by Willow Mason
Now that was a sacrifice.
Despite me indicating my disdain, Beezley gave a nod of approval. “Excellent. I’ve left the email cued up on the computer for you.”
“I’ll read it if you’ll help me work out what my next steps are regarding tracking down a zombie creator.”
Beezley fixed me with a stare. “Not really my department.”
“It is now. We’re a team, remember?”
“But the only thing I know about witchcraft is it stuck me in this form.” Beezley sat back on his haunches, giving a disgusted look at his rotund body. “I’m sure that won’t help.”
“You’re not expected to know the inner workings of the magic involved. I’m just after tips on how a policeman would track down a criminal when they don’t have any physical evidence. Should I interview the family or dig up the body and ask it what happened?”
“Yes, and yes. I’d say your instincts are right on track. How are zombies created? That might be another avenue.”
“Through magic and suggestion.” My answer was vague as I realised I didn’t know much about it. A witch could use a reanimation spell for many things but a complete human being? That was intense.
My first attempt at necromancy hadn’t gone well. The familiar I resurrected didn’t have the right bits in the correct places. My second attempt raised the spirits without the fleshy baggage. A lot tidier but the power it took me to perform gave context to the feat I’d just witnessed.
As I leaned against the counter, I admitted, “A visit to the occult library wouldn’t go astray.”
It had been a few months since I worked there, but the pull of the familiar stacks and aisles called to me. And on official coven business, Harriet couldn’t throw me out just because I annoyed her.
“Get through this interview first. If we can book this job, it might end up being thirty or forty billable hours. That’ll keep us afloat for a while longer.”
Having reached an agreement, I sat at the computer desk to read through the email. The mouse was covered in doggy spit, but I cleaned it off using the wet wipes kept nearby for that exact purpose.
“I require the services of a discreet agency to investigate something of the utmost importance,” I read out from the screen. “Not exactly enlightening, is it?”
“But not being known in the field is a plus.” Beezley scampered over and jumped onto the padded stool beside me. “She must’ve thought we were unknown because we keep our mouths shut.”
“We do,” I said, examining the origins of the email to learn something more. “Just because we don’t have a lot to keep them shut about shouldn’t take away our achievement.”
“Print off a couple of rate cards we can leave for her,” Beezley instructed. “Put one at standard rates and bump the other one up by twenty dollars an hour.”
“Is that a flea on your back or a capitalist bug biting?” I printed out the schedules, folding them up and dog-earing the corner of the higher quote. “Next you’ll be wanting me to drive by potential clients houses to assess the value before we decide on a fair fee.”
“She sounds like someone who’ll be more comfortable paying a higher price,” Beezley said with a snuffle. “Not everybody is happy to go with the cheapest service available.”
“I hope it’s something juicy. Murder. Revenge. Blackmail.”
My mother hadn’t taught me to be careful what you wish for.
Chapter Four
Because I’d been afraid of oversleeping the next morning, I woke with hours to spare until the interview. Lucky, because when I went to pour cereal into my breakfast bowl, I belatedly remembered we were out.
Ten minutes after the supermarket door cracked open, I rushed inside, ignoring the siren call of the fresh baked goods aisle to head for the more sedate shelves of breakfast foods.
Keeping tabs on home supplies wasn’t in my natural skill set but I’d tried to become better since landing the job with Beezley. With just me to look after, I could eat scraps from the cupboard or splash out on a pizza. With a lactose-intolerant dog in the household, I’d just get a double helping of sad-eyed stares all night if I didn’t keep the fridge shelves topped up.
Speaking of which, a nice cut of meat might put my companion in a better mood than he’d been last night. That and a fresh apple, a treat he loved for no reason I could fathom.
“I knew it!” a voice called out from the lolly aisle as I forced myself to walk straight by without succumbing to temptation. The triumphant cry was another siren call, but I stared at the line-up in the fruit section, attempting to convince myself they were nature’s candy.
