“Lenore?” a man asked from behind me.
I gave a little jump and turned, an ungainly ballerina, squeezing the keys in my palm hard enough to wince. “Councilman Woodley.”
“I told you, call me Steve.” He blotted the top of his skull with an old-fashioned handkerchief, then slipped it into the inside pocket of his navy blazer. In spite of his age, his skin had that same, waxy perfection we all had, and I shivered.
“Were you looking for a book? I’ve just closed, but–”
“I was looking for you, Lenore,” his deep voice boomed.
“Oh.” I shuffled the keys between my fingers and glanced down the street. “How can I help you?”
“I understand you’ve been asking about the lunch Mike and I had the day before he died.”
My cheeks heated. “I was trying to reconstruct Mike’s–”
“Why on earth didn’t you just ask me?”
“I was going to,” I stammered. “But…”
Two teenage girls in shorts and tanks raced toward us, their sandaled feet loud on the concrete sidewalk. Coltish, they swerved and darted around the corner of the bookstore.
His blue eyes crinkled. “Why don’t you tell me what you want to know?”
“I was trying to reconstruct Mike’s last day. I heard you and Mike had an intense conversation at lunch.”
“We were arguing politics.” He scratched his goatee. “Mike was quite libertarian in his outlook.”
I bit back a smile. Mike’s railing against taxes and regulations had been passionate, colorful, and often hilarious. “I heard he wanted to change something?”
“Reduce the local sales tax,” Steve said promptly. His gaze shifted to the bookstore’s darkened windows. “But even if I agreed with that, it would take more than one person to make that change. That’s a job for the voters. I’m sorry now our words grew so heated over something so trivial. I didn’t know it would be the last time I’d see him alive.”
“Of course not. How could you have?” I asked, shamefaced. I should have stopped then. If I was as shy as my sisters thought, I would have. But I plowed onward. “Was there anything else you remember from lunch? Did Mike take any calls? Speak to anyone?”
His silvery eyebrow rose. “Take calls? Mike barely knew how to use his cell phone. He only turned it on when he wanted to call someone. But it was an ordinary lunch. Why?”
“Only because I’m trying to reconstruct–”
“But why? Mike’s death was the result of a fall. It was tragic, but how does retracing his steps change anything?”
“It doesn’t, but–”
“Do you think his death wasn’t natural?”
My jaw shifted forward, and I worked to tame my irritation. “I don’t know what to think.”
“Lenore.” He grasped my shoulder. “It was a terrible accident. Let it go.”
I blinked. “Right. Yes. Of course.”
“Good. I’m glad we had this chat.” He left, striding down the street toward the town hall.
Thoughtful, I walked up the hill to Mike’s Victorian and let myself inside. The high-ceiling foyer was sunk in gloom, and I flipped on the lights, locked the door behind me.
Turning on lights as I went, I crept into the library. A sliver of light from Alba’s house shined through the ivy covering the arched windows.
I pulled the fake book from its spot on the shelf. The bookcase swung inward, and I walked inside the secret room.
I studied its glass-fronted shelves. None of the books leapt out at me as fairy related.
Slipping on the cotton gloves lying atop the Wooton desk, I opened the glass cases. I pulled each book from its shelf and scanned the pages. In spite of the urgency of my mission, I felt drawn to linger. Magical rituals and tales of occultists gone wrong – of course Mike had been fascinated. Who wouldn’t be?
I sighed. It would take months to read all these books. I turned and stared at the folding desk. Had Mike hidden answers inside?
I checked my watch. It was eight o’clock, and I’d promised Nick I’d meet with him and my sisters. I was late.
Returning the Lovecraft novel to its place, I hurried from the house, careful to lock the front door.
The smoke was thicker, making me rasp, and the darkness oppressive. A shade shifted in the garden, and I froze, my eyes widening. But if it had been Mike’s spirit, it had already vanished. I let myself out through the front gate.
A door slammed.
