The Gambler Grimoire: An Urban Fantasy Mystery (Wicklow College of Arcane Arts Book 1)

by BR Kingsolver

  “Emma!” Carver called. “Come here, please.”

  The woman put down whatever she was doing, pulled off her gloves, and strolled over. She wore a white t-shirt and jeans.

  “Emma, this is Dr. Robinson, the new apothecary professor.”

  The young woman smiled and offered her hand, which I took, in spite of the dirt. “So glad to meet you. Emma Hall. I guess you’re my new dissertation professor?” Her eyes shifted to Carver briefly, then back.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “What are you studying?”

  “I started my doctoral program in Apothecary Arts last fall, but things got kind of interrupted in the spring. Can we talk about it?”

  The earnest, pleading look on her face tugged at my heart. “Of course, we can. Were you studying under Dr. Kavanaugh?”

  Emma nodded.

  I turned to Carver. “Do I need to be anywhere tomorrow morning?”

  He shook his head. “I had meant to speak to you about Dr. Kavanaugh’s graduate students.”

  “Just send them along, and we’ll work it out. Emma, are you free at eight in the morning?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said enthusiastically.

  I pointed in the direction of my apartment. “Breakfast. Eight o’clock sharp. Bring what you have.”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  As we were speaking, a gray tabby cat strolled by.

  “Another student, or just one of the greenhouse staff?” I asked.

  Emma laughed. “Koshka is our rodent control expert. Her buddy Pete stays outside and patrols the garden. I’ve been feeding them over the summer, but Lia is the one who mostly takes care of them.”

  I strolled with Carver back to the Administration Building, and he took his leave. I went to my new office, locked the door behind me, and sat in the chair behind the desk. With a quick spell, it took no time to unlock the desk drawer. Pulling it open, I found a dozen file folders.

  Knocking on the door drew my attention. I shoved the files back in the drawer, closed it, and went to the door. When I opened it, a tall, handsome, dark-haired man in the evidently de rigueuer tweed jacket stood there.

  “Dr. Robinson?”

  “Yes?”

  He smiled—a very pleasant smile. “I’m Anton Ricard, chairman of the Alchemy Department. I saw you come in and wanted to catch you and welcome you.”

  I returned the smile. “Thank you. I just found my office, and it seems still to be full of Dr. Kavanaugh’s stuff.”

  He craned his neck and looked over my shoulder, then sighed. “So it seems. Speak with Katy. I won’t keep you, but there is a faculty meeting on Monday. Twelve o’clock in the faculty dining room.”

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  “And did Jerome tell you about the reception Monday evening?”

  “He mentioned it.”

  He gave a bit of a snort and a chuckle. “President’s ballroom. Did he show you where that is?”

  “Oh, yes, I know where it is.”

  “Seven o’clock for cocktails. It’s a formal tradition Dr. Phillips takes very seriously. He thinks we should all be friendly and socialize with each other.”

  I smiled. “Thank you for warning me.”

  He nodded. “I’ll see you Monday.” He turned to walk away.

  “Oh, Dr. Ricard!” I called, and the man turned back to me. “Who is the chairman of Apothecary Arts?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Dr. Kavanaugh was.” He flashed a mischievous grin. “Maybe you are.”

  I watched him walk away and enter the room three doors down across the hall. He moved like an athlete and was worth watching.

  Closing the door, I locked it again and went back to the desk. I picked up the first file, labeled “GG,” and opened it. It looked to be personal correspondence, but the name of the sender caught my attention. Harold Merriweather had a rare bookstore in London. I had been there several times, since he not only sold normal rare books but was also probably the most well-known dealer in arcane texts in the English-speaking world. He also brokered arcane artifacts, and I had placed some products of my alchemical talents with him on consignment from time to time.

  There were several letters from Merriweather to Kavanaugh, and copies of three letters from Kavanaugh to Merriweather. Behind the letters in the file were clippings from several London newspapers. The first, published right after the previous Christmas, was about Merriweather being found dead in his shop. A story from three days later said his death had been from natural causes.

