He raised his eyebrows. “You made contact with a recently deceased woman, whose life had been suddenly and maliciously cut short? That’s quite amazing. But I’m not talking about ghost whispering, per se. I’m talking about guidance and divination through necromancy.”
“I’m more into Goddess worship, myself. I usually access the spirit world by invoking the ancient goddesses and gods through spells and rituals.”
“That’s cool. But you ought to try bone magick sometime. You know, I specialize in communicating with animal spirit guides through the parts they leave behind: bones, teeth, feathers, and the like. I find that animal spirits are generally purer than human spirits, energetically speaking. They’re easier to work with.”
I had to suppress a smile. It was definitely going to be interesting having Arlen around the office.
“If you want answers,” he continued, “I might be able to help. The Turnbull property is pretty big and has lots of trees, doesn’t it? I bet you could find animal remains without much difficulty.”
“There are animal remains in the house,” I retorted. “If you count stuffed animals and mounted antlers.”
He cocked his head. “Real stuffed animals or replicas?”
“I’m pretty sure they’re real. Harold Turnbull was big into hunting and had his gun room decorated like a hunting lodge.”
“Ah, I see. I bet the vibrations in that space are something else.”
“They are,” I said, recalling how odd I’d felt in the gun room. “And it’s not only because of the dead animals. That room holds sadness and tragedy. It’s where Jim Turnbull shot himself fifteen years ago.”
As I said the words, a prickle of doubt crept up my spine. I couldn’t say exactly why, but something about Jim’s death continued to bother me.
“Something wrong?” asked Arlen, proving how perceptive he could be.
“I don’t know. The thing is, I don’t know why Jim killed himself. His daughter said he was depressed, and he had been fighting with his wife, but . . .” I trailed off, shaking my head. “I guess such things always seem senseless.”
“There is one way to find out for sure,” said Arlen.
I let my gaze wander to a framed sunset photo on the wall. “I suppose I could try astral projection again, focusing on Jim instead of Elaine.”
“I have a better idea.” Arlen leaned forward. “Why don’t we ask the bones?”
“Ask the bones?” I met his eyes, intrigued by the idea. “You really think animal magick can shed light on what’s happening at Turnbull Manor?”
He nodded his head solemnly. “I do. Absolutely. Why not let me show you how? We can do it together. Tonight.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
By the end of the day, Arlen had won me over. We had discussed it more over lunch, until I was convinced he knew what he was doing and that there was nothing to lose. Once our plan was hatched, only one problem remained: what to say to Crenshaw.
My colleague undoubtedly knew I adhered to a nontraditional spiritual belief system—what many would call “New Age” ideas. He was an observant man. But we had never discussed my Wiccan practices in any kind of detail. I had no idea how to explain the ritual I wanted to perform without him thinking I’d gone off the deep end.
Fortunately, the stars were aligned in our favor. Crenshaw would be away at his final dress rehearsal for much of the evening. When I told him I’d like to spend some time in the Turnbull library “for research purposes,” he wished me luck and said to take as much time as I desired. He didn’t even bat an eye when I asked him for the key to the gun room.
Arlen and I arrived to the manor at dusk. If any of the residents observed us come in, they didn’t let us know. I imagined they were all in their rooms packing—or brooding over the fact that they were being forced to leave their home. To be on the safe side, I taped a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the library door. And when we entered the gun room, I shut and locked the door behind us.
Arlen had brought a black case, resembling an oversized medical bag, which he set on the desk. As a man accustomed, and immune, to curious stares, he was already wearing his ritual robes and bone jewelry when I picked him up at his home on the edge of town. I wasn’t quite as audacious—I’d brought my ritual robe in my tote bag. I slipped it on over my clothes while Arlen looked around.
First, he walked slowly around the edges of the room, touching objects as he went. When he got to the stuffed pheasant, he patted the top of its head and chuckled. “There was once a living soul in this beautiful creature, but no longer. Now it’s filled with synthetic material. This won’t be a vessel for any visiting spirits tonight.”
