,” I said with a grin, reaching down to rub him. “Sure you won’t have any problem getting the amulet bac—“

  “Hey, my lady was able to snatch it off her human no probs,” Shade assured me. “Pretty sure getting it back can’t be that hard. Miss. Poof's got the smarts as well as the killer body.”

  My smile turned into a puzzled frown, and not just because the liquid in the final beakers was turning brown.

  “I know that look, Hattie,” Onyx said as he strolled in. “You always get it when you have a problem you're struggling with. So, why don’t we start with what we do know about Druida’s death?”

  “Don’t even think about leaving me out of this discussion,” Millie added, leaning against the doorway. “I can listen to you and keep an eye on the front at the same time.”

  The rest of my cats came in right behind her, even an unusually early-rising Midnight. Well, no sense in disappointing my audience.

  “One, Druida was found dead in the Romani section of the library,” I said, keeping my eyes on the distilling liquid. “Two, she was clubbed to death by something that Maude has been unable to identify. It left wood shavings, a speck of as yet indeterminate metal, and finally an unrecognized magical signature.”

  “But, what kind of magical signature?” Millie asked.

  “That’s the thing,” I said as the liquid slowed down once more. “Maude couldn’t identify it.”

  “Of all the times I’ve been over there, Maude has never been stumped on what kind of magic was used on a victim,” Carbon pointed out.

  “First time for everything, brother,” Onyx said back.

  “But that’d suggest the magic isn’t a common one on the Coven Isles,” Millie added. “Not that many magical styles you can say that about, I mean we have everything here; Celtic, Egyptian, Greek, Norse, First Nation, Vedic --”

  My assistant brought me to the answer, just by the absence of the discipline. “Siberian,” I whispered. "Siberian Warlocks."

  I looked around the room at my wide-eyed congregation.

  “What?” Gloom asked in disgust.

  “The Besnick cartel was in the sabertooth tiger trade with the Steppes Warlocks way back, so the only reason the Siberian Warlocks ever came here was because of their joint business venture with the Besnicks.”

  “So, both the tools and personnel might have been forgotten, but their magic is still here?” Midnight asked, giving a wide-mouthed yawn at being up in the middle of the day.

  “That’s pretty thin,” Gloom growled. “Besnicks have been out of business for years so why—“

  “Those skeletons had the Besnick Cartel's pendants on them,” I said, running with the thought as the second beaker caught the last drops of churning fluid. “The Besnicks were the last major Strands dealers on the Isles. Fog is definitely connected to the newer players in that trade.”

  “Three more connections until Kevin Bacon,” Millie quipped.

  “Still, it’s worth running past Maude tonight to see if it helps her out.”

  “Shouldn’t you call ahead?”

  Carbon laughed at Millie’s question. “Dead or alive, Maude always considers the morgue open to the general public.”

  No sooner had Maude put the reagent on the slide then the whole thing turned an abyssal black.

  “Okay, that is very good or very bad,” I said from my seat next to the (now thankfully bare) examination table.

  Maude looked over her shoulder at me with one of her winning smiles before she peered at the slide through the microscope once more. “I’d say both, Hattie dear. Good for us who are looking for evidence…”

  Then, after making a few adjustments to the microscope’s magnification, she added, “…and bad for poor, arrogant, dead Druida.”

  Carbon was off in a corner, finishing off a couple of Maude’s kitty treats. That duty out of the way, he trotted off to the door and slid under it like the smoky contortionist he was. Next stop for him: the boiler room.

  “Looks as though your guess was right on point,” Maude said with admiration as she pulled away from the microscope. “This IS Siberian warlock magic. Also explains why the wood sample was Abies sibirica—“

  Seeing my confusion over the Latin, she laughed and added, “Siberian fir…anyway, put it together with the metal core in the center and I’d say that Druida was attacked by a Tchernobog club.”

  “
Sounds nasty,” I said with a wince, recalling that Tchernobog was the ancient Slavic deity reputed to be a god of darkness.

  “Oh, it is,” Maude agreed, stepping away from the microscope to walk to her wall shelves. “The magic binds together the susceptibility to fungal rot that the Siberian firs are prone to with a lead core in the center that bashes through magic and flesh with equal force.”

  She pulled open the nearest freezer to reveal one of the skeletons I’d found on Crow. The necklace was gone, but there was no mistaking those blackened bones.

