by Noel Cash
The younger witch raised her hand.
“Bethany,” Delanna acknowledged.
The witch licked her lips. “I listened to the sound beneath the drums and followed the resonance to a beautiful forest. My root chakra pulsed as I watched beautiful beings descend from the heavens. They sprinkled stardust on the world and smiled the most amazing, loving smiles on all of the Gods’ creatures.”
Oh, brother. Really?
The older witch raised her hand and touched her dead panther earrings before speaking. “I have visited Atlantis, lived among the Incas and Mayans, and stood at the foot of the Pyramids as slave labor stretched them toward the heavens. The music sings with the wind and gifted me to a place of peace and harmony. I do not fear, and I am never alone.”
Uh-huh.
The old elf, the one that matched my mother’s dreams, stood. The others held their breaths in anticipation. Instead of relating stories of peace and love, pulsating light and revolving chakras, he grabbed his shoes, walked to the staircase and descended.
“Anyone else?” Delanna said with a penetrating glance in my direction.
I shook my head. “Sorry. I’ve got nothing.”
No one else felt like sharing, and we broke up, gravitating toward the food table, where a few morsels remained that the goblin hadn’t scarped or tucked away for later.
The older witch cornered me. “Beryl Tussett,” she said, holding out a hand. Multiple bracelets snaked up each arm.
I gave her my hand. “Rory Harper.”
She shook it, her grip firm. “Rory. The Red King in Gaelic.”
I pulled back, ready to flee the room. A cold sweat broke out. “Only one person has ever called me that.”
She nodded. “Scarlett Winters. She told me about you. Poor dear. I foresaw her downfall, you know.”
“Oh?” Scarlett stalked me between running a spice shop and kidnapping an innocent child. I’d sent her to jail. For the kidnapping. Unfortunately, the myth do not have laws for over-zealous, horny elves.
“Yes. At one of these gatherings, in fact. I had a vision of money burning in blood-soaked snow.”
“That would be Scarlett. Tell me more of your journey today.” I hoped to build her trust so she could spill secrets on the other participants. Plus, I didn’t want to hear more about the woman who’d tried to kill me. That we both knew her gave me the heebie-jeebies.
Beryl spent five minutes talking of penetrating light, following an eagle on wind currents, and the absence of suicidal thoughts once the eagle carried her to the edge of a volcano. Once she emerged from the lava, she transformed into a condor and flew into her present form.
“Fascinating,” I lied when she’d finished.
“I am living my fourteenth life,” she said as she wiped her fingers on a paper napkin.
I shook my head and lied again. “Remarkable. Are there others like that? The old elf who left in a hurry?”
She snorted. “Eddie Renart? He comes here because he has a thing for Delanna. Old enough to be her father, if you ask me. Maybe her grandfather.”
“I heard he missed Monday’s session.”
“Half the time he doesn’t make it upstairs.” She touched her heart. “Bad lungs, you know. Too many years smoking have rotted his lungs.”
“Smoking?” Kix had mentioned the smell of tobacco, her only memory of the attempt on her life.
“Rolls his own cigarettes, the old fool. That’s why he left, you know. To sneak a couple. He always comes back smelling like an ashtray.”
“Comes back? I thought he left for good.”
“Not until Delanna locks up.”
My nose alerted me before I heard the shuffle of footsteps on the stairs.
The elf with the pink bowtie reentered the room. He scanned it, then his dark eyes settled on me. With a crooked finger, he beckoned me to join him.
Chapter Fourteen
I shuffled over to Eddie Renart, wary he’d pull a gun or stick me with a shiv. My imagination ran overtime. Was he Becky Turner’s killer? Had he hit Kix on the head and did he now hunt for his star witness?
Or was he a harmless old man who had a thing for the gypsy Delanna?
“Harper, inni’?” he asked, his accent rooted in my hometown. “Scouser be ye? Nawtin’ goin’ on?” He jerked his head to the cushion I’d sat on.