With a passing glance at the bearskin rug, he circled around to the desk and looked up at the cow skull on the wall. The bleached bone of its narrow head and the curved brown horns evoked thoughts of ranch life and southwestern art. Arlen reached up and carefully removed it from its hook.
“This will do nicely,” he said, handing me the skull. “Hold this for a minute, will you?”
I stood back, cradling the bottom of the skull in both hands, while Arlen cleared off the desk and started removing items from his carrying case. After draping a black cloth over the surface of the desk, he placed a candle in each corner. Then he surprised me by pulling out a number of other animal bones. I hadn’t realized he would be bringing his own.
I watched as Arlen arranged his sacred objects in an intricate pattern resembling a mandala. Among the items I recognized were loose fangs, spiral-shaped seashells, and the spine of a snake. There was also a small mammal’s skull, decorated with esoteric symbols painted in black and red.
“The fox is a messenger animal,” Arlen explained, touching the painted skull. “Its spirit offers a channel between the living and the dead.”
Arlen relieved me of the cow skull and placed it in the center of the arrangement. Then he brought out a shiny red apple and a bundle of green grass tied with twine, which he placed at the base of the skull. “It’s important to always bring an offering as a gesture of good will,” he advised.
Finally, he pulled out two long, rattling bone necklaces. He placed one over his own head and held out the other to me. I didn’t take it.
We had already discussed my reservations earlier in the day. Arlen knew I was an ethical vegan, who avoided consuming or using anything made from an animal. This extended beyond my diet to my clothing and household furnishings. There were no leather belts, shoes, or seat coverings to be found in any of my personal possessions.
On the other hand, a major part of my Wiccan religion was to honor nature’s cycles of life, death, and new life. If a creature had lived out its life and died in the wild, then there was really no harm in taking the parts left behind—that is, assuming one did so in accordance with relevant local laws. Arlen assured me that he only worked with bones he had legally collected himself. He was an ethical necromancer.
Now he gave me a gentle look, as he continued to hold out his spare bone necklace. “You don’t have to wear it,” he said. “But I promise you no animals were harmed in the gathering of these bones. And you might like the effect. This is what I call my shamanic necklace. It’s made from beaver bones and bits of turtle shell, two creatures that in life traveled between land and water. In death, they help us travel between the earthly realm and the spirit world.”
I accepted the necklace and placed it over my head. After all, it was something my ancestors might have done. Of course, as long as alternate forms of sustenance were readily available, I would still never eat meat. But I decided I was okay with using animal bones in a respectful way—especially with Arlen as a guide.
While Arlen tucked away his black bag, I smudged the room with sage smoke for protection and peace. At last, we lit the candles, including a few we had placed on the fireplace mantel and two side tables. When I turned off the lights, the room was instantly transformed into a spooky, shadowy den—a perfect space for holding a séance. I tried not to think about the
unseeing eyes of the stuffed animals as I walked up to the covered desk.
We clasped hands over the bones and took a few deep breaths. Then Arlen spoke in a low, rumbling voice.
“Spirits of land, sea, and sky, creatures who have gone before, enter our midst if you so desire. I am Arlen the Necromancer, pure of soul and brave of heart. This is Keli the Witch, also pure of soul and brave of heart. We come in peace with open minds and a desire for communication. Willing spirits enter this vessel we have prepared. Accept these offerings.”
For several minutes, nothing happened. We stood quietly, with Arlen repeating his invitation every few seconds. At some point, I closed my eyes, allowing myself to enter a meditative state. The scent of sage smoke and candle wax mingled with a musky oil I realized Arlen must be wearing, and I felt a little light-headed. After a time, a rattling sound penetrated my awareness. I opened my eyes, half expecting to see the smaller bones dancing on the table. Instead, I saw Arlen bobbing his head as if nodding “yes” over and over again. Then he started whispering.