  “Take this poor fellow that Hector brought in a few hours ago,” she said, waving her hand over the bones. “My initial examination showed no less than fifteen spiral fractures, and he was only hit half as hard as Druida was by this weapon.”

  “Was there ever anybody on the Isles who’d use this weapon?” I asked, doing my best to cover up the fact that I recognized this skeleton from earlier.

  Mercifully closing the shelf, Maude said, “Not anyone respectable, as you can imagine, but it was a favorite among the Besnick cartel. You could literally make this club into any innocent looking item on the surface; golf club, walking stick, fence post.”

  “But the Besnicks have been out of business for years now,” I pointed out.

  “True but are ALL the Besnicks gone?” Maude asked, holding up a finger. “Because, if I had to make a guess, I’d say that our late and not-so-great librarian did something to piss a Besnick off.”

  I nodded, but I frowned at the same time. Even assuming that she was right, it did nothing to answer why they had waited so long to wreak vengeance on Druida in the first place.

  Chapter 17

  The next day was thankfully a slow one for the Angel. All our major deliveries taken care of first thing, I had some time to experiment with the samples I'd distilled from the day before. Millie watched the front and kept the shop ticking over, while I busied myself with trying to nail down a Strands psychosis cure.

  I understood why Sherlock Holmes had always found little experiments like this as a good way to exercise his brain. Figuring out all the properties of these substances was a great way of getting all the cogs and wheels spinning. Sure, I had boiling points figured out but what about acidity? PH levels? Flammability? Whenever I got a little too burned out on playing with my new toys, I looked over my stack of reading material I'd collected for the purpose of finding a solution for the outbreak.

  As expected, the Egyptians HAD known about the Strands. In one particular ancient text, the Strands had been described within the lines of the myth of Sekhmet: On parched breeze, golden threads, all the kingdoms revealed by their coming. Right. The poor souls right now, whose heads were stuffed with endless kingdoms revealing themselves might not be so poetic about it. No, they'd probably be more like; I'm tripping out, man!

  I looked at the accompanying image to the legend. An oasis, date palms, a serene, wise man, all in white, sitting next to his camel. A million glossy tendrils, each of them a glowing amber, danced through the air, their amber threads catching the light of the harsh desert sun. The fronds were nearly invisible against the dusty-rose colored dune in the background of the illustration.

  I turned back to my microscope to examine the biology of the plant remnants I procured from the swirling ash cloud of Crow. Nothing similar to the Strand's apparent make-up. Tartarus! If only I had a true plant specimen of the strange fauna. I pulled my head away from the microscope in disgust. Looking at my elaborate laboratory set-up, I felt defeated. I wasn't the slightest bit closer to finding a cure for the madness this plant caused.

  Then it hit me. So far, the one thing I hadn’t done in this case was examine the actual crime scene. No surprise, as I was under suspicion and removed from the investigations. But, this was the Mason. A library, whose doors were open, to any and all of the curious minded public. And I was the public!

  Millie gave me a startled blink as I skipped past the counter on my way out the door.

  “No more science for today?” she asked, reaching for a jar of Goldenseal.

  “Going over to the Mason for a little research,” I said casually, giving a brief wave as the Angel's bell tinkled my exit. I didn't feel that bad, as I was technically telling the truth. Besides, there actually was a subject that I could research from the books there. Two clue-hunts for the price of one, and I thought that was a better bargain than looking at my lame experiments at home. Blessed Bran be with me this day.

  A blur of motion behind the front desk, Reg Minder was in full swing. Between tasks of re-ordering books, checking out material for the patrons, and organizing the filing system, it was no wonder he looked frazzled. I approached the counter, aware that I was about to add to his workload. The young man took a few moments to notice me.

  “Oh, Ms. Jenkins,” he said, straightening up as he saw me. “I’m so sorry, have you—“

  “It’s fine, Reg,” I assured him. “Looks as though you’ve got your hands full.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” he said with a sigh. “Since Ms. Stone’s…departure, and with Bradford still in the hospital, I’ve been doing my best to keep everything in shape.”

  I took a closer look at the spines on the stack of books he'd been sorting. A cursory examination showed them to be seminal magical texts. If Druida had been here, the titles displayed would definitely have been cast out or locked up away from prying eyes.

  “You got these from the Scroll?” I said nodding my head toward the tower of magical volumes.

  “Well…yeah,” Reg said, looking around to make sure no one we had no ear-wiggers. “I went to Howling Mercy as soon as they'd admitted Bradford. By Brigid, he's in rough shape."