I looked toward the sound. Alba stood on her front porch and scowled at the female FBI agent. The agent walked slowly down her steps, her long legs picking her way through Alba’s untamed front yard. The collar of her navy blazer was turned up.
“Corporate shill!” Alba screeched. “Get off my property!”
Agent Maraj caught my eye. “Miss Bonheim, fancy meeting you here.”
“I didn’t kill that liar,” Alba yelled, her neck cording. “Even if he did deserve it, poking his nose where it didn’t belong.”
“Hello, Agent Maraj.”
From her porch, Alba shook her fist at me. “Stay away from me, witch!”
“I’m glad I ran into you,” the FBI agent said. “I understand you found another body. You’re lucky. If it had been up to me, you’d still be answering questions.”
“Why?” I asked, unnerved.
“You found two bodies under suspicious circumstances.” She stepped onto the sidewalk.
“At least the police think Mike’s death was suspicious. I’ve been telling them that since I found him.”
“Is that why you were in Heath Van Oss’s hotel room?”
“Like I told the sheriff, I wanted to talk to him about a book he claimed he’d lent Mike to assess.”
“So she tells me. Has the book turned up?” She craned her neck toward Mike’s house. The Victorian’s gables and turrets, silhouetted against the darkening sky, had a haunted look.
“Not yet,” I said.
“You said ‘claimed.’ Do you think Van Oss was lying?”
“He never showed me a receipt for the book. He’d sold Mike a book with the same title a couple years ago. He told me the book he lent Mike was a different edition, but so far I haven’t been able to find any evidence for it. I think Van Oss made up the story of the second book. I think he wanted the book he’d sold to Mike back for some reason, and he didn’t want to pay for it.”
She smiled thinly. “The Folk and Fairy Tales of America must be some book.”
My pulse jumped, and I shifted my weight, putting a few more inches between us. I hadn’t told the sheriff the name of the book. How had the agent learned about it? And what was she really doing here? Van Oss’s murder and an old man falling off a ladder didn’t seem to fall into the FBI’s purview.
A black-and-white patrol car rolled to the curb. Its tires crunched on loose gravel.
Alba darted into her house, her screen door banging shut behind her.
Connor stepped from the patrol car, and warm relief rolled through me.
“What’s going on here?” He strode up the walk, his movements sure and purposeful.
“Nothing for you to worry about,” the agent said. “I’ll see you soon, Miss Bonheim.” She turned on her heel and strode to her gray sedan.
Silent, Connor and I watched her get inside and drive off.
“She’ll see you soon?” His gaze met mine, and my heart gave a small lurch. “About what?”
“I’m not sure. She was talking to Alba about something.”
His expression flickered. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to take another look at Mike’s private collection,” I said. “But I didn’t find anything.”
He blew out a weary breath. “Are you coming or going?”
“Going. Why?”
“We got a call that lights were on in Mike’s house. The neighbor thought it might be another break-in.”
“It was me,” I said. “I had all the lights on. The place is spooky at night. Mr. Pi
vens gave me the key and permission to be here. You can ask him.” But I hoped Connor wouldn’t, because I’d sort of implied I wouldn’t visit Mike’s alone.
“Then that’s one mystery solved.” He shot me a rueful look. “You heard the bell, didn’t you?”
I nodded, wanting to apologize for his disappointment.
“I really thought I’d figured that out,” he said.
I motioned toward Alba’s overgrown yard. “You didn’t seem surprised to hear Agent Maraj was interviewing Alba.”
“Alba was lurking around the hotel the night Mr. Van Oss died. And I didn’t tell you that.”
But he had told me, and the admission almost made me smile. “Why would Alba kill Van Oss?” I asked. “And why is Agent Maraj involved in Van Oss’s murder investigation?”
“Alba wouldn’t kill Van Oss, but she might have seen something. And the FBI’s involvement is above my pay grade. Did Van Oss give you his card?”
“Yeah, he did.”
“Can I see it?”
“Sure.” Perplexed, I rummaged through my purse and located the card inside my wallet. I handed it to him.
