by Willow Mason
“Mm.” I turned away from the screen, losing interest. Of course, it was a tragedy when somebody died but accidents happen every day. Sometimes it was a true loss to the community. Other times, it was fodder for the Darwin awards.
“Hey,” Beezley called out. “Don’t go. I need you to do something.”
“More important than cleaning up the health hazard that is your kitchen? I can’t believe you got it into such a state in less than a week.”
“You need to get some samples for me.”
I arched my eyebrows and stared at Beezley, waiting for him to enlighten me.
“You’ll have to go to the morgue—I’ll give you a passcode to sneak in—and get hair, tissue, and blood samples for me. Most importantly, you’ll need to cut some skin from the back of the victim’s hand.”
My head was shaking before I even comprehended what he was saying. “Won’t the police do that? It’s what they’re trained for.”
“They’ve taken the samples already but if you look at the file, they’ve not assigned them to the lab. If they note down the death as misadventure, they’ll just destroy them rather than getting them tested. We need to take our own.”
I couldn’t even glance at a picture of a dead body, but this weirdo thought I’d be happy to break into a storage room full of them? Not to mention putting bits of the corpse into containers to bring them back here, like they were leftovers from a snack.
Nuh-huh.
Just like that, my new adventures in employment came to an abrupt end. I stripped the latex gloves off, collected my purse, and walked out the door.
Chapter Four
Unemployed, but feeling better for it, I went home intent on spending my last week of sheltered accommodation lying on the couch. The entire walk, I felt like someone was staring at me, judging me. Poorly, probably. This brave new world of non-covenness really didn’t suit me.
A phone call put a stop to my plans of nothingness. “It’s Harriet. The coast is clear now, so come on by.”
She hung up before I could protest—showing an astute awareness of my personality I’d never given her credit for. My grumbles were wasted on the empty room, but I still gave voice to them. If you bury that stuff inside, it gives you cancer.
A knock on the door was answered quickly, then Harriet pulled me inside, her eyes widening in horror. “Haven’t you heard of wearing a disguise?” she asked, waving at the bright-pink pantsuit I’d worn, especially for the occasion. “Or even just blending in?”
“You didn’t say I had to operate in secrecy,” I said with an innocent smile, knowing full well I was behaving badly. After the blows this day had bestowed on me already, dealing one out was a sweet release. “Now, what’s the problem?”
Harriet cast a worried glance at the library entrance but presumably weighed up how much attention I’d draw if she kicked me out right now. Like a good witch, she decided to make the best of a bad situation. “It’s not a problem, per se. I just don’t know what I’m doing. How do you tell if the spells are trying to make an escape?”
The boxes housing the occult hexes spun around in the air, like a parade of over-sized dust motes.
I tilted my head to one side, closed my eyes, and smiled. “This is the part of the job I loved. Listening to the spells as they tried to free themselves. If one of them grows too loud, you know to check on it.”
As the spells sang together, they formed a weird harmony. One note was lower than the rest, a mournful ballad backing up the others jaunty tunes. They were gorgeous. Sirens of the library, singing songs to trick you into setting them free.
I opened my eyes again, sighing. No wonder job hunting was such a burden when I’d had a role as glorious as this. A pang of regret tickled the back of my throat and pulled at my stomach. I allowed it for one moment then put a stop to that nonsense. If I wanted to wallow, I’d do it in the tub at home.
“Sorry to sound dense, but what am I listening to, exactly?” Harriet frowned at me, her eyes enlarged through the near-sighted glasses. No wonder Glynda assigned her to this task, she looked like the epitome of every librarian in the world, ever.
“The music. The songs.” As Harriet continued to frown, I caught one of the floating boxes and cupped my hands around it. The sound intensified, picking itself free of the joint melody to soar alone.
I sang along with it, although my cracked voice could hardly do the melody justice.
“Can you really not hear it?” I said, breaking off.
“All I can hear is your voice, which sounds like a cicada with a leg wound.” Harriet’s mouth drew down at the corner and she folded her arms. “Is there a spell I need to cast in order to listen in?”
I shrugged, unsure if she was teasing me or not. After staring at her for long seconds in silence, I decided not, and turned back to the task at hand.
“What about the glow?” If I concentrated on the tunes long enough, I could see a shape around the boxes. The colour differed, depending on the spell and the volume of its song. “That one”—I pointed at a ruby aura floating by—“can you see the red bubble surrounding it?”
“No, I can’t.” Harriet stamped her foot like a petulant child. “If this is a joke, remember you signed on for this appointment. It’s not fair to let me down by teasing.”
“Honestly, I’m not teasing. If I was, I’d be enjoying myself far more than I am.”
In fact, visiting the library made me feel quite miserable. Bereft, even. Swallowing became a harder chore each time I tried.
The mournful box drew closer, the sorrow in its song almost tugging tears from my eyes. I grabbed hold of it, putting it close to my ear. The minor key was so different from the others. Perhaps it was sad to see me, too.
