by Nova Nelson
It was back in October, right before Halloween, when Tanner, Donovan, and I had visited them to learn more about the night Tanner’s parents were murdered. Admittedly not the best of circumstances for a visit, but even still, she’d been giving me appraising looks the entire time like she’d heard about me.
But surely Donovan hadn’t spoken with his parents about what had transpired between us while I was still with Tanner.
To sum up, the dynamics of the Stringfellow family were murky at best, and while Leonardo had been generally pleasant in Ezra’s Magical Outfitters, that didn’t mean he was a pleasant guy. Goodness knows I’d encountered my fair share of two-faced backstabbers and passive-aggressive complimenters.
As I stacked up the dirty plates on the countertop from customers who’d just paid out and left, I looked down at Grim where he flopped until his sixth sense—or, I suppose his seventh sense—for meat products alerted him to open his eyes. “Maybe you should come tonight,” I told him.
“You’ve really sold me on it with all your neurotic concerns.”
“Grim! Have you been listening in on my thoughts?”
“Not intentionally. I heard a sizzling sound and thought it might be a hot plate of something. Turns out it was only your buzzing circular thoughts. Trust me, I tried to tune out as quickly as possible. Who knows what I’ll see and hear in that lusty skull of yours?”
“There will be food,” I said, trying to sweeten the pot.
“You know where else there’s food? Here. Monster and I could just stay here until it closes and not have to endure the mixture of adrenaline and pheromones that will no doubt taint the flavor of whatever scraps I do get. And from what I’ve heard, the Stringfellows aren’t exactly the types to feed a hellhound from the table.”
“Bad dog,” I grumbled.
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
So I was on my own, then.
Something large and black that wasn’t Grim caught my attention as it moved toward the front door. “Heading out already?” I asked.
Ted paused only a moment, but didn’t divert his path toward the counter like he usually did at the slightest prompting. “Afraid so. Gonna get my rest and check on the flock before tonight.”
(Ted had only just managed to keep the High Council from banning his disastrous flock of phoenixes.)
“Wait,” I said. “What do you have planned for tonight?”
“Oh, it’s not me who has plans, but I’ll be the one to clean up the mess.”
I was stunned into silence for a moment, and by the time I opened my mouth to ask him for clarification, he was gone and the bell above the door had already gone silent.
From below the countertop: “He means someone’s going to be murdered.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I got that.”
* * *
“Welcome, Nora!” Jasmine Stringfellow said, opening the door wide for us. “Come in, come in! No need to stay out in the cold!” Donovan placed his hand on my back and I went in ahead of him. Mrs. Stringfellow quickly took my jacket, ignoring her son completely as she hung it up and gave me a hug like our single interaction prior to this hadn’t been all about murder.
“Leonardo and Serena are already here, and dinner is almost ready.”
She led us through the small sitting room, which was the only part of the Stringfellows’ home I’d seen, and into the kitchen and adjoining dining room.
“Hey, Donny,” Leonardo said brightly, and I could feel Donovan tense next to me. “I thought you would bail.”
“You mean like skipping town? No, that’s your thing, Leo.”
Leonardo chuckled and turned to Serena, “I told you he was quick, didn’t I?”
This evening would clearly be as fun as a camping trip in the Murderswamp.
I didn’t know much about family dynamics on the whole, wasn’t used to navigating them. My parents had always been loving, albeit distant and busy, and my aunt who took me in was a horrible hag (not literally). Her husband hardly ever acknowledged me, so I often drifted around their home wondering if I was a ghost (also, not literally).
But on the whole all of that was cut and dry. It wasn’t tricky. They were each reliable in their own way and I always knew what I was getting into.
But it was obvious the dynamics here were much more complicated. I didn’t quite understand why Donovan disliked family gatherings so much or why he was so resentful toward his brother, but I also wasn’t sure I wanted to know. It seemed like a topic with no clear end point.
