“I just want to make sure you don’t kick me in the rear on the way in,” he explained.
Such a gentleman.
Inside, the funeral home was tasteful without being ostentatious. Rich cherry wood furniture and Persian rugs with bold, vibrant colors filled the rooms. The interior looked like the home of someone’s well-to-do lawyer friend with a preference for traditional style.
The front door must have triggered a censor or tripped a ward because Thomas immediately emerged from a side room. He smiled when he saw me, but his pleasant expression quickly faded at the sight of the sheriff.
“Good day, Sheriff,” Thomas said. “Nice to see you again, Miss Rose. I don’t suppose you’re here for a tour.”
I swallowed hard. A tour of the funeral home? No thanks.
“We’d like to ask you some questions, if you have a few minutes,” the sheriff said.
“Of course. I have no appointments until late afternoon,” Thomas replied. “Why don’t we sit in the lounge where it’s more comfortable?”
He returned to the side room and the sheriff and I followed suit. The lounge was every bit as tasteful as the other rooms we’d seen, with mahogany furniture and a large gilded mirror on the wall topped with a carved gryphon.
“The rooms in here are all so beautiful,” I said.
“Thank you very much,” Thomas said. “I want my clients to feel comfortable saying goodbye to loved ones. The environment is crucial.”
“I guess that’s why you created a casket for your sand sculpture,” I said. “A clever form of advertising.”
Thomas shook his head. “Not at all. Like I told you at the beach, I wanted to capture the way I appear when asleep. I’m genuinely interested in that as a form of art. ”
At the mention of art, I instinctively glanced at the paintings on the wall. My eyes widened slightly at the image of a fruit basket. “Hang on. Is that one of Trupti’s?”
Thomas tapped the pads of his fingers together, pleased that I noticed. “Yes. Do you know her work?”
“More than I’d like,” I said. Trupti’s fruit paintings came to life recently and I ended up defending myself against an angry banana and his healthy friends. I shuddered at the memory.
The sheriff chuckled. He knew exactly where my mind went. “It’s only a painting today, Rose. Nothing to worry about.”
I wasn’t convinced. I swore the eyes of the fruit followed me as I crossed the room. Of course, that was impossible because the fruit didn’t have any eyes.
That I could see.
“Can I offer you light refreshments?” Thomas asked. “I have a serviceable kitchen here for my guests.”
“Nothing for me, thanks,” I said. I didn’t love the idea of eating or drinking in a funeral home. It made me anxious that I’d end up trapped here forever, like I’d eaten pomegranate seeds in the Underworld.
“I’m good,” Sheriff Nash replied. “Can we talk about Grover Maitland now?”
“Of course. Such a shame about the elf,” Thomas said, bowing his balding head. Too bad he couldn’t have become a vampire when he still had a full head of hair…unless he was a natural born vampire. Either way, it sucked for him.
“Can you tell us where you were on the night in question?” Sheriff Nash asked.
“Still a suspect, eh?” Thomas tapped his chin thoughtfully. “That should be simple enough. I finished my sculpture in the afternoon and then returned here for a funeral. Erasmus Getty.”
The sheriff seemed to know the name. “And you were here for the whole event?”
“Absolutely,” Thomas said. “That’s the job. The family expects me to be at their beck and call, and rightfully so. It’s important to feel like you can depend on the someone in times of need.”
“What time did the funeral end?” I asked.
“Around ten o’clock,” he said. “I remained here until half past eleven. There’s always a lot to do afterward.”
“Were you alone?” the sheriff queried.
Thomas nodded. “Most of the time. My assistant left around eleven.”
“Is that typical?” I asked.
“Sometimes the family requests the reception be held here as well. The Getty family chose another venue, so we were finished on the early side.”
“And where did you go when you left here?” Sheriff Nash asked.
“Home to bed,” Thomas said. “Between sculpting and the funeral, I was exhausted from a long day. I was in my casket until six o’clock the next morning.”
“Were you alone at home?” the sheriff asked.
Thomas’s expression clouded over. “Yes, I was. And, yes, that is typical.”