  I checked the letters again and saw that the first one was dated in September the year before, and the last one was dated in early December. In that letter, Kavanaugh indicated he would soon be in London.

  Back to the news clippings, and in January, a story said Scotland Yard had declared Merriweather’s death a homicide from aconite poisoning.

  Aconitum uncinatum, common southern monkshood, was blooming in the herb garden right outside my door. It was beautiful and one of the deadliest poisonous plants in the world. Alchemists and poisoners had used the plant for centuries.

  That evening, I called Steven McCallum.

  “Steve? Savanna Robinson. How’s the land of the lotus eaters?”

  “Savanna? Hey, good to hear from you. You know, same old, same old. Things just chugging along here in paradise. How’s Wicklow? As old and stuffy as people say?”

  “In many ways. Have you found a job yet?”

  I heard him take a deep breath. “The Institute wants me to teach a couple of classes. Adjunct pay. It’s barely enough to pay the rent, let alone eat, so I’ve held out. I applied for a job down in Half Moon Bay. Why?”

  “Full-time staff job, Horticulture Manager. Greenhouse and herb garden, as well as the vegetable and flower gardens. Starting immediately. Probably a part-time teaching opportunity as well.”

  Silence, then, “No kidding?”

  “No kidding. Write down this number. Dr. Jerome Carver.” I went on to give him Katy’s name as well, and her phone number. After I hung up, I felt a little guilty that I hadn’t mentioned the murder, but it would be good to have one familiar face around. Steve was twelve years younger than I was, but during the years he had studied under me, he had become a good friend.

  Chapter 5

  Emma showed up at my garden door the following morning, freshly scrubbed and wearing a red blouse and clean, new blue jeans. I had neglected to ask her if she was a vegetarian—so many young witches were—so I had prepared fresh fruit, yogurt, and banana nut bread straight from the oven.

  The young graduate student brought two notebooks and two files stuffed with paper.

  “Tell me about your background,” I said as I poured tea.

  “I grew up in Santa Fe, did my bachelor’s in witchcraft in Boulder, and a doctor of pharmacy at the University of New Mexico. I applied here and in Sausalito for my doctoral studies in Apothecary Arts, and got accepted to both. I’d never spent much time in the east before, and I have family in the area, so I took the offer here. Dr. Kavanaugh gave me a job in the greenhouse.”

  I had grown up in Santa Fe, too, and would have graduated high school about the time Emma was born.

  “You have a pharmacy degree?” I was surprised. I had a degree in pharmacology, but many arcane institutions took a dim view of mixing mundane medicine with magic. That prejudice was one of the reasons I never got a tenure-track job at the Sausalito Institute of Witchcraft. “It’s lucky you came here. That other school doesn’t care for that sort of thing.”

  Emma told me a little about herself and her family while we ate, and I looked through the material she brought. Her pharmacy dissertation was interesting and well done. One thing that came out of our discussion was that she was only lightly touched with the healer’s gift. She had considered studying mundane medicine, but instead, opted for magical apothecary.

  “Have you thought about a subject to study for your dissertation?” I asked.

  “The differences and similarities between natural
drugs and pharmaceuticals.”

  “For treating the same conditions? How are you going to find patients for such a study?”

  “I was hoping at Community Hospital here. Some of the doctors are witches, and a lot of the patients are witches, also. I’ve spoken to Dr. Evans at the college infirmary already.”

  I liked her, and she was obviously bright and studious. “I’ll take you on. The subject interests me as well. My father is a doctor and a healer, so he’s a resource you can use. I’ll put you in touch with him.”

  It did seem a little strange that she didn’t know who my father was. He was well-known in the witchy community in Santa Fe.

  Switching gears, I said, “Tell me about Dr. Kavanaugh. What was he like?”

  Emma stiffened a little, looking down at her plate, squirming a bit. She took a sip of her tea.

  “He was all right.”

  I chuckled. “That’s a ringing endorsement. Hey, he’s not here anymore. I took his place, though, and it kind of bothers me that whoever killed him is still out there.”

