“I told the police about Danny and Jim, and they tracked them down right away. Only it turns out, they were already in a police cell. So they couldn’t have been at our house the time Abigail was killed, so the police say. They started pursuing another lead – another girl was garroted a couple of years earlier in a nearby village. Inspector Donahue thought the two crimes were linked. Only they didn’t get anywhere with that, so they dropped the case.”
“Did you know about all of Abigail’s boyfriends? Did she have others?”
“If she did, she never brought them home.” Beverly’s shoulders shook. “They weren’t those kind of boys. I saw Danny pick her up a couple of times, and another guy, Jim. That’s the only reason I knew about them. Abigail kept a diary – it didn’t say much, just scribbles about how much of a cow I was and a list of nicknames, maybe they were lovers. Danny was ‘Stallion’ and Jim was ‘Crow,’ but the police never tracked down the rest of the names.”
“What happened after that?”
“They couldn’t find any other suspects. The killer had been careful – no fingerprints at the scene, no footprints in the mud outside. Every lead they followed came to a dead end, and the media was hanging around every day, hounding them for a result. They camped out in front of my house, making me out as this uncaring, incompetent mother because I couldn’t control her! Finally, Inspector Donahue called it. He said he’d never stop trying to find Abigail’s killer, but I knew they’d given up.”
“Why did you come to Danny’s reading?”
“Because I was sick of seeing that smarmy git in the papers, getting rich off all the wrong he’s done.” She hugged herself. “I heard he was releasing a new book where the victims are strangled, just like Abigail. And in the same month as the anniversary of her death! That’s just cruel for cruel’s sake. I’d been complaining to his publisher, trying to drum up support online, writing letters to the papers, trying to get someone to pay attention to my story. To Abigail’s story. But no one cares because Danny is this hotshot bestseller. So I decided I would go along and give him a piece of my mind.”
“Fair enough. Do you have any idea how your scarf ended up in the hands of the murderer?”
“I threw it at that plonker publisher, Brian,” she muttered. “He was yelling at me and going on about how it was just business and there were more important things than the death of a made-up character. He said Danny would always do whatever Danny wanted and I couldn’t change his mind and neither could he.”
I remembered seeing her toss something at Brian. Did he pick up the scarf? I didn’t see. If he didn’t, anyone could have picked it up off the ground outside the shop.
“Thank you so much. It can’t have been easy to talk about this—”
“Find the bastard,” Beverly’s eyes flashed. “If the same person killed Danny that killed my girl, find him and make him pay.”
Chapter Sixteen
I spent the evening at my flat mulling over everything Beverly said. Her pain was evident in every word she’d spoken. I felt absolutely certain that she hadn’t killed Danny. If she’d killed Danny, she would have owned it, as the justice her daughter never had.
The next morning I pushed open the door of the bookshop. My back stiffened as I recognized a familiar voice echoing through the empty rooms.
“I’ve been made aware of your financial situation, Mr. Earnshaw. You can’t afford to keep this place open even another month. Your friend may have deep pockets, but much of his funds are frozen in a Cayman bank account.”
What? How does Grey Lachlan know about the state of our finances? And what is he saying about Morrie’s money?
I peered around the hallway into the main room. Heathcliff stood behind his desk, his fists clenched at his sides. Grey luxuriated in my favorite velvet chair, his shiny wing-tipped shoes crossed on the top of the desk like he already owned the place.
“If you know so much about our finances, perhaps you’d like to enlighten me why a property developer is interested in a rickety house filled with dusty books.” Heathcliff was just barely holding back his wild rage.
“My dear Mr. Heathcliff, I’m not here to tell you how to run your business. I’m here to rescue you. I’ll cut you a cheque for this dump right now, and you could be free. I mean, look at it. There’s not a customer in sight!”
“It’s our slow period,” Heathcliff growled.
“Really? It seems that every day is your slow period lately.” Grey planted his feet on the floor and leaned forward. “Listen, between you and me, businessman to businessman, I think your new manager might be the root of your problem. Wherever she goes, murder seems to follow her. Not to mention the fact that she doesn’t know the first thing about business. Women always think they can run things like a man, but they just lack that ruthless streak—”
That’s enough of that. I stepped into the room, my back straight, my hands on my hips. “Get out.”