I felt sorry for Thomas. The questions seemed so much more invasive when the paranormal was clearly innocent.
“No alibi,” the sheriff mumbled.
“He lives alone,” I said. “How’s he supposed to have an alibi overnight?” I looked at Thomas. “No talking pets, like maybe a parrot?”
“I’m not Captain Yellowjacket,” Thomas said sadly. “Although I do enjoy a good ale at the Whitethorn now and again.”
“Too bad you didn’t enjoy one there the night of the murder or we wouldn’t need to have this conversation,” I said.
Sheriff Nash quieted me with a sharp look. “Did you have any interactions with the Maitland boy?”
“I told you at the beach. No, never,” Thomas said. “There were plenty of paranormals around when I was sculpting on the beach, but I don’t think he was one of them.”
“We found vampire blood in his system,” Sheriff Nash said. “Can you think of any reason why that would be?”
Thomas’s jaw tightened. “You found vampire blood in his system? I suppose that explains why you’re here.”
“And because you run a funeral home,” the sheriff said. “And you’re apparently preoccupied with how you look when you’re asleep, which is pretty darn creepy, if I’m being honest.”
“That’s art,” I objected.
“Creepy art,” Sheriff Nash added. “Maybe you were making creepy art with Grover Maitland and something went wrong…”
“Sheriff,” I said hotly.
“I have no interest in boys, Sheriff Nash,” Thomas said. “And the suggestion is deeply disturbing.”
The sheriff seemed to realize the implication of his remark. “I’m sorry, Enders. I didn’t mean it that way.”
Thomas waved his hand in the air. “No matter. Water under a troll’s bridge. As to your question, vampire blood is used for many purposes, only one of which is turning someone.” He peered at the sheriff. “I assume that’s what you were wondering—whether I was attempting to turn the boy?”
The sheriff shrugged. “I’m not wondering anything. I’m looking for motives. It would be helpful to know all the reasons why vampire blood might be found in a seventeen-year-old elf’s system.”
“Our blood has healing properties, as I’m sure you know,” Thomas said. “The healers use it often in their practice.”
“Well, I don’t think anyone was healing Grover Maitland,” the sheriff said. “Otherwise, he’d still be with us.”
Thomas pursed his pale lips. “I’m terribly sorry. I wish I could offer more assistance.”
“You’ve been very helpful, Thomas,” I said.
“I still feel terrible that he was discovered in my sculpture,” Thomas said. “It gives me a certain sense of responsibility.”
“Responsibility?” Sheriff Nash queried.
I jabbed him with my elbow. “It’s not an admission of guilt. I think Thomas has answered all of our questions. We should let him get back to work.”
“I’m happy to contact you if I think of anything else,” Thomas offered.
“Sounds good,” I replied, and attempted to steer the sheriff away from the innocent vampire. I knew werewolves and vampires were natural enemies, but the sheriff really needed to check his prejudice at the door if he intended to be impartial.
“I’ll return to the beach l
ater if you want to come by,” Thomas called. “I do want to make certain my sculpture is holding up now that it’s been redone.”
I was too busy forcing the biased sheriff out the door to answer.
Chapter 6
I stood in the woods behind Rose Cottage with Wren, the Master-of-Incantation, working on our weekly lesson. Unfortunately, local chatter about a certain werewolf sheriff and me was interfering with our progress.
“I can’t help the gossip mill,” Wren said. “Quite frankly, the only way to make it stop is to stop dating him.”
“I don’t think I am dating him,” I protested.
Wren cocked his head. “You’ve been seen out with him on multiple occasions. Under what definition is that not dating?”
“I’ve been seen out with Bentley and my cousin, Florian. Am I dating them, too?”
“You know it doesn’t matter to me one way or another,” Wren said. “I know you’ll never date a wizard.”
I stopped short. “What makes you say that?”
“You’re a rebel at heart, Ember,” he said. “If Hyacinth insists you date within the coven, I have no doubt you’ll be looking to fall in love with a merman or someone equally objectionable.”