  With a slight shrug and a small shake of her head, Emma said, “I don’t think you’ll have any problems.”

  “Why?” I read the girl’s expression and body language. “Because I’m a woman?”

  Emma looked away, then said, “Maybe.”

  I leaned forward, an elbow on the table. “Come on, spill.”

  “Well, I mean, he sorta creeped me out sometimes.”

  “Did he hit on other girls?”

  She performed a turtle-like shrug, drawing her head down to her shoulders. “Not that I saw, but there are rumors that he had breached the code. Stories about girls in the past. Lia told me that she felt sometimes like he was grooming some of the girls.”

  “Lia?”

  “Yeah, Ophelia Harkness, the other grad student who works here. She’s working on her master’s, but she did her undergrad here.”

  “I understand there will be three undergrads working here starting next week. Do you know if any of them had any issues with him?”

  Emma shook her head. “They’ll all be new. None of the girls who worked here last year are coming back, except for Lia and me. None of them applied.”

  “No men?”

  “Uh, no. As far as I know, the people who’ve worked in the garden and the greenhouse the past few years have all been women.”

  Interesting. Obviously, Emma thought Kavanaugh’s killer was a woman or linked to a woman. That reminded me of something. “Dr. Carver said that students weren’t allowed back on campus until yesterday. Who took care of the garden and the greenhouse this summer?”

  “Mrs. Donnelly quit at the end of spring trimester, so me, mostly. Agnes came in twice a week.” She gave me a sly grin. “It was kinda nice, you know? No boss, able to do things my way. They paid me and gave me free room and board. During the summers, the only students on campus are graduate students. A lot of us have projects we can’t abandon, or in my case, things I needed to grow.”

  “How did Dr. Kavanaugh and Agnes get along?”

  Emma snorted. “Oil and water. He was extremely condescending toward her. They had a huge argument the day he was killed.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. That was Thursday morning, and they found his body the following day. He didn’t show up for class, so Katy went looking for him.”

  “Katy?” That was the second time someone had mentioned that name.

  “Dean Carver’s secretary. Katy Bosun. She and Dr. Kavanaugh were friends. Shook her up pretty badly.”

  “Do you know what they were arguing about?”

  “No, I got out of there. When witches get that mad, you never know when they might start throwing things—you know, fireballs, lightning, potted plants,” she said with a grin.

  I spent the rest of the morning in the greenhouse with Emma. Even if I wouldn’t be working there, I needed the herbs and other botanicals for my apothecary classes.

  After we broke for lunch, I called Kelly and asked her over for dinner. “Payback for Sunday night.”

  I heard Kelly laugh. “You don’t have to do that. What time?”

  I told Emma I would be gone for a while and took the bus into town where I bought fish, a few other things, and a bottle of wine. On my way back to the bus stop, I walked by a shop called Back to Basics, advertising herbs, folk remedies, and ‘enchanting gifts.’ I stopped and looked in the window. Inside, Agnes was arranging things on a shelf. I was in a hurry but made a note to myself to stop in sometime later.

  When Kelly showed up that evening, she said, “Something smells great!” She whirled around the main room, checking out my pictures and the few knick-knacks I’d placed on the fireplace mantle and the windowsills.

  “We’ll hope it tastes good,” I replied. “Wine?”

  While we ate, I told Kelly about my conversation with Emma. “You said there were a number of different theories and suspects in Kavanaugh’s death. A woman perhaps?”

  Kelly chuckled. “A woman is definitely involved in most of the theories. Brett was no monk.”

  “Do you know if he was seeing anyone?”

  With a shake of her head, Kelly said, “Not anyone specific. Not anyone here, anyway, but he used to hang out at one of the pubs in town. And I know he went down to Pittsburgh a lot. The cultural scene in Wicklow is fairly limited, and Brett liked high-brow entertainments—the symphony, opera, ballet, the sorts of things student bars are rather short on.”

  “What about you? Did he ever hit on you?”

