by Noel Cash
How in hell did he get my email address?
Nursing a five-day-old headache, Kix had finished her research on tobacco and had delved into the mystery of the two Beckys. She looked for the nexus in their lives. How and where did they intersect? How had the killer mistaken one for the other?
Confident Kix would find the answer, I shut my computer and drove to my second woo-woo session at the Mythic Path.
How much weirder could it be then the first?
Quite a bit. I arrived early at Harbor Bakery, waved at Delanna behind counters full of tortes, tarts, and treats, and jogged upstairs to the meeting room.
A tsunami of incense fragrance hit me the moment I opened the door. Australian sandalwood, harvested in the wild. I held my hand to my nose as I tried to mentally block it.
“Sorry, is it too strong?”
Beryl Tussett regarded me. She wore a multi-colored dress that ended at her knees. It appeared to be made out of chewed gum stuck to a black background. On closer inspection, someone had glued hundreds of gum balls to it.
“Isn’t that heavy?” I couldn’t imagine why someone would decorate or buy anything so bizarre. “What happens if it gets wet?”
She raised a hand, and dozens of gum balls clicked against each other.
“I never thought about that.” She lowered her hand with a flourish, and the gum disappeared, replaced by a vivid print of the same design.
“Oh, that’s so much better. I can’t imagine what I was thinking.”
I knew she was kooky, but I’d never heard of edible clothing. Or chewable clothing.
“How much magic do you have?” I asked the standard question two myth use when they first meet each other. Not, where are you from, or what school did you attend? We test our magic on the Clotet scale, which ranged from zero, no magic, to one hundred, which only a few reached. I rated a six point eight, enough to conjure a ball of light or turn on small appliances handsfree. Of course, with smart plugs, I didn’t need magic to lower the thermostat or check who rang the front doorbell.
“In the mid twenties the last time I tested.” She waved her hand again and the woven gum balls changed into bananas.
“My magic is strongest when it comes to my clothing. I think I had an ancestor in the theater.”
The nut doesn’t fall far from the tree.
She impressed on me the importance of moving silver coins to the window to draw prosperity during the upcoming new moon. I nodded and listened and wondered at the odd tasks I did to chase down clues.
If they counted as clues. The Becky Killer might not be a member of the path to enlightenment.
No, I didn’t believe that theory. Something connected Becky One’s killer to this band of misfits, and I had to find it.
As the rest of the group trickled in, I made a point to speak to each one. The younger male elf had dreamed of living on another planet and wondered if that meant aliens would soon visit Earth. The goblin female seemed intent on the refreshment table. Bethany, the other witch, could not stop talking about the Becky murders.
“Do you think they’re connected?” I asked the dumb question.
She rolled her eyes. “Of course they are. The killer is fixated on Beckys.”
“Or maybe people with the last name of Turner.” Beryl joined us. “Just think, a week ago, we led innocent lives, and now two women are dead.”
I refrained from pointing out that people died every day and we paid them no mind. “Tragic. Do you think they knew each other?”
“Maybe there’s a Becky Turner Society,” Bethany said, her eyes wide. She picked up a Bismarck doughnut and licked frosting off her finger. “I read once that there’s a group of men named Jim Smith who meet on a regular basis.”
“Not John Smith?” I asked to goad her. Something about her made me want to strike out.
She shook her head. “No. Definitely Jim Smith. I went through the phone book, you know, looking for another Rebecca Turner, but I didn’t find any. “
“Who has phone books nowadays?” The dwarf, Vlad Blackburn, joined our conversation. “Everyone has a cell phone.”
Bethany sniffed. “We have one, and we use it.”
Before a fight broke out, Delanna ascended the stairs and clapped her hands.
“Gather round, my lovelies. The upcoming new moon shines her luck on us. I feel we will make tremendous strides tonight in our search for enlightenment.”
As with the previous session, we held hands, mumbled a prayer, then broke apart to start our meditation. I sat on the same green beanbag as before. Rhythmic drumming lulled me to sleep.
