And where would someone stash a bunch of computers?
Picking up the phone again, I called Kelly.
“Do students all provide their own computers?” I asked when she answered.
“Mostly, although we have a set of specifications they have to meet. Otherwise, they can buy them through the bookstore at a discount, compared to online or the store in town.”
“And if something goes wrong, who fixes them?”
“Oh, I have a couple of techs working for me. If your computer glitches, bring it to the library. The workshop is in the back of the bookstore.”
The following morning, I stopped by the computer repair shop on my way to my office. A young man with shoulder-length hair and a beard, wearing a t-shirt and jeans, came to the counter.
“Hi, what can I do for you?”
I looked around. Shelves holding laptop computers covered every wall. It appeared that each one had a tag attached to it. More equipment was stacked under the workbenches. An open doorway led to another room, and from what I could see, it was a duplicate of the front room.
“Are all these here for repair?” she asked.
“Yeah, most of them. Some are beyond hope, and I just haven’t bundled them up for disposal yet. Some are loaners.”
“And who has access back there?”
He cocked his head. “Me, a couple of students who work for me, and Ms. Grace, my boss. Who are you?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Dr. Robinson, Alchemy and Apothecary Arts. I’m Dr. Kavanaugh’s replacement. I was just wondering about his computer—wondering what might have become of it.”
He shook his head. “No idea. As far as I know, it was never here, except once last winter. When he first bought it, he brought it in to get some software installed.”
With a last look around, I thanked him and left. Considering the jumble of equipment—dozens of computers, printers, cords, and boxes I didn’t know the purpose of—I had my doubts that anyone knew exactly what was in the shop, or where any specific thing was. But if the library was a good place to hide a book, the computer repair shop would be a good place to hide a computer.
On my way out, I stopped by Kelly’s office and found her in.
“Hi. Is this the only library on campus? I mean, are there other places books are kept?”
“Good morning. I think you’ll find books in most of the labs and work spaces. You have some in your lab, don’t you?”
“Dr. Kavanaugh had some books there, yes. Standard alchemical manuals and basic spell books. A few chemistry books.”
Kelly nodded. “That’s the sort of thing I mean. There’s a reading room in graduate student housing. I have no idea what’s there. The books should be under my control, but I don’t have the manpower to staff the room twenty-four hours a day.”
“Who has access to it?”
“Everyone. There isn’t even a door on the room. Are you still thinking about those grimoires?”
“And the computers.”
“Good luck. It’s on the third floor of the north wing.”
On my way back to my apartment that afternoon, I ventured into the building Kelly had mentioned and took the stairs to the third floor. I wandered down the hall until I came to a room without a door.
Sticking my head in, I saw it was a bare room with three tables, eight chairs, and shelves, made from lumber and cinder blocks, lining the walls. The tables had several stacks of books on them, and the shelves held lots of books—stacked or shelved. Some of the shelved books were backwards, with their pages rather than the spines pointed outward. The trash can had a couple of pizza boxes in it.
I wandered around the room, looking at the books and titles. They ranged from textbooks to academic treatises to fiction and pornography. I found an ancient copy of the Kama Sutra on one shelf. There wasn’t any order that I could discern. Peeking into the bathroom, I found a short stack of books on top of the toilet tank.
A large number of the books radiated magic, so it would have taken me hours to go through them to determine whether any grimoires were present. Perhaps Kelly could search the room quicker.
Chapter 19
A knock on my door at seven in the morning revealed Kelly Grace, looking about half awake.
“Do you have coffee? I forgot to go to the store yesterday.”
I smiled. “I can make some, or give you a strong cup of Assam tea.”
“I’ll take anything. I’m dragging this morning. My mum called at an ungodly hour, and I wasn’t able to go back to sleep.”
I led her back to the kitchen and poured a cup of tea to set in front of her. “Banana bread?”