“The spirit has returned to its host,” he murmured. “The old steer comes willingly, trusting that these humans are the good kind. The kind that provide nourishment and not pain. This spirit has seen much and will answer our questions.”
I wasn’t sure if that was my cue to speak, but I found myself unable to utter a word. This was unfamiliar territory. Luckily, Arlen knew what to ask.
“What happened in this room when blood was shed? What secrets lurked in the heart of the man, Jim Turnbull? What secrets can you reveal?”
He stopped bobbing his head and tilted his chin upward, as if he were listening. His eyes were squeezed shut.
Ask about Elaine, too, I wanted to say. Who is the thief? Who is the killer? Are they one and the same?
A moment later, Arlen let go of my hands and bowed his head. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for sharing this space with us. Thank you for sharing your knowledge.” He released a shaky breath, then lifted his head and opened his eyes.
“Is that it? Is the spirit gone?”
“Gone for now,” he said. “As soon as the answer was given, the spirit moved on. It saw no reason to linger.”
“The answer was given? What answer?”
Sweat beads glistened on Arlen’s forehead in the flickering candlelight. “The man who died in this room, Jim Turnbull, wasn’t alone when he was shot.”
“He wasn’t?”
“No. And he didn’t pull the trigger. He was murdered.”
* * *
The gun room was no less creepy after we turned on the lights and put away the bones. But I wasn’t ready to leave. I was still trying to understand the message Arlen had been given. The “murder” part was clear enough, but we still didn’t know who did it or why.
“What about your question about the secrets Jim was harboring? Was there an answer to that question?” I was pacing back and forth between the fireplace and the large fox-and-hound painting next to the door. I had no desire to curl up on the leather sofa in front of the bearskin rug.
Arlen gave me a patient look. “Most of the time, the answers don’t come in actual words and sentences. It’s more like images and impressions. The feeling I got was that Jim was very troubled, but not troubled enough to take his own life. There was definitely a second person with malevolent intentions.”
“Can you describe the person? Male, female?”
“No, sorry. It was like I was seeing the person’s dark soul, not their body.”
I shuddered. With that kind of energy, no wonder the room felt so eerie.
Arlen was standing on his toes, trying to replace the cow skull on the wall. I was facing the hunting scene on the wall, when he lost his balance and reached for the edge of a gun cabinet to steady himself. In the same instant, the painting shifted, as if moving toward me. For a second, I thought I might be hallucinating. Then I realized what had happened.
“Arlen! Check it out! You must have pressed a button or something.”
“I did what now?”
He joined me in front of the painting, which I now saw obscured a narrow door. I grasped the edge and pulled the door open. Inside was a small room, no larger than a closet. I grabbed my cell phone, with its newly installed flashlight app, and shined it inside.
“What is this?” asked Arlen. “Some kind of safe room?”
“Or maybe a sort of safe,” I posited. “This looks like the sort of secret hiding place a wealthy person would use to hide away special treasures. Too bad it’s empty now.” My light revealed cedar walls and ceiling, with deep shelves made of the same wood—and not a single coin, bauble, or gem.
“You could hide valuables in here,” Arlen agreed. “You could also hide a person. There’s plenty of room.”
“Are you suggesting the killer hid in here?”
He shrugged. “We’ve no way of knowing. I’m just saying it’s possible.”
Suddenly, I recalled the noises I’d heard coming from the gun room a few days ago. Was someone hiding in this space the whole time?
Then I noticed something else. My light picked up a small, flat piece of wood jutting slightly from the wall. It was at eye level. I pushed the wood aside to reveal a single peephole. I looked through it and observed a clear view of the library. Weird.
“You see what I mean?” I said to Arlen. “With every secret I uncover in this house, another mystery crops up.”
“It’s a house of mysteries, all right.”