A blood red moon hung over a blackened forest. Fire still breathed in the remaining embers, crackling in the silence. The rank smell of death pulled me into the depths of destruction.
Kix, wearing a smudged white gown, walked barefoot over the coals.
“What happened?” I asked.
She turned sightless eyes toward me. “Truth started the fire.”
Someone shook me awake. I stared at Delanna, crouched at my side. Her chocolate brown eyes gazed at me with concern. “Can you write it down?”
She handed me a pen and notebook. Dazed, I scribbled what I could remember, the details elusive. Truth destroys.
The drum’s rhythm changed, and several others woke.
Even looking at my notes, my dream seemed unreal, and I couldn’t share it. Beryl told of flying, and the goblin, temporarily diverted from the food table, shared hers. Eddie Renart, who’d snuck in after I fell asleep, shuffled up and down the staircase in the quest of another smoke.
I kept my eyes on him. My nose told me he held a key position.
“You’ve made progress,” Delanna said, approaching me as she finished her rounds.
“What? Yes. I dreamed of a forest.” I frowned, unsure why I hadn’t said fire.
She tapped her chin. “Growth. Renewal. Old secrets.”
I opened the notebook and skimmed what little I’d written. “No. A fire destroyed everything.”
Beryl approached Eddie, back from his ten-minute break. Delanna moved, blocking my view.
“Ah. A cleansing. Throwing out the old and making room for the new. You’ve gone through a change lately.”
Anyone running an internet search on me would say the same. I tilted my head to get a better view of Eddie. “Something like that.”
I resented her curiosity into my life. “Does the bakery get busy with Lent starting this week?”
She blinked, then her mind caught up to the change in subject. “Normally, yes, but my students are scheduled to come in a few hours tonight to start frying paczkis. We’re offering eight fillings this year.”
Beryl reached into her bag and withdrew a brown paper wrapped package the size of a sandwich.
I’ll bet it’s not ham on rye.
Eddie tucked it inside his vest, a grape paisley concoction.
What in hell are they doing?
“Come in tomorrow before noon, and I’ll give you a special deal. They go fast,” Delanna continued.
Right. Paczkis. Polish filled doughnuts, a West Michigan tradition on Fat Tuesday.
“Good night, Rory.”
“Hmm.”
Wait. What did she say about students?
I turned to call her back.
Where else does a bored wife go in the middle of the night and return with French brioches?
Hugh, I think I’ve solved your problem.
Chapter Twenty-One
I didn’t have a chance to question Delanna about her baking students. The goblin woman, Narbeth, asked me to walk her to her car, which provided a catalyst for everyone to leave. Before I knew it, the parking lot had emptied, and Delanna had locked the doors to Harbor Bakery.
I drove home but did not sleep. My dream disturbed me more than I cared to admit. The total destruction of the forest paled against the belief that Truth was responsible. How it fit into finding my inner brownie was anyone’s guess. I couldn’t shake off the “it�
�s just a dream” mentality.
Something bad lurked over the horizon.
I dared not leave the discovery of Margo Burrowes’ late night lessons to chance. I needed verification. Did more than one bakery offer classes at stupid o’clock? Or was Hugh right in his suspicions of her taking a lover? Either way, I drove to their house at one and parked a half block away.
No storm disturbed my view. I parsed out a thermos of black coffee and waited.
At two fifteen, the same time as the previous week, the garage door opened, triggering a motion-detection light. A Bentley backed out. I followed at a reasonable distance, our cars the only ones on the road.
She turned toward town, and I hung back. Fifteen minutes later, she parked the Bentley in the Harbor Bakery parking lot and entered the front door. From the street, I watched Delanna greet her and lead her toward the kitchen in the back.
I had my proof.
Why did she take lessons in the middle of the night without telling her husband? Why the secrecy?
Not my circus. Not my monkeys.