“Do you know how many fillings on average a child has when they come to see me, Mrs Majors? One. A lot don’t even have that because their parents teach them how to look after their teeth. Do you know how many Bailey had?”
The reply was a low mumble.
I gave up the search for nutritionally dense foods and edged back towards the shelves stacked high with sweets. Mr Adderson, the town dentist, held a bag in front of a woman’s nose—presumably the aforementioned Mrs Majors.
“Seven!” the dentist yelled. “Seven. One for every year since she first grew teeth. And how do you think she got those cavities?”
Mrs Majors cast a guilty look at her shopping trolley, piled high with an assortment of marshmallows, jet planes, gummy bears, and chocolate biscuits. “Not brushing?”
“She gets them because her mother stuffs her full of junk food from morning till night.” Mr Adderson tossed the bag into the open trolley, then changed his mind and pulled it out again, replacing it on the shelf. “In all my years of practice, I’ve never seen a child with such bad teeth.”
I rolled my eyes at that one. When I attended school, there were many children who quaked in terror when their visit to the ‘murder room’ was announced over the loudspeaker. The dental nurse at Riverhead primary might have been lovely but no amount of cottonball bees or napkin and dental floss butterflies could erase the pain of a filling.
Still, these days more was expected of a parent. Back in my day, I’d got myself to sports games and after-school training, whereas I’m sure Bailey got a chauffeur every time.
“Hey, mister.” A spotty teenager in one of the supermarket’s branded aprons approached the scene. His cracking voice and wavering hand spoke volumes about how much he’d rather be doing anything else. “Don’t yell at the customers.”
“I’ll yell at whoever I please,” Mr Adderson yelled. “And you should be ashamed of yourself for selling parents this junk!”
Although the floorshow was highly entertaining, I did have an appointment planned for later in the day. I couldn’t have the one staff member distracted when I needed him to work the checkout.
“Excuse me,” I said, inserting myself into the middle of the players. “But I don’t think you have purchasing authority over anyone in this town.” When Mr Adderson glared at me, I gave back as good as I got. “You should be grateful if the kids coming to you need dental work. It’s expanding your client base, after all.”
A tear ran down Mrs Majors cheek as she reached for the bag of lollies he’d put back on the shelf. She tossed it into the trolley and heaved a sigh.
“Did you see that?” Mr Adderson’s face turned bright red, a vein bulging at his temple. “I had her daughter crying with pain in my dentist chair, but she’s just ignoring me. This is child abuse.”
Admittedly, having a filling hurt but abuse took it a step too far.
“Back off,” I shouted, waggling my finger in his face. A tiny spark of crimson igniting and I whipped my hand behind my back. The last thing I needed was to tear the town’s only supermarket to shreds. I shoved my magic deep down so it wouldn’t accidentally emerge.
“You have everything you need?” I asked the sobbing woman. She nodded, and I turned to the clerk. “Take her through the checkout before Mr Adderson gets apoplexy, will you?”
The boy hurried away, seeming relieved at the chance
to escape. When the dentist turned to follow, I caught hold of his arm. “I wouldn’t do that, mate. Just let it go.”
“I can’t let it go.” The dentist spun on his heel and directed all his anger towards me. “If you saw the pain on these children’s faces when they turn up, mouth full of holes, you wouldn’t treat this so lightly.”
“Did you tell Bailey not to eat junk food?”
“Don’t do that,” he snapped. “She’s a child. If someone sticks a bag of sweeties in her lap and says it’s her dinner, what else is she meant to do?”
I took a step back, the ground feeling slippery underfoot. “Is that what Bailey said happens?” Put that way, Mrs Majors wouldn’t be in the running for parent of the year.
But Mr Adderson folded his arms. “No. She wouldn’t talk to me at all. But I know abused teeth when I see them, and it didn’t take long to guess. Seeing her trolley today just confirms my suspicions.”