Our fingertips brushed, and my pulse went into overdrive again. I jerked my hand away.
Connor’s expression sent pinpricks of heat flurrying across my chest and neck.
He looked… pensive.
I cleared my throat and tried to pretend I hadn’t noticed. “Why do you want to see his card?”
He stared at the thick, embossed card, then pocketed it. “Because there is no Heath Van Oss.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
I parked in my aunt’s driveway and cut the headlights. Light streamed through the windows of the shingle and stone house. The beams illuminated lazy whorls of smoke that had been invisible during the day. The acrid fog drifted low along the ground.
Nick’s SUV and Jayce’s pickup were coated in fine ash. I grabbed my purse from the passenger seat and hurried up the porch and inside.
Voices drifted to me from the rear of the house. Not bothering to kick off my shoes, I strode down the hall and into the kitchen.
Drinks in hand, Nick, Karin and Jayce turned to me from their posts. Jayce and Karin leaned against the counter. Nick stood by the refrigerator.
“We were just arguing if the fire was natural or not.” Jayce pressed the glass to her forehead, and the ice tinkled.
I set my purse on the butcher block work island.
Dead Hex perched on top of the refrigerator and studied Nick with a disturbingly intent expression.
I tore my attention from the dead cat. “Have you sensed anything?”
Jayce shook her carob-colored hair. It fanned out around the shoulders of her ruby knit top. “No magic. As far as I can tell, the fire is just a fire.”
I looked to Karin, and she nodded, one hand resting on the swell of her abdomen. “I don’t see any magic either, but it doesn’t feel natural, does it?” She set her glass on the counter and tugged down the hem of her loose, navy top. The blouse was an old favorite of hers, but not being designed for pregnancy, it rode up.
“Then what?” I asked.
“The timing seems ominous,” Nick said. “Two suspicious deaths and now a fire. Could the doctor have caused it for some reason?” Nick had left his hiking boots at the door. He wore thick, gray socks with red griffins on the ankles – a whimsical touch I wouldn’t have expected from the lawyer.
The cat hunched closer to the edge of the refrigerator as if readying to pounce. He could jump on Nick all he wanted, and all Nick would suffer was a chill. But I didn’t like Hex bothering my family.
The cat reached out a paw and batted at a lock of Nick’s hair that stuck up at an unruly angle.
“It’s possible.” I walked to the refrigerator and reached for the cookie jar atop it, nudging the cat with one hand.
Though my hand passed through the ghost, the cat hopped to the floor and scowled. Tail high, he stalked from the kitchen.
I pried open the cookie jar and removed an iced, oatmeal cookie. “Though I don’t know the fairy would resort to arson. Fires have a habit of skipping Doyle. Maybe the fire is just a fire.” I bit into the cookie and looked a question at Nick.
He nodded. “I’ve told them about the link between the wellhouse, the spring at the Bell and Thistle, and the fairy spring in the woods.”
“I should have figured it out sooner,” Karin muttered.
“Even if it’s true that the springs are connected to her,” Jayce said, “we don’t know what it means.”
“But it must mean something,” Karin said. “It can’t be a coincidence that the Bell and Thistle, a pub that happens to be sitting on top of a dried magic spring, disappeared. Or that the doctor has been fighting to declare the wellhouse a historic landmark so developers can’t touch it. These places are important to her somehow. And we know the fairy spring is part of her magic.” She shared a look with Nick. They’d both had disastrous experiences at that spring in the woods.
“I saw that FBI agent outside Alba Pollard’s house,” I said. “She’s interested in Heath Van Oss’s murder.”
Nick’s brow furrowed.
“And there’s more,” I said. “Heath Van Oss is an assumed name. He doesn’t exist.”
“That could explain why the FBI is interested,” Nick said. “They take identity theft seriously.”
We stared at him.
“I’ve got a buddy in the FBI,” he said. “We talk.”
“Has he mentioned the Bell and Thistle?” Jayce asked.