  Reg slumped his shoulders, obviously recalling Mr. Obonyo's poor condition. "Anyway, he gave me the key to the Scroll, and I’ve been starting the transferring process ever since." He waved his hand across his latest rescued stack.

  “Thought about getting some help?”

  “I could definitely use it," Reg confessed. "I'm doing what I can, but some extra hands would be nice, sure."

  "What about Bertha? I know she's the cleaner, but I bet she could get those piles in order at least," I offered.

  "I'll do that," he said, adding a book of Haitian Voodoo to the top of the stack.

  “Anyway,” I said, switching gears. “I was wondering if you could set me up with microfilm for a few back issues of the Talisman Tribune.”

  “Follow me. We have at least one hundred years worth of issues, will that work for you?" he enquired, leaving his post behind the counter.

  Reg waved Bertha Crabtree over from a shelf she was dusting.

  "Bertha, mind keeping an eye on the counter until I get done helping Ms. Jenkins?"

  “But of course, dear boy,” Bertha said in that hard-to-place accent.

  I followed Reg to the back where the microfilm was housed.

  “You know, I think I’m beginning to understand why Ms. Stone was such a, um, not-very-nice person,” he sighed, shaking his head. “Keeping track of all this would drive anyone crazy.”

  “You're probably the only person on Glessie willing enough to cut her that much of a post-mortem break,” I noted as we came up on the microfilm machine.

  “You’re not kidding,” Reg admitted. “A lot of the patrons have been singing that tune from the Wizard of Oz. You know, ding dong, the witch is dead?”

  That tune was rarely sung on the isles. Given that it pointed to the sad and painful history that most families here had been touched by, it spoke volumes that it was making a comeback specifically for celebrating Druida's death.

  “Did you notice anything unusual, or out of place, from the last time you saw Ms. Stone?”

  Reg winced a little and gave me a pleading look. “You sure you want to know? I heard her speaking to herself just before she died, and it wasn’t very nice.”

  At my nod, he sighed and said, “WelI, I didn’t recognize the words she used, but they didn’t sound terribly
friendly. I did hear your name mentioned, mixed in with the foreign words. How far back do you want to go on the Tribune copies?”

  I gave him the date range of the Besnick trial before asking, “Anything else you remember?”

  Reg squinted as he gave me the microfilm. “Couple of things…she muttered something about how being a hero doesn’t pay. She said that in English." He shrugged his shoulders.

  "Well, if you remember anything else about our zany librarian, let me know."

  Reg frowned. "You know, I think I'll actually miss Ms. Stone's unusual fashion se --" He stopped abruptly.

  "Reg? What is it?" I stepped closer.

  "I just this second remembered something," he replied. "Druida. She was wearing a neck scarf the day she was murdered. But, when she was found, she didn't have it on." He exhaled. "I think I must have been so messed up ... seeing her body, and all."

  "Did you tell the police this, Reg? About the scarf?"

  "No, I didn't, Ms. Jenkins. Like I said, I was rather traumatized by the sight of Ms. Stone's body."

  His eyes suddenly looked tired. "It's probably nothing, anyway. Druida had been suffering from a lot of hot flashes, so she was known to discard articles of clothing throughout the day. "

  Reg rubbed a hand over his face. "I guess she just got overheated that day, and took it off."

  "You're right. It's probably nothing. But, thanks for telling me. You never know, right?"

  "True," he said finally. "Look, I'd probably better get back up front. Bertha's probably itching to get back to her mop and bucket." He smiled and left without another word.

  I sat down at the microfilm machine and happened to glance at a physical copy of yesterday’s Tribune Reg apparently hadn't yet found a moment to commit it to microfilm. I felt a flash of anger at the headline. Sugar Dunes Runway Proposal Takes Flight!

  I scanned the image quickly. There was a photo of Gideon Shields, governor of Cathedral Isle and his mercenary-like assistant, Mari Falk under the headline. Falk had a striking beauty. Chiseled cheekbones, cruel, pale blue eyes, thin lips, jet black hair, severely scraped back to form a high ponytail. Looking at Shields, I couldn't help but feel a flush of heat charge through my body. He had natural good looks and an easy smile. He looked so sincere for a politician. His wide shoulders were perfect in his well-tailored threads. Wow, he really was smoking h— Hattie, seriously? Like, now’s the time?