Kelly sniffed once, then said, “Please. Mum said they had a visit at the shop. Two men she described as thugs, accompanied by a,” she dropped into a very strong British accent, “very proper upper-class English gentleman—a witch. He wanted to know about the Gambler Grimoire. Told Mum and Aunt Celia that Uncle Harold had held an auction for the book, and he paid thirty thousand pounds for it. Then Harold died, but this guy still wants his book.”
“And it took him six months to get around to asking for it?”
“Mmm-hmmm. Anyway, the shop was broken into later that night, and among the things missing was the folder with Harold’s and Brett’s correspondence.”
“Lovely.”
“Worse. The shop was warded, and whoever broke in bypassed the wards. Savanna, my mum and her sister are getting up in years, but they aren’t slouches. If they warded something, they have decades of practice keeping their kids out of things.”
I laughed. I was as close to her mother’s age as I was to hers. “Yeah, us old girls can still cast a spell or two.”
“You’re not old.”
“Assuming your mom’s online biography is correct, she’s twelve years older than me, and I’m eleven years older than you.”
Kelly took a sip of her tea. “You don’t look it.”
“I feel it, especially in the mornings and when I stand in front of a class. I’m old enough to be the mother of most of those kids.”
Kelly chuckled. “They do look younger—and dumber—every year. But, do you think those guys in London will come here?”
I sat, took a bite of the warm bread, and sipped my tea. “No idea, but if he thinks thirty grand—that’s what? About forty-five thousand dollars?—is worth breaking into the shop, then it’s probably worth a trip to the middle of nowhere. I don’t suppose your mom and aunt have a picture of these guys.”
“Actually, they do. Uncle Harold didn’t own a computer, but CCTV is ubiquitous in London. I’ll have Mum send me a pic. You got up and baked this this morning?”
“Your mother wouldn’t approve. It’s from a mix.”
“She would if the mix had her name on it. Oh, that reminds me. Mum said that you had some items on consignment with Uncle Harold?”
“Yes, I did. He occasionally sold a few things for me. I had forgotten. I sent them to him almost a year ago.”
“Well, she said he sold them, but she can’t find any record of him sending you any money.”
“He was always slow about that.”
“What kind of things did he sell for you? I assume something you made with your alchemy.”
“Yes. I’m a wandsmith. I sent him five custom-made wands. You know something, I haven’t heard a thing about Brett Kavanaugh’s wand, either. Once he died, it could be re-bound to a new user.”
Although I knew it would take someone at least two or three days to reach Wicklow, Pennsylvania, from London, I caught myself looking over my shoulder all day. The images in my mind from Kelly’s tale involved hulking palookas with shaved heads and broken noses, and I was well aware of my physical limitations. Fear of muggers in San Francisco was the reason I developed the habit of carrying my wand everywhere I went.
There wasn’t any reason for the book buyer in London to associate me with Brett Kavanaugh, or with the grimoire. If he and his minions did come to Wicklow, who would he target? With
Kavanaugh dead, the mysterious witch in London would be in the same boat as Kagan, me, or anyone else curious about the book.
A week after my conversation with Kelly, I was walking from my office to my apartment when I noticed a man leaning against the wall, directly under Brett Kavanaugh’s window. He was obviously trying to be discreet, but he stood out due to his age, his dress, and the fact that no one ever hung around outside the faculty apartments. Due to the college’s wards, strangers were a rarity.
“May I help you?” I called when I got within about ten feet of him. He appeared to be in his forties, slender, wearing khaki trousers, a V-neck sweater, rough heavy shoes, and a flat cap. He hadn’t picked up a razor that morning, or had a recent haircut. In general, he appeared rumpled.
“Uh, no. Just waitin’ for a friend,” he said in a thick, lower-class British accent.
I shifted my briefcase to my left hand and reached inside my sleeve, taking my wand in hand.
“Who? Perhaps I can give you directions.”
“He said to wait here. He should be along any time now.”