“If you can’t hear or see the spells, then I guess it’s just a matter of checking the seals on the boxes are all holding them tightly inside. You can do that manually—grab the one near your elbow.”
Harriet roughly pulled it from the air, making me wince. No wonder the poor things wanted to escape.
“The seal loosens as they travel around. I think the songs help free it more and the glow becomes visible as it comes close to snapping altogether. As long as you check the seals are all fitted snugly several times a day, you should be right as rain.”
The glum expression on Harriet’s face suggested she’d hoped for something more entertaining. As I closed the door, pressing my forehead to the stained wooden oak one last time, I wished I could swap my job for hers.
As I let myself into the house, I paused and stared along the street. All the way back from the library I’d felt eyes on me. If it had been bright daylight, I would have dismissed it as the eye-watering colour of my pantsuit. Given the dusk gave way to full night during my walk, there had to be another reason.
But if there was someone staring at me from the darkness, they hid better than my eyesight could detect.
I shut the door, locking it for a change—not a necessity in Riverhead, even during the height of the winter tourist season. Of everything I’d managed that day, lunch hadn’t been one of them. My stomach growled, threatening to eat me if I didn’t feed it soon.
The cupboards provided a lovely selection of sauce dried inside the bottles, meal packets requiring only three ingredients—none of which I had—and a packet of instant mashed potato. Since only one of those qualified as food at a stretch, I soon lay back on the sofa with a gigantic bowl of potato for my dinner.
My internet was playing up, possibly related to my inability to remember the last time I’d paid the bill. With a sigh of disappointment, I had to settle for normal television. Without a history of soap-opera watching to guide me towards any particular show, I eventually switched onto the news.
A big mistake.
With a mouthful of mashed potato, I watched Fenella Wainwright’s family members hugging each other and sobbing on the screen. Although it was depressing, I didn’t twig to who they were mourning until her picture flashed up.
My mouth turned so dry, swallowing became impossible. I had to spit the potato into a tissue.
It was the girl from Beezley’s computer. The same one he insisted must have been murdered.
I pumped up the volume, setting aside my dinner to congeal inside the bowl.
“It’s the guilt, more than anything,” Fenella’s dad said. “When you lose someone you love to a silly accident, there’s always the thought you could’ve done something more to prevent it happening.”
“Was your daughter distracted at the time or do you feel it was more a case of insufficient signage?” the interviewer asked, obviously a leading question.
“We never…” The mother burst into sobs before she could get any more words out, while another daughter tipped her head back, using gravity to fight back tears.
A short struggle for control followed, painful to watch. I flicked up the information pane at the bottom of the TV and read the news report was part of an investigative series into traffic accidents throughout the country.
I felt a pinch of anger that they were using this family’s grief to drive up their ratings. Then a larger helping of guilt that I’d done nothing to help them when I could.
Getting samples from her dead body isn’t going to help anyone. The bulldog is barking mad! Literally!
“Fenn was such a good girl we never thought we had any worries on that score,” her mother finally managed. “But these days, with all the technology distracting everyone all the time…” She sighed. “I don’t even blame the driver. If there’d just been a low-speed sign like they have around schools, my Fenny would still be alive.”
“It’s been a long time since I walked, holding onto my daughter’s hand,” her father added. “But I sure wish that’s what I’d been doing that day. I’m the one who suggested a nice day out at the fairgrounds. Now, I’ll carry that guilt with me to my grave.”
I clicked the television off, but it didn’t stop the images from dancing inside my brain. The sad faces, eyes blank with shock.
With a sigh, I pulled my phone out and texted a message to the number Beezley had given me. “I’ll be in to work tomorrow.”
It might send my stomach on a roller-coaster ride but that was better than trying to fall asleep at night with Fenella’s family staring at me, full of grief and guilt.
My dinner ruined, I took the bowl into the kitchen and scraped the contents into the green recycling bin. Down the track, a nice plant could benefit from that. At least something would.
The pile of dishes called to me. Awful things. With all the advances the world had made with technology, where was the team devoted to self-cleaning dishes? I summoned up the last vestiges of my magic, severely depleted from the day’s adventures, and gave them a quick going over.
Not great, but good enough to pack them into a box and take them to an oversized doghouse.
If he hasn’t got another assistant already.
My heart leapt into my throat at that thought, then I shook my head. Fat chance since I’d taken down the only card that had made it onto a display.
I opened the back door, staring out at the rising moon, and breathed in the cooling night air. Winter and tourist season were still a long way away, so the hustle and bustle of nightlife amounted to a few breaking sticks and the hoot of an owl, far away.
More breaking sticks.
I frowned into the darkness, trying to place the origin of the noise. The skin on my back tried to crawl to the top of my head, so I shut the door and locked myself safely inside.
Goosebumps popped out on my arms and even a vigorous rub didn’t settle it back down into smooth flesh. I jerked the curtain to the right-hand side of the door closed, then stepped across to fix the other window.
And screamed as I stared into a face pressed up against the glass.
Chapter Five
“I’m sorry to scare you,” the man shouted as I jumped back and nearly toppled over as my feet skidded on the rug. “I’m just searching for information on a friend of mine.”
