Wisteria Witches Mysteries Box Set 3

by Angela Pepper

  Bentley unfastened his seatbelt. “We should probably get into that crime scene before we melt in this car.”

  “Ready when you are.”

  He nodded, and we opened our car doors in unison.

  Partners.

  Chapter 7

  The apartment over the garage contained about what you’d expect for a bachelor of twenty-six. That is, other than the headless body, which was being zipped up in a coroner’s bag by three people in white suits when we walked in.

  The furniture was all black leather, dark wood, chrome, and glass. The tiny kitchen’s counter held up a stack of empty pizza boxes. The inexpensive bookshelves held very little reading material besides magazines about tattoos, hunting wild game, and weapons. The plain white walls were decorated with three tribal-patterned woven blankets and a framed illustration of a jaguar. The walls were also marked by two bright-red streaks of blood spatter.

  Bentley gestured to the red streaks. “As you can see by the spray pattern on the wall, the victim was decapitated here.”

  “Here,” I repeated, my dry mouth making smacking sounds. “Right across the street from my house.”

  He continued in a business-like tone, as though I truly was the criminal behavior expert he’d introduced me as. “The spray pattern isn’t arterial. That means it didn’t spurt from the body, but was caused by the movement of the weapon slicing through the air.”

  “Hmm,” I said knowingly.

  The detective shuffled past a worker in a white suit and got behind the sofa, which sat squarely in the middle of the room. “The killer must have stood here, behind the sofa, and sliced off the victim’s head like this.” Bentley swept his hand over where the body’s neck had been, then flung his hand into the air triumphantly. “And that’s when the blood ran off the weapon and onto the walls.”

  I’d seen enough blood spatter analysis on crime shows to understand what he was demonstrating.

  “Did the killer fling their arm out twice?” I asked. “There are two distinctive blood streaks on the walls.”

  “Good eye. And what does that tell you? The double streaks?”

  I gave it some thought before answering. “Two weapons, maybe? Or even two killers?”

  “Perhaps. Or we might be looking for a killer with an artistic side. Someone who appreciates symmetry.”

  “Like an artist?”

  He mimed scooping blood with his non-dominant hand and then flinging it onto the wall. “A painter.”

  I made a disgusted noise.

  The three other white-clad people inside the small space barely glanced our way. Like myself and Bentley, they wore the so-called “bunny suits” that reduced contamination of the crime scene. The suits were white overalls with hoods, made of a non-woven material that would not be my top choice for clothing on such a sweltering day.

  I tucked my chin down to catch a trickle of face sweat on the inside of my suit.

  Bentley watched this with an amused expression. “You can always step outside for a moment if you don’t feel well.”

  “If you can take it, I can, too. Riddle women are tougher than we look.”

  He raised one straight eyebrow. His facial expressions were more exaggerated, more comical when viewed through the oval opening of the white suit.

  “Riddle women are tough.” He frowned thoughtfully. “Yes. My predecessor, Detective Fung, mentioned that fact in a number of his secret reports.”

  “Where is this Fung person now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You probably need a higher level of clearance to get that report.” I felt a slight chill despite the sweltering tropical environment inside my Tyvek bunny suit. “Maybe it’s for the best you don’t find out what happened to the man who had your job before you.”

  “There’s a rumor he’s enjoying a much-needed vacation somewhere beautiful.”

  “Right.” I crossed my white-suited arms and tapped my green-gloved fingers on my bicep. “And every kid’s old dog goes away to live on a farm.”

  “We all believe the lies we need to get through the long, dark nights,” he said vaguely.

  I murmured noncommittally and looked around the crime scene. The shock of the blood—both the sight and the smell—was wearing off. I was able to pick up more visual details now that I was past the initial horror. An unplugged black electrical cord caught my eye.

  I pointed at the cord. “That big television is unplugged now,” I said. “Did someone connected with the investigation unplug it?”

  Bentley looked over the cord and the television. “I wouldn’t think so. Why do you ask?”