“I see.” I walked past him, keeping track of him from the corner of my eye, and pulled out my phone. I had the campus police on speed-dial, so I punched that button.
When someone answered, I said, “Hi, this is Professor Robinson. There’s a strange man hanging around the faculty apartments, right under Professor Kavanaugh’s apartment. He doesn’t look like he belongs here.”
“I’ll send someone right away.”
By the time I reached the end of the breezeway where my apartment was, two uniformed campus cops trotted up the stairs toward me. Turning and looking back the way I’d come, I saw two more policemen approaching the stranger.
I paused, watching, then opened my door and went inside. I closed the door, then watched through the scrying glass I had set up to watch the breezeway as the officers escorted the man off campus. I noticed that as they walked by, the man shot a glance at my door, and I wondered if I’d made a mistake.
I hadn’t been close enough to him to feel any magic, but a stranger shouldn’t have been on campus alone. The wards hadn’t stopped him, however. I debated calling Chief Crumley, but what would I tell him? Oh, by the way, I’ve been investigating Kavanaugh’s murder behind your back, but now it looks as though I might have bitten off too much. The opinions of Crumley and Kagan didn’t worry me overmuch, but I didn’t want Carver and Phillips to decide I was a problem child.
It turned out I didn’t have to worry about contacting the chief of campus police. About an hour later, Crumley knocked on my door.
“Hi, come on in. Can I offer you something to drink? Some tea, perhaps?”
“Uh, no, thank you. I just wanted to touch base about that prowler you reported,” the chief said.
“He told me he was waiting for someone.”
Crumley snorted. “Told my officers the same thing. Waiting for Brett Kavanaugh. Also mentioned Kelly Grace’s name.”
“Who was he?”
“An Englishman named Rupert Higgs. We didn’t really have anything on him, so we let him go, but warned him he could be arrested for trespassing.”
I took a deep breath. “How did he get on campus? I was told everything inside the wall was warded.”
With a rueful grin, Crumley said, “It is, but he’s a witch. We have to create wards that keep the wrong people out, but let the right people in. Your keys and faculty ID card are amulets that let you pass most places. But admission to the grounds themselves is open to witches. Parents pay the bills, you know.”
“Well, thanks for telling me. I wonder what he’s really here for. He didn’t look like someone who belonged here.”
Crumley shook his head. “I have no idea, ma’am. Maybe Dr. Kavanaugh owed him some money. According to his passport, though, he’s been in the country only a couple of days. It would have to be a lot of money to fly all the way here from England to collect it.”
Chapter 20
“It’s no secret that Harold Merriweather was my uncle, or that I work at Wicklow,” Kelly said. “Maybe they tied me to my mum when they stole that correspondence between Uncle Harold and Brett.” She took a deep breath and another swallow of wine. “Just what I need.”
She had brought the pictures from the CCTV her mother had emailed from London. One of the ‘thugs’ was the same man I had seen the day before.
“Or,” I said, “you were the only name at Wicklow they recognized when they came looking for Kavanaugh.”
“They can’t have done much research, or they’d know Brett is dead.”
I shrugged. “Most criminals aren’t geniuses. That’s why they get caught. It does bother me how quickly they showed up here. The grimoire went missing at Christmas, and now there’s a sudden urgency.”
“Maybe there’s a buyer.”
“Yeah. Maybe I should check on the Witches’ Web.”
“Good luck. Don’t look for it under that name or you’ll get deluged with results,” Kelly said. “Look for probability spells.”
“You’ve looked.”
“Yup. There’s an offer of a hundred thousand bucks for the genuine article from a known billionaire collector. It’s a standing offer that’s two years old. Uncle Harold knew him. Why would he take less than half that much on an auction?”
“That might explain why Kavanaugh killed him. That price would have been a bit steep.”
“I’m in the wrong business,” Kelly said. “Mum and Aunt Celia asked me if I wanted to take over the shop. My talents are the right fit, but I just don’t think I know enough to do it.”
“How old was Harold?”