“But I’m getting closer,” I said. “I’ll figure this thing out yet.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Considering how late it was when we finally left Turnbull Manor, I told Arlen he should feel free to sleep in the next morning. But he still beat me to the office—and had dusted the furniture and watered the plants to boot. He returned my keys when I arrived and told me he’d already made two client appointments for me for later in the week.
“Your calendar showed you were free during the hours I scheduled the appointments. I hope that’s okay.”
“Yes, for sure. I need you to be able to rely on my calendar. I’ll try to make sure it’s always up-to-date.”
We spent a busy morning with little mention of our adventures in necromancy. But the Turnbull mysteries were never far from my mind—especially since Lana was still moping around my house. Wes had to go into work today, too, so the heiress was on her own. At least Josie had someone to keep her company.
By midafternoon, I was ready to call it a day. Arlen was in the process of creating a new accounting spreadsheet and didn’t want to stop. He said he’d lock up the office in a little while.
I left for home, mentally congratulating myself for hiring Arlen as my assistant. He was proving to be a valuable asset in more ways than one.
As I was parking my car in front of my house, my cell phone rang. It was Farrah.
“Hey, girl,” I said. “I’ve been meaning to call you today.”
“Do you have news? Wait, don’t tell me yet. I thought I’d come over to your house a little early, so we’ll have time to catch up.”
“Early for what?”
“‘For what?’ How could you forget?”
I racked my brain. It was a Tuesday, three days before the Autumn Equinox. Farrah’s birthday was a few weeks ago. What could I possibly have forgotten?
“Crenshaw’s play! Tonight is opening night.”
“Oh, yeah! Of course. He’s been talking about it for days.”
“Yeah. So, I thought I’d wear my short chocolate-brown sweater dress with ankle boots. What do you think?”
“Sounds great. I’ll find something complementary.”
In truth, I was feeling distracted and not exactly in the mood to go see a play. But I wanted to support Crenshaw. By the time Farrah arrived a little while later, I’d changed into a soft beige sweater, brown leggings, and a gold necklace. Lana and I were in the kitchen putting together a lentil salad with mixed greens. Farrah opened a bottle of whit
e wine and sliced a baguette, and we sat down to a cozy little meal in the kitchen.
“Wes called a bit ago,” I said. “He was asked to fill in at the Loose tonight. The regular bartender called in sick. Lana, why don’t you come to the play with Farrah and me?”
“Yes, do!” said Farrah. “The more the merrier.”
“Thanks, but I don’t much feel like going out. I’ll stay in and watch TV if it’s okay with you.”
“Sure,” I said. “Whatever you want to do is fine.”
Farrah kept up the conversation after that, with light commentary on the latest political scandals and celebrity gossip. She seemed to sense I didn’t want to talk about the Turnbull case in Lana’s presence. I definitely didn’t want Lana to hear about Arlen’s message from the animal spirits.
Still, there was one thing I was dying to ask her. As soon as we’d finished eating, I decided to broach the subject.
“Lana, do you mind if I ask you something about the day you left home?”
She shrugged as she said, “I guess not.”
“It’s about the . . . note your father left. Do you remember what it said?” If Arlen’s animal messenger was right, and Jim had been murdered, then the note must be a fake.
“Do you want to see it? I still have it.”
I nodded, and tried to avoid looking at Farrah. I could tell from the catch in her breath that she was as moved as I was. This poor woman had been holding on to her father’s suicide note her entire adult life.
Lana went to get her backpack, which was on the floor in the living room. She removed an envelope, pulled out a small square of paper, and handed it to me.
“Would you excuse me?” she said. “I’m just going to run up to the bathroom.”
I was glad she left the room. She probably didn’t want to read the note again herself, or even be with us while we read it.
Farrah and I silently read the scribbled handwriting together.
I can’t go on. It’s all too much. I hope my family can forgive me.
We looked at each other then, with matching frowns.
Autumn Alibi Page 25