  I was mindful of the people working a few feet away from us and edited my speech. “The person who called in the initial report said the television was on. They saw it flickering when they looked in the window.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “Someone might have bumped the cord with their foot.”

  Given the location of the outlet, that didn’t seem likely. I walked over to the media stand and leaned down to look at the second thing that had caught my eye. It was a metallic box, no bigger than a coffee mug. I waved for Bentley to come join me.

  He trotted over. In a whisper, he asked, “Do you see him? The ghost? Is he here now?”

  “No sign of the ghost, but I think I found a clue.” I gingerly picked up the cube with my gloved hand. “They use these high-tech projection boxes at the DWM,” I said at a quiet volume. “The units are not supposed to leave the premises.”

  “Are you sure that’s a high-tech item? It looks like one of those useless decorator things real estate agents put in show homes, right next to the bowl of acorns.”

  “Look closer.” I tilted it so he could see the tiny lens. “It projects images, like a regular projector, except it’s super-tiny, and with no detectable power source.”

  He leaned back, nodding appreciatively. “If it does what you say, it’s quite the gadget.”

  I turned from the black TV screen to the blood-soaked couch. Thankfully, the black leather showed the blood only as a sheen. “Since the TV appeared to be on to our witness, Ishmael Greyson must have been using the box to watch something, maybe even projected onto the screen of his unplugged television.”

  The muscles on Bentley’s face twitched with excitement. “We need to find out what he was watching,” Bentley said.

  “Are you sure about that, Detective? Whatever he was watching might be irrelevant.” I set the cube back exactly where I’d found it, the spot marked perfectly by a dust-free square patch. “Judging by the lack of dust under the box, it’s been here in the apartment for a while. And the killer did leave the projection unit behind.”

  “True.” His face drooped. “So, it would appear this little gadget is not a clue, after all.” He let out an impatient huff, as though I’d intentionally gotten him excited over nothing. “Are you getting anything at all from the ghost? That is what I brought you here for.”

  I put one hand on my hip. “Is that all I am to you? A ghost magnet? You said you wanted a partner.”

  “I said we should work together instead of separately.”

  “Well, I’m trying to be cooperative.”

  “Then do your job,” he said curtly. “You talk to the ghosts. I’ll do the detective work.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t figure out what my mother sees in you.”

  “Who?” His pupils dilated wildly.

  “Never mind.” I turned away and scanned the crime scene. “Be quiet and don’t aggravate me while I look for the ghost.”

  He huffed again, but didn’t speak.

  After a moment, I reported my lack of results. “I don’t see any sign of Ishmael’s scrawny ghost, but I’m sure he’ll be back eventually. With my other ghosts, they always stuck around until I figured out what happened, or got them justice.”

  “That’s reassuring news.”

  “Easy for you to say. You don’t have to get possessed by a ghost.”

  He sniffed. “That’s
not true. Detectives have their ghosts, too, Zara. A case like this has a way of taking over your life until it’s closed.”

  Now it was my turn to huff indignantly. “That’s not the same thing. It’s your job to solve crimes. It’s not your personal curse that comes as a bonus with your powers.”

  He guffawed. “Don’t dismiss me like that just because I don’t have any of your type of powers.”

  “Oh?” I stepped closer and looked him in the eyes. “What makes you think you don’t have any powers, Detective?”

  He was temporarily speechless. Got him!

  “The town could have brought in any ol’ detective,” I said. “There’s got to be a reason that the powerful entities that secretly run this town picked you, Mr. Theodore Dean Bentley.”

  He continued to say nothing. His pupils dilated and contracted wildly.

  Oops, I thought. I broke Bentley.

  By now, the other three bunny-suited people had gotten the body loaded into the zippered bag. They carted it outside, then closed the door behind them. Bentley and I were alone in the crime scene.

  I pointed my gloved finger at the cube and changed the topic back to the clue I’d found. “You wanted me to help, and I am helping. This little box is a clue. It means Ishmael was connected to the DWM.”