“Please, have a seat,” Jasmine said, indicating two open chairs. The table was carved from a single large tree trunk, with a smooth surface and natural edges that weren’t quite straight. The six chairs that surrounded the table were constructed with similarly flowing lines. I thought it was nice, and I was starting to understand where Donovan got his home design taste, but I knew better than to tell him he’d inherited anything positive from his parents.
“Made your favorite, Leonardo,” said Hans from where he worked in the kitchen. Well, maybe “work” wasn’t the right word. He made it look effortless, flicking his wand in lazy circles as he put the finishing touches on two different platters. He sent a blue ceramic serving tray through the air toward the table, and the small flower-vase centerpieces scooted to the side to make room. I got a whiff before I had a good angle to see what was on the menu, and already I knew I was in for a treat.
When the second plate landed next to the first, I couldn’t contain my excitement.
“Are those little quiches?”
“Not sure what a quiche is. Maybe we have a different word for it here.”
The other platter of hors d’oeuvres looked equally delicious. Sliced cucumber topped with some sort of soft cheese, thinly sliced salmon, red onions, and capers. My mouth watered.
Hans told Serena from the kitchen, “These have been Leonardo’s favorite since he was a kid. Always had refined taste, this one. And I see that hasn’t changed.” He winked playfully.
I leaned over to Donovan and whispered, “What was your favorite dish growing up?”
“Pizza,” he grumbled.
I patted his thigh under the table. “Good. That’s normal.”
By the time Mr. and Mrs. Stringfellow had taken their places at the table, it was covered in a veritable feast in Leonardo’s honor. It took a solid five minutes for Jasmine to give the full tour of everything they’d prepared and how it related to Leonardo’s life. Each dish had significance, and after the first few, I grabbed Donovan’s hand, feeling the annoyance radiate from him in waves. But I immediately regretted it when he squeezed back so hard I thought he might be going in labor.
“Wow,” said Serena politely once Jasmine had wrapped it up. “That was such a beautiful walk through his life, I almost can’t bring myself to eat any of it!”
“I second that,” said Donovan.
“Well, I’m not going to let it get cold,” Leonardo chimed in. “It’s all my favorite foods! I’d be an idiot to watch them go to waste.”
He led the way, scooping the dishes and filling his plate with meats and vegetables and breads.
Donovan served himself reluctantly, and I was left walking the tightrope between complimenting the cooks and irritating my not-boyfriend.
Thankfully, I’m a fantastic tightrope walker.
“So, Leonardo,” Hans began, “you haven’t told us what brings you and your lovely fiancée to Eastwind.”
Leonardo’s mouth was stuffed with food, but after a few more chews, he said, “I wanted Serena to see where I come from. Seems only appropriate.”
Jasmine beamed. “That’s a very sweet idea.”
“And have you seen where she’s from yet?” Hans asked.
“Well, yes. She’s from Avalon.”
Jasmine asked, “Will you live in Avalon or Eastwind once you’re married?”
“Avalon,” he said firmly. “That’s where my business is. I’ve built a whole life for myself there. There’s just not that mu
ch opportunity in Eastwind. Right, Donny?”
Oof. There it was. If he was genuinely looking for his brother’s support, he couldn’t have done it in a more barbed way.
Donovan grunted and tipped back his glass of white wine.
Serena dabbed her mouth with the cloth napkin. “I would love to move to a town like Eastwind someday soon, though. From what I’ve seen of it, it’s just lovely. So quaint. Everything moves at a much slower pace, and the people are content with so much less.”
I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt that she didn’t realize how insulting her words sounded, and I smiled and nodded. “Yeah, it’s nice here. I wouldn’t move anywhere for the world.”
“And what do you do here?” she asked, appearing genuinely interested.
“I own a diner.”
She blinked politely but said, “What’s a diner?”
For fang’s sake, did they not have diners in Avalon? “It’s a casual restaurant.”
“Oh! Are you Donovan’s boss then?”
I smirked at Donovan. “Not officially.”
Leonardo cut in. “No, Donovan works at a pizza place. He serves drinks.”