A merman was objectionable? I filed that factoid away for future use. “Enough focus on my personal life,” I insisted. “Do something useful and teach me a spell I can use on Hazel.”
Wren leaned against one of the huge live oak trees and eyed me curiously. “Hazel again? Can’t you just humor the poor witch?”
“Come on, Wren,” I said. “You know you’d love it if I managed to pull a fast one on that redheaded diva. I can’t be the only one she annoys.”
Wren suppressed a smile. “Hazel can be…intense about runecraft, I’ll say that much. I remember this one meeting where she suggested a runecraft fair as a coven fundraiser.” He snorted. “How many attendees would that draw? Five?”
“One simple spell,” I begged. “What could go wrong?”
Wren’s shoulders slackened, a clear sign he was about to relent. I was giddy with excitement. Hazel would never expect me to retaliate with magic. She thought I was too lazy and incompetent. Ha! I’d show her.
“So you want a spell that mellows her?” he asked, rubbing his square jaw.
“I want her to not tie me to the chair with invisible duct tape,” I said.
“Understandable. Maybe something in the vein of an opposite spell would do the trick.”
The opposite of Hazel? Now that sounded promising. “I swear I’ll do extra credit incantations if you teach me.”
Wren extended his wand and pointed it at the live oak tree in front of us. “Contrarium.”
Before I could blink, the mighty oak tree was reduced to the size of a flower.
That’s a mighty fine trick, but it could be dangerous in the wrong hands, a scratchy voice said.
I glanced up sharply to see a raccoon on a tree branch above our heads. “Raoul, what are you doing here?”
Wren’s head jerked up. “Who’s Raoul?”
The raccoon dangled from the branch by his claws and studied the Master-of-Incantation. He’s good-looking for a wizard. What’s wrong with him?
“Nothing’s wrong with him,” I snapped. “What makes you think there is?”
You’re not flirting or doing that weird thing with your mouth, the raccoon replied.
“I don’t do anything weird with my mouth,” I insisted.
Wren stared at the two of us, unable to speak.
“Oh, Wren. This is my familiar, Raoul.” I snapped my fingers. “Raoul, come down from the tree. It’s giving me a muscle cramp to tilt my head at this angle.”
You get a muscle cramp when you sneeze, Raoul shot back.
“I get them in my sleep, too,” I replied, remembering the night before when I launched myself out of bed with a spasm in my foot. “What else is new?”
Sounds like you need to increase your potassium intake, Raoul said. More bananas.
“You’re bananas,” I said, and turned to smile at Wren. “You’ve heard me mention Raoul.”
Wren’s brow lifted. “I remember that you met your familiar. I’d heard he was a trash panda, but I didn’t quite believe it.”
“He prefers the term rodent bandit,” I said.
Raoul swung down from the branch and landed on all fours. He most certainly does not. He prefers a show of respect.
“How does your aunt feel about this turn of events?” Wren asked.
It was a fair question. Aunt Hyacinth did not take kindly to anyone disparaging the family name, and a raccoon familiar was definitely fodder for town gossip. I was a Rose, a descendant of the One True Witch. In her mind, my familiar should be as elegant and exquisite as her own, the white furball explosion called Precious.
“She’s warming to the idea,” I lied.
Wren laughed. “I bet.”
“Raoul, you can stay, but you have to be quiet so I can concentrate,” I said.
The raccoon pretended to zip his lip.
“You’ve got him trained to be obedient already?” Wren queried. “Color me impressed.”
Raoul unzipped his lip and bared his teeth at the wizard.
“Knock it off, Raoul,” I scolded him. I turned my attention to Wren. “If you see foam in his mouth, he’s totally faking it. Don’t pander to it.”
Wren shot the raccoon a cautious look. “Good to know.”
Raoul pretended to busy himself with collecting berries from a nearby bush.
“The opposite spell,” I prompted Wren.
“Okay, so decide what the object of your spell is, focus your will, and then aim your wand,” Wren instructed.
Raoul cleared his throat. I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but he’s aiming his wand in your direction right now.