  His pupils returned to normal, and he nodded slowly. “It would appear that way.”

  “You’re not surprised he’s connected to the DWM?”

  “I’d be more surprised if someone in this town got murdered and wasn’t connected to the DWM.”

  He made an excellent point. We probably should have started with that assumption. Point taken for our next case, if there was one.

  My whole face tickled. I ducked my chin into my hood to catch another drip of sweat. “You know, they claim to be the good guys.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  The heat rose inside my suit. I was breathing heavily. The blood-stained wall seemed to be closer now than it had been a minute ago. My pulse whooshed in my ears. The temperature inside my bunny suit reached inferno levels. I felt bile coming up my throat.

  “Thank you for pointing out the cube,” he said evenly. “That was helpful.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said, swallowing hard to keep my stomach contents down. There was no ghost in the tiny apartment, yet there was a lingering energy. A malignant hatred that I could practically taste.

  “You can take a break now,” he said.

  “I don’t need one,” I lied.

  “Of course not.” He smirked. “But take one as a favor to me. I’d like to be alone in here for a moment.”

  “If that’s something you’d like to do, I suppose I could step outside for some fresh air.”

  “Thanks for doing that for me,” he said, still smirking.

  I walked to the door as slowly as I could manage.

  The air outside was just as hot as the interior of the apartment, but it smelled infinitely better.

  I pushed back my stifling white hood and took shelter under the welcoming shade of a tree.

  I hadn’t been enjoying the shady spot for long when I was joined by someone I’d never met before—the town’s coroner, Dr. Jerry Lund.

  Chapter 8

  I unzipped my suit to the waist to get some air circulation. I stood in the shade of a tree outside the garage apartment, enjoying the fresh air and debating whether I should cross the street and return to my house or go back into the crime scene. I kept glancing up at the tree branches, expecting to find a nosy wyvern demanding the inside scoop, but Ribbons either wasn’t around or wasn’t in the mood for boring human business.

  Something white emerged from the side of the garage and moved toward me. It was a short person in one of the crime scene bunny suits.

  “There you are,” the man said in a friendly tone, as though he knew who I was.

  “Hello,” I said to the man in an even tone. I didn’t know who he was, but he certainly wasn’t Bentley. Not unless the detective had shrunk a foot and become bow-legged.

  “You must be Riddle,” the man said.

  “If you insist,” I said with a smile. “Zara Riddle.”

  “That makes you the witch.”

  “I’ve been called worse.” I gave him a tight smile. Apparently, he was one of those in the know.

  “Lund,” he said, waving one green-gloved hand. “I’d shake your hand, but I’m not done collecting specimens.”

  “Lund,” I repeated. “And what are you?”

  He narrowed his eyes playfully. “Do you mean what, or who?”

  I shrugged, equally playfully. “Surprise me.”

  “I’m the M.E. The medical examiner. Jeremiah Lund. Some folks call me Jerry, but most folks call me Lund.”

  “Lund,” I said again. “Would that make you Dr. Lund?”

  “You can call me that. I am a doctor, yes, among other things.” He waved a gloved hand vaguely. “You can call me Doctor, but don’t call me Doc. It makes me feel like one of the seven dwarves. I may be vertically challenged, but I don’t have a white beard or glasses.”

  I fought a devilish grin. Now that he’d asked me not to call him Doc, the temptation to do so was almost overwhelming. Thanks to his height and his bow-leggedness, he really would have fit into a collection with six others.

  The man pushed back the hood on his white suit, giving me a better look at him.

  Dr. Jerry Lund, the medical examiner, was a short man, though not quite as short as one of Disney’s seven dwarves. He was round in the middle of his body, but with skinny arms and legs. He had a wide, heavy-looking head with soft features. His hair was fair and thin, damp and disheveled from the suit’s hood. His face was clean-shaven, and he had a very wide mouth with thick lips that gave him a bullfrog appearance. His eyes were wide-set, light-blue, and bulging. I was reminded of the victim’s bulging blue eyes; I swallowed hard, hoping the young man who’d met with such a grisly end hadn’t been a relative of Lund’s.