“Oh.” She looked disappointed.
Donovan held up a hand as if fending off the unicorn swirls. “It’s an upscale Italian restaurant, not a pizza place.”
“It’s called Franco’s Pizza,” Leonardo snapped back.
“What’s an Italian?” Serena asked, stopping the bickering in its tracks.
I guess that bit of my own world’s culture hadn’t found footing in Avalon.
Leonardo leaned toward his fiancée and mumbled, “It’s complicated, love, I’ll explain later.”
“And Nora,” he added, “since you’re a Fifth Wind, am I right to assume you also do that on the side?”
The clatter of forks on plates went oddly silent except for Donovan’s. Then Jasmine said, “Now, Leonardo. Let’s not ask personal questions.”
“It’s fine,” I assured her. “Not exactly a secret. Yes, I do help with the occasional investigation when I can be of use.”
“Well, I think that’s wonderful,” Leonardo said, grinning kindly at me. “I, for one, don’t think anyone should be ashamed of who they are, not even Fifth Winds.”
I felt Donovan’s hand creep onto my thigh to steady me. I placed my hand on top of his, hoping he understood that to mean that I would play nice.
But I wouldn’t roll over.
“What do you mean, ‘not even Fifth Winds’?”
“Hmm?” He’d just stuffed his face with a forkful of pan-seared asparagus.
“I think what he means,” Serena said, “is that in Avalon, being a Fifth Wind can be… well, some people don’t trust them.”
I chuckled. “Yeah, it’s the same in Eastwind. And you know who especially doesn’t trust me?”
She shook her head softly, her eyebrows gently raised, welcoming the answer.
“Murderers.”
Donovan snorted, choked on his food, and quickly went for his drink.
“Ah,” she said weakly, and then awkwardly dropped her eyes to her plate again. “For what it’s worth, I have nothing against Fifth Winds. I used to be, um, quite good friends with one. We lost contact for years, but I happened to run into him just last week. Crazy how the world works.”
Leonardo was looking at her with unmasked jealousy in his eyes. “You didn’t tell me you ran into an old friend. When was this?”
Before their inevitable lovers’ spat could play out in front of the rest of us, a hard and rapid knock on the front door echoed through the kitchen, and every single Stringfellow jumped to their feet, saying some version of “I’ll get it.”
“No, no,” said Hans. “I’m closest, and it’s my house. You all stay seated. Probably just someone from the Coven asking for an extra contribution.”
While Hans left, the rest of the table stayed silent. It was only when I heard Deputy Manchester’s voice in the sitting room that foreboding washed over me and I remembered what Ted had said earlier.
“Fangs and claws,” I hissed, tossing my bunched napkin onto the table and hurrying out to meet Stu. Donovan followed, but as far as I could tell, the rest of the party stayed seated.
“—You’re next of kin, correct?” Stu was saying when I entered.
And when his eyes landed on me, his mouth fell open for a fraction of a second before he grinned at me approvingly.
Yeah, yeah, I thought. I took your advice and went for it. Now let’s get back to the next of kin bit.
“Who was it?” I asked.
“Giovanni Stringfellow.”
I leaned toward Donovan and whispered, “Who’s Giovanni Stringfellow?” It was obviously a relative, but how distant, I wasn’t sure.
“Uncle. My dad’s brother.”
“Did you know him well?”
Donovan shook his head. “He was a real piece of work.”
Stu and Hans had continued talking, discussing the basics of the unfortunate situation. Then the deputy concluded with, “I hate to interrupt your dinner, but would you mind coming with me? We could use family’s permission to search the home, and you can give an official ID while we’re there.”
“Of course,” Hans said, already going for his coat.
Then Stu addressed me. “And you’d better come too. Just in case.”