“He’s asked me about it. It’s not his case, but he’s curious like everyone else. If Heath was a person of interest in another FBI investigation, that could explain why the agent is hanging around.”
“Wait.” Karin turned to me. “Didn’t you check up on this Van Oss guy when he was bugging you about this book he supposedly lent Mike?” she asked.
“I did,” I said, bridling at the implicit criticism. “Just a minute.” I hurried to my office and grabbed my laptop computer. Returning with it to the kitchen, I set it on the work island and woke it up. I typed in Heath’s name, and clicked on a link. “There. He has a website.”
Karin gave me a pitying look. “Anyone can set up a website.” But she crowded around the computer with the others.
His website was an elegant black page with white script proclaiming Heath Van Oss, Rare Books.
Dealers in rare and antiquarian books for over fifteen years, our office is based in San Francisco (by appointment only). We work with a large number of important collectors worldwide, as well as rare book libraries and other institutions. If you have a rare book or library, we can offer you immediate and top payment. We’ll travel globally for important and interesting materials.
Beneath that three headings: Free, Twenty-four Hour Evaluations; We Buy Old and Rare Books; We Buy Entire Libraries.
“Is it only one page?” Karin asked.
“Yes, but there’s a contact link,” I said and clicked on it. An email address appeared in the browser.
“Who’s we?” Jayce asked. “Does Van Oss have a partner?”
“If he does,” I said, “there’s no name.”
“There’s one way to find out.” Jayce pulled the computer toward her and typed quickly, pressed send.
“What did you do?” Karin shrieked.
“I sent him an email saying we had an old book on American folktales that needed valuing,” she said.
Karin gaped. “But–”
“What’s the worst that can happen?” Jayce asked.
I winced. “I wish you hadn’t said that.”
*****
The fire was under control when I woke up Monday morning, leaving a cloudless, blue sky scented with burnt pine. I dressed in white linen shorts and a matching, loose short-sleeved top. I didn’t need to step outside to know it was going to be hot. I knotted my hair into a loose ponytail.
Grabbing Mike’s ledger listing his collection and my purse, I stepped onto the fr
ont porch.
Picatrix wove through my ankles and gazed hopefully through the open door.
“It’s okay,” I told Jayce’s cat. “He’s not home.”
The cat nodded and trotted inside and up the stairs.
I rubbed my eyes. Surely I’d imagined that nod?
Shaking my head, I got into my Volvo and drove toward Mike’s Victorian. I was getting paranoid about the ledger, even though I hadn’t found anything special in it aside from my own poetry. But that was odd enough, and I didn’t like having the ledger out of my sight. I hadn’t fully explored Mike’s mysterious desk in the secret room. But the last time I’d searched it, I’d been hunting for inventory information. Now I wanted more.
Who was Heath Van Oss? How had Mike gotten my poem in my handwriting into his ledger? And how had he gotten his hands on our family curse story? Mike’s interest in the occult was seeming less random and more personal. If he’d known about our curse – the real story – then he may have known about Doyle’s fairy problem.
Shrugging my shoulders, my grip tightened on the wheel. I was starting to hate the word “fairy.” It sounded fun, even innocent. But what was happening to the people of Doyle, to my sisters, was anything but. The doctor was dangerous.
Had Mike known?
Driving up the steep hill, I parked in front of his house, curbing my Volvo’s wheels. I flipped through my key ring and pushed open the white picket gate with my hip.
“Oh, no you don’t!” A hand grabbed my arm and yanked me around.
I gasped. Keys, ledger and purse tumbled to the sidewalk.
Alba’s grip tightened on my bare arm. Her blue eyes blazed. “Stay away from us, witch!” Her army green tank top hung loose above her dingy, gray shorts. Its deep arm holes and collar threatened to expose her sagging breasts.
I shook myself free. It was as if she’d emerged from a crack in the sidewalk. “What are you talking about?”
“This isn’t your house,” she snarled. “You don’t belong here.”
I sighed. “Alba, I have a key from Mike’s executor. He asked me to go through some of Mike’s things.”
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