Before I left, I snuck around to the back door and used the dim glow from a halogen streetlight to locate a pile of Eddie Renart’s hand-rolled cigarette butts. I scooped a couple into an envelope I’d brought. Nothing short of DNA would prove a match to the killer’s discards, and I had no standing at M.I.C.U. to procure them, so they wouldn’t hold up in court. I didn’t need DNA when I had my nose.
At dawn, or the gray fog that stood in for dawn, I drove to Myth. Blue, the building’s enchanted gatekeeper, recognized me and allow me access. I didn’t take advantage of the situation—who knew what damage a renegade like me might cause? Instead, I presented myself to one of the 24/7 receptionists and asked for H.W. Burrowes. He’d be in, working. Munich had yet to replace Evelyn Fletcher, Vice President of Operations, and her work fell on his well-tailored shoulders.
Ten minutes later, I took the elevator to the fifth floor of the oldest section of the building. Frank’s old office—my office for ten days—lay a floor below. It now belonged to Charlie Bishop, once head of the Visionary Department. I thought twice about dropping in but decided against it. Meeting him for lunch was one thing, looking over his shoulder was another.
The luxurious hush of the executive suites sent a chill up my spine. I’d last stepped foot in them the day I’d turned in my resignation. I’d never had a good experience here and didn’t expect events to change.
Hugh waited for me in the empty reception area. He looked more like Anderson Cooper than ever in a navy suit and red tie. He frowned, whether at the early morning hour or my intrusion into it, I couldn’t tell.
“May I get you anything?” he asked as he led me into his inner sanctum. “I have fresh coffee.” He indicated a full pot on a table by a window.
“I’m good, thanks.” I sat in a chair in front of his desk and waited until he settled in his leather chair.
“Is this about Kix?” he asked, looking uncomfortable.
I frowned. Did he expect me to ask for her hand? “No. We’ve texted about work, but I haven’t seen her since Thursday.” I leaned forward, my forearms on my thighs. “Have you seen her? Spoken to her?” Their relationship had always been fractious.
He didn’t meet my eyes. “Saturday. She’s angry about what’s going on.”
“I don’t blame her. I’d be upset as well.”
His face darkened as if he took my statement as an insult. “Brady has every available agent working the two murders. Chicago and Kansas City have sent resources, and the local police are energized.”
“You know my opinion of M.I.C.U., but if anyone will solve the Becky cases, it’s Kix. She’ll find the connection and track it back to the killer.”
His lips pursed and his gray-grey eyes, so like Kix’s, slid over me in disbelief.
I straightened. “You should have more faith in her abilities.”
He tapped a pen on the desk. “Did you come here to discuss my sister?”
I laid a finger against my nose. “The last thing I want, Hugh, is to discuss Kix with you, or anyone. I wouldn’t be here at all except to use my skill at M.I.C.U.’s evidence lab. They picked up cigarette butts outside Becky Two’s apartment, and I volunteered to match it against my memory.”
I didn’t add anything about my trip to the Leaf to Ash Tobacco Shoppe or Eddie Renart’s hand-rolled butts in my pocket. Brady would have filed a report on our conversation about the first, and would do so for the second. I had faith in his record-keeping abilities.
Hugh gave me then-why-are-you-here glare. I opened my hands to show him I had nothing up my figurative sleeve.
“Did Margo come home this morning with Polish paczkis?”
He didn’t have a good poker face. “How do you know that?”
I resisted the urge to lie about what I’d seen. “I followed her last night to Harbor Bakery. She’s been taking baking classes from the owner, Delanna Storm.”
His brow furrowed. “Why would she do that?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe as a surprise for you. Maybe she’s bored and wanted to master a new skill.”
“Are you sure she stayed? She might have bought the doughnuts then left to meet her lover.”
“Five nights a week? That makes no sense.” I sighed. “Hugh, why not talk to her? It would answer all your questions.”
He drummed the pen on the desk.
I reached across and plucked it away. “Do you want me to continue following her to prove me wrong?”
“No. I’ll talk to her.”
Something you should have done two weeks ago.
I stood, holding out my hand.
His good breeding didn’t allow him to refuse to shake it.