“About eighty. He’d been working in a bookshop since he was a teenager. Everyone knew him, and he had connections all over the world. I worked for him a couple of summers, but that was barely a superficial apprenticeship.”
“Do you have an acquisitions budget?” I asked.
“Of course, I do. But even if Edmund—Dr. Phillips—approved, I’m not going to have a chance bidding against Trent McCarthy. He spends a hundred grand on dinner. He could buy our whole collection with petty cash.” Kelly shrugged. “Of course, for all we know, the book is sitting under our noses, but we can’t find it. Or, it’s a myth, like David said, and we’re chasing a unicorn.”
I stood, walked to the window, and looked out over the garden. “I always wanted a unicorn, but Dad wouldn’t buy me one. You know, I really don’t care about the book, even if it’s real. The fact that so many people are dying, and the book is implicated, is the only thing that makes me care about the book at all.”
I turned to face Kelly, who was sitting across the room.
“I’m still having difficulty envisioning Brett Kavanaugh,” I said. “There must have been more to him than being a womanizing collector of very strange artifacts. And I find it difficult to understand that a person could be here more than twenty years and have only a couple of friends.”
Kelly sighed. “Yes, I guess it’s hard to describe a very complex person to a stranger. Brett was intelligent, witty, and smooth. An old-fashioned gentleman, with refined, old-fashioned tastes. Great sense of humor, very sociable when he wanted to be. He skied, kayaked, and he had a very expensive mountain bike that’s chained to a rack near his apartment.”
“So, you saw him socially?”
“We traveled in some of the same social circles. He also liked to hang out at a bar near the Wayfarer Inn sometimes, The Shillelagh. Good for some Irish music and a pint of stout. Brett liked to put on airs, but he came from a working-class family.”
I frowned. “I was told his family had money.”
“They did, but his father earned it all in the restaurant business.”
The next time I saw Katy, I asked, “Do you know who Dr. Kavanaugh was seeing at the time he died?”
Katy shook her head. “No idea. He and Kelly Grace had an on-off relationship for years, and he introduced me to a woman around Christmas last year. We ran into them
at a restaurant one night, but I can’t remember her name. Slender, young, with dark hair. Very pretty. But that was his type. I wondered at the time if she might be a student, but I think she was a little older than that. He sometimes kept two or three women on a string at the same time.”
“Kelly?”
Katy winked. “I think she likes older men. Brett, Dr. Phillips, Dr. Ricard, Dr. Aubert. Nothing wrong with that, of course. She’s a very pretty woman, and she attracts men.”
I had briefly met Louis Aubert, professor of Alchemy, whose office was next to Ricard’s.
I grinned and raised an eyebrow. “Is there anyone she hasn’t been linked with?”
With a shrug, Katy said, “I really shouldn’t gossip. Oftentimes gossip doesn’t have much of a basis in fact, just nasty people being mean.”
Out of curiosity, I went back to my office and pulled up the faculty and staff rosters on my computer. Other than me, there were only seven other unmarried women on the faculty, and I was the youngest. On staff, a larger number of younger women were single, including Kelly. Most of them were in clerical or administrative support positions. One was the head of Human Resources, but since I was hired without ever meeting her, I realized what importance the college put on the position.
Of course, there weren’t many single men on the faculty, either, and a number of them were almost ancient.
When I headed home that afternoon after my last class, I found myself walking with Ophelia.
“Hi,” I said, “going home or to work?”
“Work,” the young woman answered. “I can hide out in the greenhouse, then hit the dining hall just before it closes. Honestly, Dr. Robinson, I never understood how vicious the rumor mill can be. Even my friends seem anxious to jump on me.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that. I know that Lieutenant Kagan thinks there’s something suspicious about me reporting two murders. As though I had something to do with them, or somehow planned on being there at that time.”
The Gambler Grimoire: An Urban Fantasy Mystery (Wicklow College of Arcane Arts Book 1) Page 11