  I was about to ask him if he knew Ishmael, but he spoke first.

  “Bentley says you live across the street,” he said, amiably enough.

  “In the red house on the corner. I’ve lived here since March of this year. Almost four months. I’ve met a few neighbors, but I didn’t know the victim. Did you know him?”

  Lund’s large, soft features didn’t move much. “Greyson worked for the same organization that employs yours truly.” He was careful not to mention the DWM by name. “I worked with the kid.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “No need to be sorry,” he said neutrally. “I knew him, but he wasn’t a friend. It’s a large organization.”

  “And how big is the organization?”

  “That depends.” He winked at me. “How long is a piece of string?”

  “Nice evasion. Do they teach all of you how to do that on your first day underground?”

  “Never mind my training.” He waved a hand. “You are the witch, right?”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “Great. Now, tell me what you need to channel the ghost. I’ll see that you get what you require. What’ll it be? A pound of flesh or a bucket of blood?” His bullfrog mouth twitched into a smile. “You want the heart? Don’t be shy. We’re all on the same team these days, it seems. I’ll set aside the heart for you.”

  “That’s a very generous offer, but I don’t need anyone’s heart.” At the mention of hearts, the rapid beating of my own caught my attention. Ever since it had been turned to stone and then back to flesh again by a gorgon, I had been sensitive to the topic of hearts.

  He looked me over. “If you don’t need any flesh to channel the dead, you must be as powerful as they say.”

  “Who’s been telling you I’m powerful? Not Bentley.”

  “The people we both work for.”

  I laughed lightly. “I don’t work for those people. I’m just a librarian.”

  “You’re just a librarian, you say.” He gave me a wide, bullfr
og smile. “Does a librarian typically spend her Saturdays at blood-soaked crime scenes?”

  He had me there. “Today’s a special day,” I said slowly. “I came along to give Bentley a hand.”

  “Librarian or otherwise, it’s good that you’re around.” His expression grew serious. He blew a lank of damp hair out of his eyes. “Ms. Riddle, I want you to know that we all appreciate everything you’ve done for the organization. You—” His voice cracked, and his bulging blue eyes glistened. “You got rid of Bhamidipati, that flying sack of crap.”

  He meant Dr. Bhamidipati, whom most people called Dr. Bob. The DWM doctor had been violently dispatched of earlier that year. Sack of crap or not, the man wouldn’t be flying anymore. Or even breathing.

  Lund went on, seething through gritted teeth. “If I’d known what that monster was up to, and using our facilities, no less, I’d have ripped him apart myself.”

  “He was a bad man.”

  “Very bad. And thanks to that serum he created, he was also huge and powerful in his shifter form.”

  “What kind of bird was he, anyway? I swear he was bigger than a condor.”

  “He was a sparrow.”

  “Shut the front door!” I couldn't hide my surprise. “A sparrow,” I muttered in disbelief. “That must have been one strong serum. Do all the shifters at the Department take it to make themselves bigger?”

  “It's... not recommended. Dr. Bob was conducting some tests outside of the facility, overseas, and what few notes we've been able to locate have served as warnings.”

  “I guess the shifters can't pass for regular animals if they're three times the size they're supposed to be.”

  “Exactly.”

  I shook my head. “Dr. Bob was a super-sized sparrow.”

  “Magic and science make strange bedfellows,” Dr. Lund said, his eyes shining in a very mad-scientist manner.

  “Some things probably shouldn't get in bed with each other at all,” I said, sounding not unlike my overly cautious aunt.

  Lund blinked the sheen from his eyes. “It’s a shame there wasn’t much left of the giant sparrow's body for me to examine. I would have liked to have seen the effects the growth serum had on his internal organs. Also, I would like to have seen... what made him tick.”