I slapped my palm on the window, my fear turning to anger. “And you’re trying to get it by peeping in through my back window?”
“I—” he broke off, shaking his head. “You were at Mr Beezley’s house earlier.”
“Is that a crime? Who are you? Tell me right now or I’m calling the police.”
“My name’s Wilson Banner. I’m a friend of Mr Beezley’s and I’ve been trying to get hold of him for the past week.” He paused for a moment, pressing his nose up against the glass, hands cupped to make it easier to see inside. “Without any luck.”
“Well, he’s not here and neither should you be.”
“Please, can I just ask you a few questions? I won’t be any bother, I promise.”
“You’re already a bother.” I pressed my hand against my chest, feeling my heart starting to slow down from its increased rhythm. With his mousy hair sticking up at all angles and his thick spectacles, the man outside didn’t look like a serial killer.
That’s how they get you. By disguising themselves as normal folk.
“I apologise for giving you a scare,” Wilson continued. “Turns out, I’m not very good at sneaking.”
“You got that right.”
“Can I come inside? Just a few minutes and I’ll be out of your hair.”
Come inside my sanctuary after giving me the shock of my life? Not likely.
“You can ask your questions from there or you can go away.”
“But… Some of them are quite personal.”
I walked away from the door, heading back to the kitchen. Wilson began to shout behind me, but the words were so muffled by the door, I couldn’t make out what he said. Something about accepting my terms, maybe?
With the largest kitchen knife gripped firmly in my hand, I sat down on the sofa in the lounge and turned the television back on. I’d never felt less like watching something, but I also didn’t want to listen to the faint cries of a strange man outside my house.
A knock sounded on the front door. For goodness’ sake. If it was Glynda again, she’d get short shrift from me, landlord or not.
But of course, the peephole revealed the same sad mug who’d previously been around the back. Since my house had a large fence with a locked gate, I guessed Wilson’s even-more-distressed hairstyle was suffering from a tumble over a six-foot-high wall.
“Just a few questions,” he said, his voice coming clearly through the letter slot in the front door.
When I’d first moved in, the old-fashioned iron setting had been quaint enough that I’d remarked upon it. Now, it seemed like a safety hazard I should have taken care of straight away.
I pushed the slot down until Wilson’s fingers disappeared. An easy fix if I didn’t mind standing there for the rest of the night. Pity my plans involved something more attractive, like taking a nap followed by a long sleep.
He hammered on the door again and the next-door neighbour’s outside light flicked on. I opened the door and pulled the startled Wilson inside before slamming it shut again. There was no way I was spending the last few days in this house listening to a tirade from Geoffrey, the self-appointed head of our neighbourhood watch.
“Fine. Ask your questions then get out of there.”
The alarm on Wilson’s face disturbed me until I remembered the knife was still in my hand. I lowered it, waving him towards the lounge and the comforts of the sofa. “Have a seat. I promise not to stab you unless you deserve it.”
“Thanks. I think.”
After he sat down, I joined him in the room, choosing to remain standing. “What are these intimate questions?”
“Personal, I think I said. Not intimate.” Wilson cleared his throat and tugged at his right earlobe as though it was a switch for his brain. “Mr Beezley helped out my family a long time ago when my sister was murdered.”
“Oh, lord. How awful.” I sat in the recliner nearby, resting the knife on the arm. “Did he find the killer?”
“He d
id. It took a long time, but he was very good, informing us at each step of the way what was happening. I know others in my support group weren’t so lucky and had to beg for information. Mr Beezley never acted like we were an afterthought or anything like that. It’s because of him, I wanted to become a policeman.”
“You’re a policeman?” I sat back, stunned. “But when I said I’d phone—”
“I’m not.” Wilson patted his rotund belly. “Never passed the physical and eventually gave up trying, but I wanted to be. He gave me a sense of purpose and justice that’s never left me.”
I nodded but soon my expression creased into a frown. “That wasn’t a question.”
Wilson waved his hands. “Just a bit of backstory to give you some context. I’ve known and trusted the man for ten years now and always made it a point to keep in touch.”
“Still not a question.”
“That’s why when he went missing a week ago, I became very alarmed.”
“He disappeared a week ago?” I pulled a face and checked the clock. If Wilson didn’t get a move on, he’d find himself on the other side of the door without a single question asked.
“You must know that.” He leaned forward, clasping his hands together. “After all, I followed you from his house.”
“Mm.”
“Why were you there? Has he been in touch with you? Do you know what happened to him?”
For a man who took his time getting to the point, once he was there, Wilson wasn’t about to leave anything out.
“I was there in response to a job opportunity. I’ve spoken to him, yes. Nothing’s happened to him, he’s alive and well.”
“Oh, good.” Wilson sat back again, a puzzled expression on his face. “But why did he send me these text messages, then? Just a moment.” He pulled out his phone and scrolled through to a thread, handing the gadget over. “Something must be terribly wrong. It looks like he’s trying to communicate with his hands tied up!”