After David left, I took a shower, fixed dinner, then called the number listed on the internet for Carragher’s bookstore. Since it was after dark, I didn’t expect anyone to answer, but Lowell surprised me.
“This is Savanna Robinson.”
“Good evening, pretty lady. Are you doing okay?”
“I’m fine, flatterer. My next-door neighbor tells me that you might know more about that grimoire than you let on today.”
“And who’s your neighbor?”
“David Hamilton.”
“Can’t believe anything he says about me. He’s jealous because I catch more fish than he does.”
I laughed. “I’ll remember that. He said you were honest. What’s the difference between the truth and a fisherman’s tale?”
“Usually about sixteen inches for the fish around here. Are you free for dinner tomorrow evening?”
“What did you discuss with those men after I left?”
“I was just trying to get an idea of how much they were willing to pay for you. We don’t get many human traffickers in Wicklow, so I’m not familiar with current prices. Turns out they’re cheapskates. For that kind of money, I’d rather keep you for myself. My time is better spent sweet-talking you into going to dinner with me and solving the riddle.”
“And what riddle is that?”
“Who killed Brett Kavanaugh, and is there really a book that can make us all rich before we’re the next ones killed.”
I thought about that answer. “Do you really think the book is the reason he was murdered?”
“Makes as much sense as trying to figure out which jealous husband did it. To be honest, Dr. Robinson, I’d be ashamed if I couldn’t be more creative than Sam Kagan in looking for a motive.”
“Call me Savanna. And you think the two of us can figure it all out?”
I heard him snort a laugh. “Oh, hell no. But you’re the prettiest girl to move into town since Kelly Grace, and you’re a lot closer to my age than she is.”
“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.”
“It is.”
“Do you know where David lives?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I’m directly across the breezeway, first floor. What time?”
“Six o’clock.”
“How should I dress?”
“Like the queen of San Francisco when she ventures out among the Pennsylvania peasants. I shall see you then.” He hung up, leaving me staring at the phone and wondering what I had agreed to.
I immediately placed a call to Kelly. “Tell me about Lowell Carragher.”
Kelly’s laughter sounded joyful. “Did he ask you out?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“He’s an incurable flirt. He’s asked me to marry him about fifty times.”
“He’s old enough to be your father.”
“So I’ve told him, but he just leers, winks, and says he doesn’t consider that a problem, then makes some tired joke about aging producing the finest wine.”
“And vinegar. Another player,” I said with a sigh.
“Not really. At least with me, I know he’s not serious, but he’s one of those men who flirts with every woman—old, young, pretty or not, married or single—but no one takes him seriously. Or almost no one. I understand that he and Katy Bosun were high school sweethearts, but then she met her husband. It’s part of his charm, and everyone shops at his place instead of the big chain stores in Youngstown or Pittsburgh. Kids love him, and he does a reading circle for them on Wednesday evenings.”
I recounted my afternoon and Lowell’s intervention at the bus stop.
“Oh, I definitely trust him,” Kelly said after I finished. “At least as far as telling me the truth. If I were you, though, I’m not sure I’d trust an invitation to see his etchings, and I’m not as sanguine as David is about whether Lowell would be interested in the book.”
“He’s probably not hitting on David,” I said, “and I’m not entirely sure what David is interested in besides fish.”
“And you.”
That comment left me staring at the phone with my mouth open. “What would make you say that? I haven’t picked up a single indication that he thinks about me at all.”
“You don’t know him very well. Just the fact that he pays any attention to you at all is unusual.”
“We live next door to each other. He’d have to ignore me to the point of rudeness to acknowledge me any less.”
“Whatever. The rumor is that he dated a woman years ago, but she had to make the first move. He’s incredibly shy, and he hides it with brusqueness. The complete opposite of Brett or Lowell.”
Chapter 23
I stood in front of my closet, pondering what the queen of San Francisco would wear to dinner with a strange man in Wicklow. I finally settled on a black dress—lace over satin with an irregular hemline, bloused sleeves, and a built-in corset—and knee-high boots. Very witchy. A silver brooch set with a large amethyst was my only jewelry, other than my wand, which I disguised as a belt.
Lowell was punctual, knocking on the door at exactly six o’clock. When I answered it, I found he was dressed much like my colleagues at the college—tweed jacket, khaki pants, and white open-collared shirt.
“Oh, my,” he said. “My dear, you’re stunning.”
I felt my face burn. “Thank you. When we met, I had just returned from kayaking all day. Not my best look.”
He escorted me to a battered Range Rover, and we drove back to town, through town, and out of town on the old river road going north.
“So, to where am I being kidnapped?” I asked.
“A better restaurant than any in Wicklow,” he replied. “Special of the day is always fresh-caught Allegheny River fish.”
“David said you owned a resort.”
He grinned. “That I do, with my sister. Inherited from our parents. In warm weather, we cater to fishermen, hikers, and kayakers. We also have a stable. In winter, it’s mainly cross-country skiers. It’s not very fancy, and I don’t make any money from it, but it pays the salary of a chef I couldn’t afford otherwise, supports my sister, and puts my nieces and nephews through college. Best restaurant between Pittsburgh and Buffalo. Of course, the competition isn’t littered with Michelin stars.”