“Smell you later, Hugh,” I echoed our last meeting in this room.
I had one more hurdle to jump before I contacted Kix again. I hoped the early hour played in my favor and no one would be in M.I.C.U.’s offices.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I’d forgotten about the need of a key card to access M.I.C.U.’s doors, and I’d left mine at home. They frowned at any Joe waltzing into their office and peeking at confidential files, level six or not. Damn. Who did I have to track down to get in to look at the crime scene evidence? Why had I timed my visit to avoid talking to anyone?
Oh, yeah, to avoid taking to anyone.
I sat at an empty workstation outside the doors and pulled out my phone. I couldn’t ask Kix to help. Jack Trades would as soon carve me up as look at me. Brady? Sure, I wanted to impress him that I still actively worked the case. Did an early morning visit count as dogged determination or poor planning?
Why did I care?
I took a chance and punched in Mike Mickelson’s number.
I’d last seen him when I’d given my testimony in Scarlett Winter’s kidnapping trial. The judge handed down a twenty year sentence, and she served it at the Midwest Myth Correctional Facility north of town.
Mike hadn’t liked Kix and me going rogue in tracking her down. I hadn’t liked how M.I.C.U. had dropped the ball in finding her seven-year-old victim. Still, he’d acted decent to me in the aftermath of Penny Trades’ death. I had no beef against the guy personally, only in his methods.
As luck would have it, he was in and opened the door for me.
We eyed each other like two mongrels over a bone, then he stuck out his hand. “Rory, good to see you again.”
“Likewise. I hoped you’d kept to your old habits and be the first one in, last one out when there’s a big case.” We clasped hands briefly.
“Two cases.” He motioned for me to sit in the dimly lit reception area, indicating he’d received orders to treat me as a civilian instead of someone who’d saved M.I.C.U.’s ass.
“Have you found the connection yet?” I hadn’t read their files in over an hour. I didn’t think much would be updated since then.
“Other than their shared name? No, but it’s there. It can’t be a coincidence.” He sat across from
me, a coffee table littered with out-of-date magazines between us.
I didn’t tell him Kix worked on the case and would find the link. Even a nice guy like Mike didn’t need to be overshadowed by someone with less experience.
“We’re a small community. It won’t be long before you get a break.” The myth community hadn’t grown or shrunk in the six months since the August killings. They hadn’t turned on Bertie’s killer or Evelyn’s. Why would anyone think their habits would change?
“We’re not convinced a myth did the killings.” Mike stroked his mustache.
“I’m sure you’re looking at all avenues,” I lied. Their collaboration with the human police had drawn the lines with a distinct marker.
“We’ll catch him.” Mickelson peered at me. “Why are you here?”
I’m sorry, didn’t Brady copy you on the memo?
“Captain Brady suggested I examine the evidence from the last crime scene, specifically the cigarette butts.” Okay, I’d volunteered, but the details didn’t matter.
Mickelson peered over my shoulder. “We asked Aaró Karvonen to do that.”
Ah, Aaró, my replacement as head of the Olfactory Department. The anti-Rory, with as much charm as you could fit into a thimble. Not that I overflowed with charm, but I possessed basic social skills.
“I’m sure you did, but he doesn’t have my range. Plus, certain circumstances since the first murder have given me a richer database to compare to the evidence.”
Circumstances? I’d invited myself to join the woo-woo crowd at the Mythic Path, and I’d made a new “friend” at the tobacco shop.
“Let me check with the Captain,” Mickelson said and stood, pulling out his phone.
“Sure.” Check on what you can eat for lunch, and what time you can pee while you’re at it.
I waited, and less than five minutes later, he returned. He didn’t say anything, but nodded and led me further into the depths of M.I.C.U.’s offices than I’d explored. At a steel door he punched in a six-digit code.
We entered a brightly lit corridor and walked twenty feet to a window manned by a goblin. I wondered at the wisdom of having one in charge of evidence. They had light fingers, but could also keep secrets and treasures like no other race.