Behind the desk, Heathcliff smirked. Grey whirled around, his eyebrows rising. “Ms. Wilde, what a pleasure to see you again. My wife would love to see you for dinner at Baddesley Hall—”
“I’ll stop you there before you drag Cynthia into this.” I folded my arms. “We’re not interested. Please leave. Before my feeble female brain explodes and I do something stupid, like call the police or shove a copy of The Handmaid’s Tale up your arse.”
Grey’s smile remained plastered on his face, but a flicker of anger flashed in his eyes. He expected us to roll over and thank him for his generosity. That’s not happening.
“Yes, of course.” Grey dropped his card onto Heathcliff’s desk. “I’ll leave you to think about it. You know where to find me.”
“Die in a fire!” Heathcliff yelled at his back. He slumped down behind his desk and picked up Grey’s card, crushing it between his fingers and tossing it into the rubbish bin.
“Why did you let him in here?” I demanded. My fingers touched the edge of my father’s note.
“He doesn’t exactly take no for an answer.” Heathcliff rubbed at the scuff marks Grey’s shoes had left on the desk. “I was just about to eviscerate him and string his intestines onto the world’s tiniest violin when you showed up. Your method was much less messy.”
“The world’s tiniest violin? Where did you come up with that?”
Heathcliff held up the cover of the book he was reading. The Somerset Strangler, of course. “Morrie was right. This is quite good. Those gangsters really have a way with language.”
I rubbed my forehead, where a headache was starting to bloom. I got them often now, as my eyesight deteriorated and my eyes strained to focus. This one, I was sure, was more stress-induced. “So how did Grey Lachlan know about our financial situation?”
Heathcliff made a pointed glance around the room. I followed him, taking in the dusty shelves and lack of customers. “A lucky guess?”
“Either that, or he’s hacking into our accounts. And what did he mean about Morrie’s money being tied up?”
Heathcliff shrugged. “Dunno. He’s right about one thing – Morrie hasn’t offered up any funds to bail us out. You know how he loves to throw his dirty money at every problem. Well, he hasn’t so much as proposed a high-interest loan. I assumed he was just being a greedy prick, but maybe our real estate friend knows more than we do.”
Hmmmm. Is that why Morrie’s gone down to London? Has something gone wrong with one of his criminal enterprises? I knew very little about the criminal network Morrie claimed to still operate. That was deliberate – I didn’t feel good about dating a criminal, and I was hoping one day I could convince Morrie to go straight. I appreciated that he was still respecting my request not to be involved, but I wish he’d told me if he was in trouble.
I picked up a bottle of air freshener I’d left on the corner of the desk and spritzed the chair before collapsing into it. “That horrid man better not ever sit in my chair again, or he’ll learn just how ruthless a woman can be.”
“I’d like to see
that.” Heathcliff pulled a bottle of wine from the bottom of his desk and set out two glasses.
“You’ve been holding out on me,” I grinned, accepting a glass.
“You should know by now this desk is a treasure trove of culinary delights.” Heathcliff slammed a drawer and held up a crumpled packet. “Jaffa cake? They’re only a couple of weeks expired.”
“No, thanks.” At least wine got better with age. As I sipped my drink, I told Heathcliff about my visit to the station and the horrible story of Beverly’s daughter’s murder. “Knowing everything that happened, I just can’t see her going into that meeting, yelling at Danny, then coming back first thing in the morning and garroting him with that scarf. It would help if we knew for a fact whether Brian picked up her scarf or not.”
“Maybe she’s just stupid?” Heathcliff leaned over the desk. “Many people are. Or maybe she didn’t care if she got caught?”