Chapter Seven
The home of Giovanni Stringfellow was nice on the outside and an utter disaster on the inside. It was over in Copperstone Heights, a predominantly witch neighborhood, the same one where Donovan lived, actually. Except this was in a part of the neighborhood I’d never visited and was so far from Donovan’s home that I wouldn’t have known it was technically the same neighborhood if Stu hadn’t mentioned it. The house sat among a long row of well-kept cottages. The only thing that might have indicated something was amiss was the drawn curtains on every window. Otherwise, light still radiated from inside. But I guess people don’t usually plan on dying, so expecting them to turn off the lights beforehand might be a little much to ask.
When Manchester opened the front door, stagnant and musty air wafted out that, thankfully, hadn’t yet mingled with the stink of death.
And inside, wooden boxes, stacks of parchment, and jars, some toppled over with their ingredients pouring out, occupied almost every inch of the place. There was only a small pathway among the muck.
A prime time for mouth breathing if I ever smelled one.
Stu led the way, and I followed closely behind him. Donovan had insisted on coming as well, and he and his father trailed behind me as we crossed through the dimly lit living room and into the hallway.
“Ted,” snapped Stu. “I told you to wait until I brought the next of kin!”
The grim reaper froze where he was, his gloved hands wrapped around the dead man’s wrists as he dragged him down the hallway.
Ted quickly dropped the body. “Oh, sorry. You took so long, I started doubting myself. Heh. I thought maybe you’d said to get him out of here before the next of kin arrived.”
“Why would I say that?”
“No idea. It didn’t make much sense to me, either.”
Manchester grunted impatiently. “Could you give us a minute, Ted?”
“Sure thing.” As the reaper passed by us in the confined space, his proximity flooding every fiber of my body with that familiar awareness of my mortality, he said, “Evening, Nora.”
“Evening, Ted.”
Though the living room had plenty of floating light orbs hovering by the ceiling, the hall was dark. Hans drew his wand from his coat and the tip flamed to life. He held it over the man’s face for illumination. “Yep, that’s him.”
“Great,” said Stu. “Well, not great, obviously. It’s bad when anyone’s dead.”
“It’s fine,” Hans assured him. “We weren’t close. In fact, we hadn’t spoken in thirteen years. Not since my parents passed and he weaseled his way into all the inheritance.”
So
the Stringfellows had a long legacy of complicated family relationships. I noted the grudge, but didn’t say anything about it.
“Let’s chat more where there’s some fresh air,” Donovan suggested, and no one raised objections. It wasn’t like Giovanni was going anywhere or getting any deader.
As we emerged into the cold night air, I tugged my coat closer but was still grateful to be out of that claustrophobic mess.
“Still not yet,” Stu said, as Ted saw us leave and took it as his cue to start the clean-up.
“Oh, okay. I guess I’m just a little overexcited. I’ve been feeling death all day, and I was hoping it wasn’t someone I liked.”
“Ted,” Stu warned, nodding his head toward the brother of the deceased.
“Oh, right. Not that Giovanni wasn’t a wonderful man. I just didn’t know him that well. I, um, I’m sorry for your loss. But if it makes you feel any better, he’s in a better place now. Well, maybe. I guess I don’t know him well enough to make that call. So, er, I guess there’s about a fifty-fifty chance he’s in a better place, and those aren’t bad odds.”
“Ted,” Stu said more firmly, saving the reaper from digging himself even deeper. “How about you go take a few pictures of the scene?”
“Already did.” Ted reached in his robes and pulled out a clunky object that I supposed was a camera but looked like little more than a wooden box with a small glass window in the front. Photos were more magic than science in Eastwind, and that was no big surprise.
Stu let out a small whine of annoyance. “Well, could you get a few more? Maybe look for anything out of place that might indicate a struggle. I’ll be back in there in a minute.”
Ted nodded eagerly and walked back inside. I didn’t miss the deputy’s tiny sigh of relief.
“You know of anyone who might want your brother dead, Mr. Stringfellow?”
For a second, I thought he was addressing Donovan, in which case the answer would’ve been, “Yeah, me.”
But obviously the question was posed to Hans. “Oh, no one in particular.”