“The visions? No. Nothing.” I’d worked hard to lose the accent and didn’t want to pick it up again.
“Fancy a bevvy?” He peeled back his vest to show a bottle of whisky tucked in an inside pocket.
I shook my head. “Not tonight. Beryl tells me you roll your own cigarettes.” I might as well jump in with both feet and become his best friend. I’d intended to get answers, not find enlightenment.
“Bifters? Aye, care for one? Beryl’s want to bum one now and ‘gin.” He searched another pocket and pulled out rolling paper and a small, silver pouch.
“May I look?” I took the tobacco pouch, opened it and smelled. Subtle yet full-bodied. “English?”
“Balkan,” he said. “Bat be me own blan’.”
“Your own blend? I used to smoke, ten years ago or so.” I handed the pouch back to him.
“‘ard to quit.” He stroked the foil then tucked it away. “Trying to cut down.”
“It’s easy as pie to quit,” I lied and switched the subject. “What was that about someone dying and someone injured? When did that happen?”
“Bother day.” He jerked his head as if I could follow its direction back in time.
“Did you see anything? Do the police have the person who did it?”
“‘Weren’t here now, was I? Blame the snow. Too har’ to go drough.”
“Who do you think did it?” His accent took me back home to the indolent old men, too worn-out to contribute any more. They’d gather in groups of two and three, play cards, smoke and drink.
Eddie shrugged. “Bums. Dopers. Latta chose frem.”
“I’ll walk the women to their cars when we leave.” Someone of his slight build couldn’t ward off an attacker. Not unless he had magic. I wouldn’t do much good, either, but maybe my presence would deter a lurker waiting for a new victim.
Or maybe I stood next to the killer himself.
Before I could pump him for more information, Delanna drifted toward us.
“Rory, how did you like our session tonight?” She patted Eddie on the shoulder. He ducked his head like an obedient dog, then the younger elf appeared and drew him away.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I fell asleep.”
“That’s natural. It means there are no obstacles to your pursuit of the real you. Next time, your guide will appear.” She sipped her drink, her eyes wide and glassy. Had she slipped something more potent than soda into her cup?
“I’ll look forward to it,” I lied. I looked over her head at the other participants. Had they bought into her hokey, new-age, woo-woo scheme? I knew the cost of one session, did they continue to shell it out twice a week for months and years? What a scam.
“How long have you conducted these?” The scent of Eddie’s tobacco entered my psyche. I craved a cigarette more than anything. I couldn’t think of any line of investigation while it gnawed at me.
“A few years. Eddie was my first customer. He brought Beryl. The others found me through the bakery like you did.”
I’d sought her out but hadn’t found the answers I needed.
“I think I’ll mingle for a while.” I walked away.
From a prime suspect. What was wrong with me?
The others might have answers.
I asked them questions, the new-guy-in-the-class type. Where are you from? Isn’t the murder shocking? Do you think he could have picked you instead? Why did he choose Becky Turner?
At the end of the evening, I had no more answers, an uncomfortable itch between my shoulder blades, and a raging headache.
Something was wrong with this setup, but I couldn’t put my nose on it.
Chapter Fifteen
&nb
sp; I arrived at my mother’s house at eight sharp the next morning. Dreams peppered my sleep. Bad dreams. I stood before the Gods to plead my innocence of murder. An elf who could barely walk, his hair in white tufts, including his ears, whispered excuses I should use. Along a wall, a younger version of me played on an upright piano, tunes from the thirties and forties.
I woke as if I had a hangover, my eyes bloodshot, my mouth cotton dry, my head pounding. I swallowed aspirin and strong coffee then rode to my mother’s with the car window down, hoping the bracing February air would clear my thoughts.
Millie greeted me with a pile of French toast, the perfect carb reload. I drowned them in Irish butter and Canadian maple syrup.
“When was the last time you had a good meal?” she asked as she whisked away the syrup and substituted in its place with a cup of hot coffee.