“I don’t think that’s it.” I flicked through my phone images, scrolling through snapshots from the event. Maybe someone got a shot of Beverly leaving… I squinted at one of the images of Jim, asking his question. I noticed he had the collar of his shirt pulled up over his face. With Jim’s purple hair and Morrie’s spotlights shining on the lectern, it was definitely possible Danny had never recognized Jim in the crowd. It couldn’t be a coincidence that Danny’s ex-gang mate come along to the reading. But if Jim killed Danny, why would he show up for the workshop the next day? Did he want to gloat over the murder?
“What’s that?” Heathcliff jabbed his finger at my phone screen as I scrolled through images.
“Oh.” I blushed. “Um… well, I was going to tell you at lunch, but I guess we got distracted. Remember this morning when I was chasing Grimalkin? We happened to end up in the Occult room…”
Heathcliff’s eyebrow shot up. “The Occult room with the locked door.”
“Yes, that room. Well, the door just unlocked itself again. And Grimalkin jumped up on the pedestal and was walking around on that book. I happened to flick through the pages—”
“Of course you did.” The corner of Heathcliff’s mouth twitched. Whether it was from anger or amusement, I couldn’t yet discern.
“—and one of the pages had that writing on it. I thought I’d get Morrie to translate it. I texted him, but he hasn’t replied. He must have been busy in London because he hasn’t texted me since he left.”
“Don’t you have an app for translations?” Heathcliff glared at my phone.
“Of course not… no wait, I do!” I scrolled through my phone until I found the app I’d downloaded. It was supposed to be able to translate any language, old or new, based on an image.
“Meow?” Grimalkin leaped down from the shelf and landed on the back of my chair, her neck craning over my shoulder as if she was straining to see the screen.
The app dinged. It had sourced a translation. The writing was Greek – Ancient Greek. That didn’t surprise me at all. The translation read, “My name is Nobody.” It gave me a phonetic pronunciation, as well. I sighed.
“If it’s another clue about the shop, it’s just as cryptic as all the others. My name is Nobody – what even is that about? Although, the Greek does sound pretty. To ónomá mou eínai Kanénas. I wonder if—”
“Meeeeooorw!”
Grimalkin leapt off my knee and rolled on the rug, kicking her feet in the air. I thought she wanted her belly rubbed, but when I reached down, she howled and swiped at my hand before darting away beneath my chair, howling at the top of her lungs.
“What’s got her goat?” Heathcliff muttered.
“Here, kitty, kitty.” I tipped my head between my legs, trying to see under the chair.
“Belittle me again, honey, and I’ll claw out those pretty eyes of yours,” a sultry voice simpered from behind my chair.
I whirled around. Where only a moment ago, a black and white cat had been hiding, a tall and beautiful woman with sleek dark hair now leaned against the velvet. A set of perfectly manicured red nails raked along the fabric while her other hand perched on her lithe, very naked hip.
For naked she was, from head to red-painted toes. Her hair fell in sleek waves almost to her waist. She ran her tongue along blood-red lips, her lips turning up into a self-satisfied smirk, like a cat who’d got the cream and the furry ball toy.
“It’s about time you got me out of that infernal fur coat,” the woman said. “It’s so wretchedly hot, and you two don’t spend nearly enough time adoring me. Do pick your jaws off the floor and let me have a seat – I have so much to tell you.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Who… who are you?” I whispered. How had this woman appeared so suddenly, so silently, and so nakedly? She’d snuck into the room with all the stealth of a… of a…
…of a cat.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” the woman purred, sashaying around the room like she was on stage at a burlesque club. She draped herself over the edge of the table – looking every bit the Renaissance woman posing for a piece of provocative art.
“I believe you need to put some clothes on.” Heathcliff shrugged off his jacket and tossed it across the room. He stared at some spot on the Science Fiction bookshelf. “It’s bloody freezing in here.”
The woman grabbed the coat out of the air and swung it over her elegant shoulders. “Yes, it is. It would appear this human form is more susceptible to drafts. So much pasty skin. My name is Critheïs, but you know me by another name.”
“I’m pretty sure I don’t know you.” I stared at her long legs and perfectly-shaped calves.
“Of course you do, dear. I was wrapped around your ankles only a few minutes ago.”