“Why don’t you arrange a talk at the school instead of haranguing women when they’re out shopping?”
“It’s not the kids who need to learn.”
“Then arrange a parent’s night at the community centre.” The teenager on checkout seemed dangerously close to shutting his line to go back to shelf-stacking. I needed to go. “Do whatever will inform people to make better choices.”
I ran for the checkout queue and got to the head just as the operator put out a closed sign. With only three items, I could have gone through the self-checkout but I didn’t need a computer telling me about illegal items in the bagging area while I was trying to calculate how much change was in my purse.
“Thank you,” Mrs Majors called out to me as I emerged into the strengthening sunlight. “That man was being awful.”
It seemed the dentist had transferred his judgement onto me. “He was trying to look out for your daughter’s health. It mightn’t be a bad idea to take some pointers.”
Well, listen to me. Heading straight into pedantry.
“I don’t mean to put those things into the trolley. It’s like I can’t help myself.” The woman hung her head forward in shame.
“Throw them out.” I put an arm on her shoulder. “Just tip them into the rubbish bin, right now.”
“She’d won’t let me.”
The expression of fear on Mrs Majors face startled me. I stepped backwards and nearly tripped over the steps to the store. “You mean, Bailey?”
“Oh, goodness.” The woman’s expression changed in a split second, beaming a motherly smile. “Look at me holding you up. I don’t know where my head’s at. I must be getting back home, otherwise, there’ll be nothing prepared for breakfast.”
She jiggled her fingers in a coquettish wave and headed for the car where Bailey stared with a grumpy expression from the back seat. There was something in her hand, a strange doll or toy, but when I squinted to get a closer look, the girl hid it behind her back, poking out her tongue.
“Smooth,” I whispered, hurrying back to the car. “You’re so smooth. You should become a PI.”
Chapter Five
After the morning’s ruckus, going to the interview seemed less of an ordeal. Agnes Templeton was a trim woman in her late forties with salt and pepper hair pulled back into a tight bun. She wore horn-rimmed glasses behind which her eyes swam: big, blue, and beautiful.
After opening the door, she perused my outfit for a good ten seconds before tightening her mouth into a thin line and letting me in. “Not the dog,” she said, half-closing the door again. “Can’t you leave it in the car?”
Not in thirty-degree temperatures, I couldn’t. “Is it okay if I leave him in your front yard?”
She shook her head, and I saw our paycheque diminishing with each passing second. With an apologetic glance at Beezley, I hauled him back down the front path and tied his leash around the door handle. At least it meant he wouldn’t overheat inside.
“I’m allergic,” Agnes said with a slight smile as I returned. “I put up with a pet for ten years while my husband was alive but now I don’t need to consider his feelings…” She trailed off into a shrug.
“Are you divorced?”
“Widowed.” Agnes showed me into a drawing room with heavy curtains barely opened enough to let in light. She picked up a silver-framed photograph from the mantelpiece and brought it over. “This is me and Desmond on our wedding day.”
I oohed and aahed over the elaborate and severely dated outfits, but my mind kept ticking over what must have happened to her husband’s pet. If she’d split up, I could imagine the dog safely departing with his preferred owner. With the man dying, Agnes might have been a little more mercenary.
Beezley should thank his lucky stars I’d left him on the footpath.
“You have a lovely home,” I said just to break up the silence and perched on the edge of the plastic-covered couch. “What is it I can help you with?”
Agnes sat primly on a stool—the choice of the least comfortable chair making my eyes ache. Why couldn’t she slob out on the sofa or lean back in the recliner like a normal human being?
“Is there something you want me to investigate on your behalf?” I asked again when she didn’t seem in any danger of answering this century. “Perhaps a neighbour’s getting too close?”
She waved her hand, an impatient expression on her face. “Nothing like that. I have to know you can be trusted.”
Apart from suppressing an eye roll, I wasn’t sure what I could do to demonstrate that.