  “Oh, yeah. Not when I was a student, though. I had him only for one class—Theory of Alchemy—when I was a freshman. When I came back here to work, however, he lost no time asking me out. But after a couple of dates, I told him I didn’t think we’d be a good match.”

  “Any particular reason? And how did he take it?”

  “Are you trying to solve his murder?” Kelly asked with a laugh. “He took it okay. He didn’t say it, but the vibe I got was, ‘your loss, lots of other fish out there.’ As to reasons, there were several. He was a player, and I’m not into that. Very macho. I could see he liked control. And there were rumors that led me to believe I was at the top of his preferred age range. That was a little creepy.”

  “And he was how old?”

  “Fifty. He came here twenty-five years ago. Taught at Salem before, and one of the rumors about his leaving there involved a scandal having to do with a student. He was offered the chance to resign before he was fired.”

  “And they hired him here?”

  “Oh, I didn’t hear that rumor here. A friend of my parents teaches at Salem. I called her to check on him, and she told me.” Kelly sat back, swirled her wine, and took a sip. “Killed by a jilted lover? A girl he tried to seduce? Possible. The weapon used makes it look like it wasn’t premeditated.”

  I switched topics. “Have you ever heard of Harold Merriweather?”

  Kelly’s demeanor changed. “Yes, such a tragedy. I was at his shop just the day before.”

  “In London?”

  “Yes, my sister and I spent Christmas there with my grandmother. Solstice with the parents, Christmas with her. It’s kind of my family tradition.”

  “I thought you were from DC.”

  “I am, but my parents are English. I was born in DC and grew up there. My Da worked for the British government—Foreign Ministry. Anyway, I dropped by to see Uncle Harold, and he took me to dinner at the Artificer’s Club. Very fancy and very old-fashioned English. Have you ever been there?”

  “Never had the pleasure. Uncle Harold?”

  “Yes, Harold Merriweather was my mother’s older brother. He seemed perfectly fine, then the next day, heart attack.”

  I frowned, debated with myself for a moment, then got up and went to my bedroom. When I came back, I handed Kelly the newspaper clipping about the revised cause of death.

  Kelly read it, then looked up, an astonished expression on her face. “Poison? I never heard about this. Where did you
get it?”

  “No one cleaned out Brett Kavanaugh’s office, and I found it in his desk. Tell me, do the initials GG mean anything to you?”

  Kelly shook her head, still looking at the clipping,

  “In connection with a rare book, perhaps?” I prodded.

  “GG. Hmmm. The Gambler Grimoire? That’s the only thing I can think of.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s a legend. Supposedly contains spells that alter the laws of probability. You know, go to Las Vegas, cast a spell, and your dice all come up sevens.”

  Getting up again, I grabbed the rest of the file folder and the bottle of wine. I filled both of our glasses, then said, “Take a look at this. That clipping was in it.”

  I sat back and sipped my wine, watching Kelly read the letters, and then the clippings.

  “He was interested in a book.”

  “One they both referred to as GG.”

  Kelly shook her head. “It’s too late now, but I’ll call Mom in the morning. She’s over there, you know. She’s been there for months—she and her sister—trying to straighten out Uncle Harold’s affairs and sell the shop. It’s been a nightmare, attempting to classify his inventory. When a single book can be worth tens of thousands of dollars, can you trust any expert you bring in to value it? They all want something that he had.”

  Kelly lay the folder down, took a sip of her wine, and said, “So, Brett possibly killed my uncle, stole a legendary book, came back here, and was bludgeoned to death by a woman he defiled. And then she took the book? Maybe she killed him for the book. Or someone else found the book after she split the scene. Oh, I love a good mystery. Let’s see how many other suspects we can drag into this. How about a one-handed man with a monkey?”

  Chapter 6

  I went by Carver’s office the following morning. His secretary was a smartly dressed good-looking woman a few years older than me.

  “Ms. Bosun? I was wondering if I might get some boxes for Dr. Kavanaugh’s stuff that’s still in the office.”