“I think I’d remember that. The only one wrapped around my ankles was…” No. It can’t be. Can it? “You’re Grimalkin?”
In reply, the woman flipped her hair over her shoulder, swiped my wine glass from the desk, and lifted it to her lips.
“Quoth!” Heathcliff boomed. “Get your bird arse in here right now.”
A few moments later, wings flapped down the stairs as Quoth soared into the room.
Sorry. I’ve been trying a new impasto technique. It creates a deep texture that’s almost tactile—
He did a double take when he saw the woman. She raised her red talons and gave him a wave that looked more like an extension of claws. “Hello, birdie.”
Quoth flopped onto the floor. Feathers flew as his body twisted and contorted. A moment later, Quoth knelt on all fours in his human form, a curtain of dark hair falling over his face, the sinuous muscles of his back tensed, as if he might need to take flight at any moment.
“What… what is she?” he gasped, staring up at the woman in a mixture of awe and dread.
“Mmmmmmm,” the woman purred, her eyes sweeping along Quoth’s body. “So lithe, so fragile, so delicious. If not for the fact that you are a meal for me, I would have you on this table right now.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” I growled.
“What’s going on?” Quoth asked again.
“This she-witch claims she’s Grimalkin,” Heathcliff glowered. “You know anything about this, bird? Shouldn’t you shifter types recognize each other?”
Quoth sniffed the air, frowning. “That’s Grimalkin, all right. I’d know that smell and those claws anywhere. But how is she a human?” He turned to Grimalkin. “If you’re a shapeshifter, then how come I’ve never sensed your thoughts or seen you shift before?”
“I’m not like you, able to switch between bodies on a whim,” Grimalkin frowned, stretching her arms out above her head. “I’ve been trapped in the feline form for centuries. My thoughts would no longer be recognizable as human. When my granddaughter spoke my son’s words, she lifted the spell, and now I am free.”
A flare of bright light streaked across my eyes, followed by a sliver of pain through my skull. My headache was worsening. I rubbed my temple as her words registered. “Excuse me, your granddaughter?”
“Why,
yes. I thought it was obvious.” Grimalkin struck a pose. “Young lady, I’m your grandmother.”
Chapter Eighteen
“My grandmother is a cat,” I said the words slowly, hoping gravitas would somehow make them more believable. It didn’t.
“Skepticism doesn’t become you, my dear.” Grimalkin sat down on the floor, folding her feet beneath her. She certainly did have cat-like movements, and the way she curled her fingers around into claws and said every word in a sensuous purr… “I’m not really a cat, in the same that way your delicious friend here is not really a bird.”
I rubbed my temple. The headache circled my head. This time, it had nothing to do with my declining eyesight. “Fine. None of this makes any sense, but fine. If you’re my grandmother, then who is my father?”
“Why ask me, when you’ve already figured that out?”
I thought back to the conversation I had with Heathcliff just this week, when he’d shown me the ledger, and we’d figured out that my dad was both Herman Strepel and Mr. Simson. Grimalkin had been in the room, so she must’ve heard us talking. “But we haven’t. All I said was—”
I thought for a second there you were going to tell me my dad was a dead epic poet, and then we’d have to get your head examined.
That was it. That was what I said.
Holy shiteballs. Isis be damned.
“My father is Homer,” I said, slowly, believing and yet not believing.
Grimalkin nodded.
“Homer, the ancient Greek poet. Homer.”
She nodded again.
Heathcliff whistled.
“I…” My head pounded. “I need to sit down.”
“You’re already sitting,” my grandmother the former cat pointed out.
“Right.” My nails dug into the velvet. “Of course. Um… my father is Homer. How is that possible?”
“Don’t play the fool, Mina. It doesn’t become you. You know all this already. Your father has been traveling through time – from the ancient world to the modern day via this very bookshop, gathering inspiration for his poems. On one of his journeys, he copulated with a young woman who, nine months later, gave birth to you. I assume you don’t need the actual details of how his seed came to enter her—”
Memoirs of a Garroter (Nevermore Bookshop Mysteries Book 4) Page 10