I pretended to think hard. “When did I eat here last?”
She sat across from me, her arms folded on the table. “Sunday dinner.”
I struck the air with my fork. “That’s when.”
“Oh, Rory, you need to keep up your strength.”
“I’m living off willpower and doughnuts.” I indicated the box I’d bought the night before. I’d planned on eating them after I’d moved her furniture around.
“I’ll make you something to take home.” She moved as if to rise, but I stopped her with a hand on her arm.
“No, Ma, I don’t need you cooking. You have enough to do, taking care of Da.”
She looked weary, and guilt punched through my gut. Since David had started to deteriorate almost a year ago, I’d tried to spend more time with them. His fall had driven home that they’d grown old without my noticing. I wasn’t ready to face their mortality.
Who will be your children’s grandparents when they’re gone?
I shoved aside my plate and stood.
“Let me clean up,” I said as I wrenched on hot water. “It’s the least I can do for your cooking.”
I didn’t want to think about death, my bachelor status, and the bonding of unborn children. “Sit back. I’ll do the work.”
I stretched the time to give her a chance to rest. When I’d dried the last piece, I hung the towel on the oven handle.
“Have you decided which room we can use?” I needed activity.
Millie stood, holding onto the table. “The dining room, I think. We eat in here most of the time or in front of the television.”
“We can move the stuff into the living and guest rooms until Da is well enough that we can change everything back.”
Because of their proximity to the Fox River, the high water table prevented the original builder from digging a basement for storage. Instead, the house had a crawl space, a three-foot-tall cavity with a dirt floor. I’d peeked through the trap-door once and vowed not to repeat the task. It looked like a breeding ground for monster spiders.
“Whatever you say, Rory.” Ma fluttered around me.
“Why don’t you wrap the breakables you want to keep? I’ve brought boxes and newspapers.” I collected knickknacks from the sideboard and set them on the kitchen table so she could sit and wrap. While she did that, I started to disassemble the dining room table.
“Have you heard from Kix?” Ma asked.
On my hands and knees, looking for the latch that allowed the top to split for the addition of the leaves, I shouted, “What about Kix?”
“How is she?”
“Fine. Fine. Resting. Eager to get back to work.” I didn’t mention why she hadn’t visited Da. She risked everything by appearing in public.
“Such a nice girl. Did you hear about the young witch who was killed?” The rustle of newspapers accompanied Ma’s question.
I found the latch and pulled. The tension between the table halves eased. I clambered to my feet and gave the table a hard shake. The gap between the halves widened.
“Rory? It was on all the news channels. Poor girl, to end up in the lake like that. And in winter, too.”
“I need a screwdriver to take this apart,” I said as a way to not talk about the murder. It caused Ma worry, and I’d done nothing to solve the case.
When I came back from Da’s garage, Ma tackled me again.
“Do you think he’ll kill again?” Her eyes widened.
“Ma, don’t worry, okay? M.I.C.U. will catch him.” Did I tell her I hunted for him? No, I did not. Her imagination would create an epic battlefield with me in the center, horribly mangled and dead, X’s across my eyes.
“The newscasters said it was a crime of passion.”
“Most murders are. Don’t worry about it.” I walked past her into the dining room and crouched to unscrew the top from the legs.
“He’ll strike again,” she shouted at me. “I really think I should get a gun.”
I bumped my head on the underside of the table. “What?”
I strode into the kitchen and shook the screwdriver at her. “Don’t you dare get a gun. You’ll end up shooting someone. If you’re scared of being here alone, I’ve got an extra room.” I glared at her. “Ma?”
Her chin lifted and familiar steel entered her voice. “I can get a gun if I want. Kix has one.”
“Yes, but Kix—”
I bit my tongue. Kix doesn’t carry a gun because someone stole it.
“Kix has training. She’s handled a gun all her life. How do know she carries one?” I glared back at her.