“It’s difficult in this business,” I said, picking my words carefully. “After all, I can’t ask past customers to give glowing recommendations on a website or hand out business cards with a review. I take my client’s privacy very seriously.”
“Hm.” Agnes gripped the sides of her stool and stared at the floor. “Whatever I tell you today can’t be repeated to another living soul.”
Apart from Beezley I mentally amended the sentence before agreeing with a vigorous nod.
“I’m being blackmailed.”
Ooh. Jackpot!
“That’s terrible,” I said, slathering empathy over the top of my inward joy. “Do you know the blackmailer?”
“No. I also don’t know what horrible thing he wants me to pay to keep quiet.”
Suddenly, I wished Beezley was in the room alongside me. I had no idea how I was meant to respond. Closing my eyes for a second, I decided silence was the best choice.
Along with the rate card. I slid the dog-eared page out of my pocket and handed it across, dropping it onto the floor by accident. Awkward.
Before I could retrieve it, Agnes bent to pick it up. She glanced down the list of prices, one eyebrow arched. “This is more than the other PIs I’ve spoken with today.”
“You get what you pay for.”
She inclined her head a fraction then stood up. “Thanks for coming along today. I’ll let you know this afternoon if your services are required.”
“If you want to wait that long.” I almost bit my tongue as the words slid out. Just be quiet. Act professional. Do what Beezley would do.
Agnes stared at me, still with the one eyebrow raised. In curiosity? In confusion? In polite bewilderment at why I was still standing there?
“You won’t find a better investigator,” I said with a bold assurance I didn’t feel. “So I can start right now and be halfway towards cracking the case this afternoon when you make your calls to the other PIs to explain they didn’t get the job or you can be exactly where you are now. Nowhere.”
She tilted her head to one side, remaining silent. Oh, well. In for a penny…
“I’ll take a thousand-dollar retainer to start, half in cash and half by cheque or direct deposit. Once I have a better idea of what we’re dealing with, I’ll invoice you for the remaining fees on a daily basis.”
“I need to think about it.”
“And I need to get back to my dog.” I held out a hand to shake, startling her into returning the gesture. “It was lovely to meet you, Agnes T
empleton, even though it’s obviously at a very trying time.”
She let me get to the door before calling out, “Please wait a moment. I don’t have that amount of cash in the house right now but will two hundred do?”
It would do me very nicely. I turned back with a large smile. “That could work. Now, how about you tell me the details of your problem?”
I walked back out of the house an hour later, shaking a handful of cash in triumph at Beezley. “Looks like I aced the interview,” I told him while untying the lead so he could jump into the passenger seat. “But we might have our work cut out for us.”
“What’s the case?”
“She’s being blackmailed by a stranger. Or rather, her deceased husband’s memory is.”
Agnes had told me all about her husband’s illustrious career in politics. Although he’d never been one to strut the national stage, he’d spent a long time as mayor of Riverhead and wielded a great deal of influence at a local level.
“If someone besmirches his name now, my husband’s entire legacy will be ruined,” Agnes had wailed while wringing her hands.
“What did he do?” Beezley asked. “It must be something horrendous to still hold weight after the man’s dead.”
“She doesn’t know,” I said, savouring the words as they rolled off my tongue. “That’s what she wants us to investigate. Along with finding the man holding her to ransom. The poor woman’s half out of her mind, wondering what horrors Desmond got up to without her knowing.”
“Nice.” Beezley put his paws up on the dashboard, straining to see out the windshield. “Do you have the correspondence?”
“I have a photocopy. She’s paranoid—probably with good reason—and wouldn’t let the original out of her sight.”
The minute we walked inside our home, I spread the photocopy out on the coffee table. “This entire case is such an enigma,” I complained to Beezley as I read the short statement. “We have a woman who doesn’t know what she’s being blackmailed about and a blackmailer who’s holding back almost everything.”