The river twisted and turned through the forest, and we passed through a small town.
“Are the other small towns around here witch-friendly?” I asked.
“Not really. Outside of Wicklow, it’s best to keep a low profile. For the most part, people tend to ignore the college. And although we have a couple of big-box stores in West Wicklow, a lot of people in outlying areas go to Youngstown if they’re going to travel to shop.”
The road crossed a bridge across the river, and then another bridge over a smaller tributary, and Lowell steered the four-wheel-drive onto a paved driveway. The sign said, ‘Carragher’s Retreat.’ I noted that it was close enough to the college that I could ride a bike out there on a weekend day. Assuming my new bicycle ever arrived.
A couple of hundred yards along a path with lights on both sides brought us to a well-lit building that was a cross between a nineteenth-century mansion and a timber-built lodge. There were thirty or forty cars in the parking lot.
“Looks like business is good,” I said. Lowell’s remark that the place wasn’t ‘very fancy’ said a lot more about him than the resort.
“Most of these cars are either staff or dinner guests,” Lowell said. “The real money comes from the resort guests. But if you’re not able to dine at the Faculty Club, this is the place in Wicklow for special occasions. Birthdays, anniversaries, and we do a lot of weddings.”
The maître ‘d escorted us to a table by a window. The view of the sunset over the river was breathtaking.
“Was this the family homestead back in the good old days?” I asked.
“You are a very perceptive young lady. The barns and pastures are out back, but other than a couple of fields of alfalfa for
the horses, we don’t farm here anymore.”
“We?”
“My sister and her family live here. She owns half the place and runs it. I get free meals as long as I don’t try and tell anyone what to do. Her oldest boy is a student at Wicklow College, and her oldest girl is a student at Penn State.”
“Did you go to Wicklow?”
“Yes, although I think my time at the University of Pittsburgh was better spent.”
“Never married?”
“Nope. You?”
I grinned. “No one would have me.”
Lowell nodded. “Far too intimidating, I imagine. You remind me of a woman who taught at the college ten, maybe twelve, years ago. All the men chased her, but I got the impression they weren’t really as interested in catching her as they pretended to be. After a year, she left and never came back.”
“You wouldn’t happen to remember her name?”
“Sure. Catherine Walker. Dr. Catherine Walker. Freshly minted PhD. Oh, she was a pretty one. Like Kelly, and about that age when she was here.”
“And you fell in love.”
He chuckled. “Oh, not me. All the others—David and Brett and Anton and who knows how many of them. I got the impression they scared her off. She wasn’t looking to get married and settle down, in my opinion.” He leaned over the table and pointed to my menu. “If you like fish, order the walleye special. You won’t regret it.”
After the waiter took our orders, I asked, “So, you never fell in love?”
Lowell clasped his chest and gave me an affronted look. “Of course I did, but sweet Katy Malone stole my heart, and until I met you, I never found anyone to lessen the pain.”
“You are too much,” I said, laughing so hard I started coughing. After taking a sip of water, I asked, “Is that Katy Bosun?”
“The same. She’s a few years younger than I am, and after I pined away for years waiting for her to grow up, she fell in love with another man.”
“Tell me about Brett Kavanaugh and the Gambler Grimoire.”
“Did you ever hear about the law of unintended consequences?”
“Once or twice.”
“An old friend of my father used to tell a tale about a spell that would make all your problems go away. As soon as a witch cast it, they never had another problem, obstacle, or unhappy moment.”
“Uh-huh. And?”
“It was a death spell. A suicide spell. The idea that magic can bend the laws of probability strikes me the same way. Be careful what you ask for.”
I nodded. “I agree with you. I also have reservations about magic that attempts to change something abstract. What if my concept of something is different than the universe’s concept, and I try to change it. The spell works, but the result is completely different than what I expect.”
“That’s almost a political or theological concept,” Lowell said.
“Okay. Which theology is correct? Unless you’re absolutely sure that your world view is exactly how the world works, it’s a little bit like walking on eggshells, isn’t it? We have Christian witches, pagan witches, Hindu witches. Who’s right?”
He leaned back in his chair and studied me. “I’ll bet you’re a demon in the classroom.”
I winked at him. “Students are endlessly curious, and endlessly creative. If you’re going to encourage critical thinking, you’d better be prepared before you let the genii out of the bottle. ‘Because I said so,’ or ‘it’s against the rules,’ ain’t gonna cut it. University students and three-year-olds have that ‘why?’ question down pat.”
Lowell laughed. “Wine?”
“Who’s driving us home?”
“I have a cabin here.”
“That’s nice for you. Do I need to register to get my own room? I hope there’s a vacancy.” I leaned forward. “You know, it’s common courtesy to let a woman know when she’s expected to bring her toothbrush.”
“We have a shuttle that takes people back to town.”
“Ah. So, I can get home without perusing your etchings? Will it still take me home after I murder you?”