Millie batted her brown eyes at me. “We talk.”
I think my knees gave out. “What? Since when?” My mother and Kix talking? Discussing me?
“Oh, you know. Girl talk.” She waved me away. “You can’t get any work done if you continue to stand here.”
“Right.” I pivoted and returned to the other room.
My mind spun. My mother. Kix. Best friends. How did that happen? Why?
I unscrewed the two top halves then had to screw them back together because I couldn’t flip the table over to take off the legs. By the time I had the table broken into six pieces, my temper had hit an all-time high. I had other things to do, namely catching a killer, than wrestle with furniture Ma didn’t need.
I pushed the sideboard into the living room and made countless trips up the stairs to store everything else. By the time I’d finished, I was hot, thirsty, angry, and didn’t want to talk to anyone.
Which is why I ignored my phone when it rang.
Kix. No, why would she call? I’d pressured her the day before, why did I expect her to work with me when she rebuffed me at every chance?
Could it be a client wanting a refund because he’d taken back the wife I’d photographed cheating on him?
Or did Frank call, curious to know if I’d found Evelyn’s murderer yet?
“Aren’t you going to get that?” Ma asked, walking toward me with a glass of milk and a plate of doughnuts. “It might be important.”
Curse the woman. How could she know enough to feed me and chastise me at the same time?
I grabbed a doughnut with one hand and stuffed it into my mouth while I fished my phone out of a pocket.
“Harper,” I said around chocolate gooeyness. I swear, my blood pressure dropped forty points from the taste.
“Brady here.” Max’s voice boomed.
I glanced at my mother, wondering if I should take the call in private. The warm smile and cold milk asked why should I?
“Sir.” I swallowed.
“We have another development in the case.”
My heart dropped. Please don’t say it involves Kix.
The words stuck in my throat. “What’s happened, sir?”
“West Haven police received a shots heard call made at 2:12 a.m. Officers responded and found an elf woman shot multiple times. They transported her to West Haven General, but she succumbed to her injuries and died at 3:53.”
I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the wall. “How is it connected to the case?”
He paused as if to prepare me. “The bullets recovered
at the scene and from the victim are from a 9mm handgun, the same caliber as what Kix Burrowes carried.”
I forced myself to breathe. “You sound certain it’s the same.”
“As much as we can, considering the victim.”
Please don’t say Kix. My blood stilled in my veins.
“Who is . . . was she?”
“A second woman by the name of Becky Turner.”
Chapter Sixteen
My heartbeat roared in my ears, and I couldn’t hear what he said. “What?”
I glanced at Ma, her eyebrows upraised. I did not want her to hear my end of the conversation.
“What did you say?” I asked as I pushed past her and into the main part of the house.
“A second Becky Turner was killed early this morning,” Brady repeated.
I opened the door to the front porch and stepped into its sub-Arctic temperatures. “Is there a Becky Turner killing spree I’m not aware of?”
“It’s not an uncommon name,” Brady said in a huff.
I should have known better than make a lame joke with him. “No, that’s not the point. Is there a connection? Who was the real target?”
“We’re looking into both. Our investigation doubled overnight.”
I stared the chest-type freezer, its bottom rusted, and one side dented. “How is Kix? Has anyone told her?”
Brady paused. “I’ve just left her.”
So he knows where she’s living, but she can’t call me?
I lowered into a lawn chair, my stomach in knots. My lungs ached from sucking in the February air. “How is she?”
“Devastated. Angry. Guilty.”
“There’s nothing she could have done to prevent it.” Hadn’t everyone told me the same about Penny’s death? The responsibility still weighed on me.
“She knows, but it’s not an easy thing to swallow.”
Tell me about it.
Was she in more danger than before? Yes. The possibility of her witnessing the first murder implicated the killer further in the second murder. Maybe she should reconsider going to a safe house.
“I hoped to use her input with my investigation.” How could I intrude on her grief by asking?