“He’s not holding…” I began.
Not that wand, Raoul said, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. His magic wand.
“Raoul!” I said heatedly.
Made you look, he said, with more glee than any trash panda should be able to muster.
I shook off the interruption and focused on a rock near my feet. I gathered my will, aimed the wand, and said, “Contrarium.”
Wren frowned. “What did you do? It’s the same size.”
“I didn’t change the size,” I said. I pressed the rock with my toe and was pleased to see its solid nature had softened to a jelly-like substance. “The opposite of hard is soft.”
Ha! Raoul said. Try that spell on his magic wand.
“Raoul,” I said. A warning tone.
What? The raccoon wore an innocent expression. I meant his real wand this time, pervert.
Wren touched the rock. “That’s really good work, Ember.”
Show-off, Raoul said. I thought you were supposed to be a newb.
“I am a newb,” I said. In all honesty, I was surprised to have gotten it right on the first try.
“We call that beginner’s luck, Raoul,” Wren said.
“Hey!” I objected.
Raoul chuckled. Ooh, I’m gonna like this guy. How often do you train with him?
“Watch your step, Raoul, or I’ll be turning you into whatever the opposite of a raccoon is,” I warned. What was the opposite of a trash panda? “Hmm. That might work in my favor.” I pointed my wand and Wren gently moved the tip downward.
“No taking aim at your familiar,” Wren said. “There are rules, you know.”
“No, I don’t know,” I said. “I’m still getting used to the fact that I have a familiar.”
“I’ll bring you a copy of the handbook next time we meet,” Wren said. “Ian will be more than happy to discuss it with you.” Ian was the Master-in-Familiar Arts.
“Another book?” I lamented. “It’s not as ridiculously large as the Big Book of Scribbles, is it?”
Raoul clapped his paws together. There’s a handbook about how you need to be nice to me? It’s like Christmas and my birthday at the same time.
“I bet you don’t even know when your birthday is,” I said.
Raoul clutched his chest. Oomph. That was a shot to the heart, Rose. We need that handbook, stat, so I can hit you with it.
I decided to ignore my distracting familiar. “So I guess you can’t use a spell like this on a dead elf,” I said, thinking about Grover.
Wren gave a sad shake of his head. “Afraid not. Necromancy is banned here and the spell isn’t remotely powerful enough anyway.”
“Necromancy is a real thing?” I asked. I wasn’t sure why I was surprised. Nothing should surprise me in Starry Hollow.
“It’s a very ancient and dangerous practice,” Wren said. “And one to stay far away from. Nothing good ever comes from it.”
“So it’s like dark magic?”
“I don’t believe in categorizing magic in that way, but it’s not the type of magic our coven wants to be associated with,” Wren replied.
“You don’t believe in dark magic?” I queried.
“Magic is only a tool,” Wren said. “It’s the user that determines whether the magic is light or dark.”
“You’re not a member of the NRA by any chance, are you?” I asked.
His brow creased. “What’s that?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
“How about another try with the opposite spell?” Wren suggested. “Let’s make sure you’ve got it down before using it on Hazel. I wouldn’t want it to backfire and get traced back to me.” He gave a nervous chuckle.
“Not to worry, Wren,” I said, aiming my wand at a toadstool. “As usual, I’ve got everything under control.”
An hour after my lesson, I found myself sitting in a car with Sheriff Nash in the high school parking lot, waiting for the final bell to ring. If anyone saw us lurking here, it would be more fodder for gossip. It didn’t matter, though. In my mind, the investigation took priority over idle chatter. Since Thomas was an undead end, we decided to speak to Grover’s best friend and see whether he knew about the unusual substances in the elf’s system.
“I’ve been mulling over the vampire blood,” I said. “Even if Thomas didn’t try to turn him, do you think there’s a chance Grover wanted to be turned?” When I first arrived in Starry Hollow, I'd investigated the death of the coven’s Maiden, a young witch called Fleur. She died while trying to transition into a vampire, like her boyfriend. It was a difficult and dangerous process.
Magic & Mayhem Page 5