His laughter was loud enough that everyone in the dining room turned to look at us. My face felt ready to ignite.
“My sister would probably consider your actions justified.”
“Sauvignon blanc. Does that mean I could catch the shuttle to bring me out here for dinner?”
“It does. It runs through town from the Wayfarer three times each evening. The last run back into town leaves here at ten-thirty. But if you ask about it when you make reservations, it will pick you up at the college.”
“You never did give me an honest answer as to what you discussed with those English thugs.”
“No, I didn’t. George Peterson is the man in charge of that lovely group. I’ve known him for some years. He brokers artifacts, and I know of at least one amulet that he sold to Brett. He tends to be unconcerned with the provenance of the items he deals with.”
“And?”
“I told him that I might not be around to bail him out the next time you get angry.”
“Not angry so much as frightened.”
“That is a rather unusual wand you carry.”
“Why is he so interested in that book?”
“He seems convinced it’s the real deal—The Gambler Grimoire, as it’s commonly known. He says it codifies the noetic sciences.”
“Bah! Noetics is just another word for magic, and we’ve been codifying it for centuries. Only those who think the scientific study of magic is new spout that claptrap. Newton and da Vinci put paid to magic not having anything to do with science.”
“That’s a rather strong statement.”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it? But I just went down that rabbit hole with a couple of students in one of my tutorials. We bend the laws of physics; we don’t rewrite them. And the concept of controlling the future, when we don’t know what that future is, or the ramifications of changing it, strikes me as a little arrogant.”
“Well, Brett Kavanaugh had that kind of arrogance. And so does Trent McCarthy, the man Peterson is working for.”
“You know that Kavanaugh had the book?”
He shook his head. “I know he was interested in it. Harold Merriweather contacted me and told me he had it. I told Brett.”
“And Brett cut out the middleman and went straight to Merriweather.”
Lowell picked up the wine bottle and leaned forward to refill my glass. “It wasn’t really like that. I didn’t want anything to do with it, and the commission would have been so small as not to be worth it.”
“We think Kavanaugh might have killed Merriweather for the book.”
The look of surprise on Carragher’s face didn’t strike me as feigned.
“Do you know if he ever had it?” I asked.
Lowell shook his head, took a deep breath, and then a swallow of his wine. “No, not that he told me. I knew Harold died, but I thought it was from natural causes.” He played with his glass a bit, staring at the liquid. “Of course, Brett was an apothecary, so that wouldn’t have been difficult for him to fake.”
“Whoever killed Harold Merriweather didn’t use a very subtle poison. I think that’s what surprises me most about this whole affair—the lack of subtlety. Aconite, fireplace pokers, athames, nitroglycerine, accosting women in the street. No one seems to have any appreciation for finesse.”
The waiter appeared with our dinners, set them on the table, poured more wine, and went away.
“That may be true,” Lowell said, “but so far no one has been caught for any of the crimes.”
“Unless you consider the possibility that we have a daisy-chain of murders. Everyone who’s been caught is dead. Who’s next?”
Chapter 24
It still bothered me that neither Kagan, Chief Crumley, or anyone else had considered scrying Kavanaugh’s murder, not to mention Agnes Bishop’s or Joshua Tupper’s. Postcognition spells were difficult but not impossible. Considering the number of witches
in the area, and the skills represented at the college, I couldn’t understand why no one had made the attempt.
Tupper’s killing was supposedly solved, although the reason for it was still shrouded. The sheer number of people who had been in Agnes’s shop since her death probably precluded any chance of picking up the psychic residuals of her murder. But although Kavanaugh’s apartment had finally been cleaned, no one had moved in, and very few people had been in the place.
That type of scrying wasn’t one of my strong talents, so I knew I would need help in casting such a spell. Considering the mixed messages and interpretations I was getting from people in Wicklow, I decided to wait until Steve returned from the West Coast. He was the one person I felt completely confident couldn’t have killed Brett Kavanaugh.
But there was one area of curiosity I could pursue in the meantime. Katy Bosun mentioning the love quadrangle had triggered a question in the back of my mind, and Lowell had answered the question for me.
It had been ten years since Catherine Walker and I were roommates in Santa Cruz, but we had run into each other occasionally at conferences or other events. After I got home from dinner with Lowell, I dialed the number I had for her and sat back while it rang. If Catherine was still on the West Coast, it would be early evening there.
“Hello?”
“Cat? Savanna Robinson.”
“Well, long time. What are you up to?”
“Ever heard of a place called Wicklow College?”
“You’re kidding, right? One of the worst years of my life was spent teaching there.”
“It does have its charms. You’re a legend here, you know? Are you still in Santa Cruz?”
A dry, humorless laugh. “I’ll bet. Seriously? You should have called before you took the job, but it’s been a long time. The people I had trouble with are probably all gone. Yeah, I’m a tenured full professor and department head.” The Institute of Witchcraft at Santa Cruz was a smaller college, situated in the redwoods, and very laid back.
“Remember a Brett Kavanaugh?”
The Gambler Grimoire: An Urban Fantasy Mystery (Wicklow College of Arcane Arts Book 1) Page 13
