by Noel Cash
“We can’t just show up and start poking around. We need an excuse.”
“Burrowes, you have the most natural excuse in the world. You said it yourself.” We approached Indiana Street, and I signaled to turn right.
“Which is?”
“You were hit on the head with your own gun. I imagine your headache is so bad that standard medicine won’t work. You need specialized care from, I don’t know, an herbalist.”
She slapped my arm. “Genius, Harper, genius.”
“So how are you feeling now?”
She touched her temple and moaned. “Worse. So much worse. I’d do anything to stop the pain.”
I glanced in the rearview mirror to check on the trolls. “I know just the place.”
Chapter Thirty
The Herb Minister Gardens was anything but a garden. It sat between a tattoo parlor and a dry cleaner in a strip mall in the tired neighborhood of Ogden. We parked on the far side of the lot under a bare maple that looked more dead than dormant. Bruno and Mars pulled four places over but didn’t exit, probably waiting for our next hare-brained scheme to take effect. I couldn’t imagine the conversations they had about us.
I nodded to the herb shop, its windows permanently barred. “Do you want me to go in first? Check for tall, elderly elves hanging around?”
Kix’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think so. Beryl knows both of us. She’ll think it’s strange if we enter separately.”
“Right. You’re sure you want to do this?”
“And let M.I.C.U. get all the glory? Not by a long shot.” She unbuckled and opened her door.
What had changed her attitude? At one time she’d tried to dissuade me from investigating and to leave everything in their capable hands. Had her earlier conversation with Hugh and Brady soured her on M.I.C.U.?
I stepped out, and we waited for the bodyguards to flank her before walking to the herb shop. A train whistle blew as it rattled behind the building, all but muffling the bell jangling over the door.
At once, the aroma of herbs hit me, and I turned my head as if the movement could block the assault.
Kix touched my arm, her eyes a gray-green concern. “Rory? What’s wrong?”
I shook my head. “Nothing,” I rasped. “A little pungent.”
Not in a good way. The dried herbs had lost most of their scent from age, but something—disease or rot—had infected the live plants hanging at the windows and filling a wall of shelves. The resulting stench crawled up my nostrils and set up housekeeping. It’s a wonder I hadn’t smelled it on Beryl at our two meetings.
I shoved the putrid scents as far back into my consciousness as I could and looked around. Besides the live plants, one wall held bottles of flavored cooking oils and vinegars. A freestanding table displayed soaps, lotions, and essential oils, while packets of herbs hung on a pegboard on the third wall. Opposite the door, a counter ran the full width of the room. Front and center, Beryl Tussett stood, talking on a cell phone. She raised a finger to let us know she’d be with us in a minute, then continued her conversation, too soft for me to pick up.
After a moment, she disconnected and pocketed the phone.
“Rory! Kix! How good to see you. I didn’t know you two knew each other.” She raised a piece of the counter and slid through the opening. Stepping across the room, she hugged Kix. Her yellow and red skirt flowed in movement, and the bells on her fingers and in her earlobes tinkled with a disjointed rhythm. “I’m so glad you’re up and moving. I was so worried about you.”
Kix pulled away. “I’m keeping a low profile.” She nodded to the trolls, who stood on each side of the doorway. “These gentlemen are Bruno and Mars, my bodyguards.”
The men nodded. Beryl sucked in a deep breath. An eyebrow, shaded black to a horizontal exclamation point, arched. “Are you in danger?”
Kix waved away her concern. “They’re just a precaution until Becky’s killer is caught.”
She used the name as singular, not dredging up dual murders, though I don’t know why. The media had jumped on the killings, and the “Becky Murders” headlined across the nation.
“The police will catch him, I’m sure,” Beryl said, waving us toward the counter. “Can I get you some tea? I made lavender biscuits this morning.”
She stepped behind the counter and opened an apothecary jar full of shortbread with flecks of lavender seeds scattered in them.
“That would be lovely,” Kix said, giving me a look that said I should eat some whether I wanted to or not.
“And your guards? Can they eat while on duty?” Beryl asked.
Bruno, the more loquacious of the two, shook his head.
“Oh, I insist,” she said, moving to one of the shelves and taking down a packet of loose tea. “I have the perfect drink for hardworking trolls.”
“I’m sorry I don’t have anyplace for you to sit,” the herbalist said, opening a thermos of hot water and pouring it into a teapot. “I’ve often thought about adding one or two small tables and chairs, but if I charge for unpackaged food and drink, there are all sorts of state and health regulations involved. It’s not worth the trouble. I can, however, offer samples.”
She set a plate of cookies on the table. “Is there a particular type of tea you enjoy or would like to try?” she asked Kix. “I can brew whatever you want.”
Kix dropped her eyelids. She seemed to sink into herself, and she winced in pain. “Beryl, that’s one of the reasons we’re here. Since the . . . accident . . . I’ve suffered terrible headaches. Traditional medicine doesn’t help. Can you recommend an herbal tea?”
“I have just the thing,” Beryl said, turning to one of the jars on the nearby wall. “My own blend.”
Kix and I exchanged glances. “My own blend” seemed to be the theme of the day.
While Beryl bustled about brewing tea a second pot for Kix, I scoped out her shop in more detail, looking for clues. Unfortunately, the overriding smells masked any sensory details that might help with the investigation. What I observed visually gave me no help.
“Here we are,” Beryl pronounced a few minutes later. She handed the trolls a mug of deep brown tea and Kix and me cups filled with a pale amber liquid.
“Gentlemen, you’ll find this a refined amusement, and Rory, your blend is an excellent remedy for stress and anxiety.”
I opened my mouth to dispute the diagnosis, but Kix glared at me, and I shut up. All four of us drank from our cups. I sensed Kix’s command over her bodyguards, daring them to disobey.
If one can imagine what alfalfa seeped in hot water tastes like, the brew resembled it. I sipped twice then downed one of the lavender cookies to chase away the acridness.
Kix leaned toward the herbalist as if imparting state secrets. “Beryl, Rory and I, well, we wanted to talk to you about Becky, if that’s all right?”
Why the hesitation? She caught my eye in warning, but I was not about to ruin her debut acting career.
“Of course, dear. I’m so sorry you were involved. Do you remember anything of that night?” She glanced at an owl clock on the wall, as if was a calendar.
“It’s all so fleeting,” Kix lied. “Of course, Rory didn’t know her, and I met her only the two times. I wondered if, knowing her longer, you could tell us more about her? What did she like to do? How long had she attended the Mythic Path sessions?”
I stole another cookie as she skillfully led the herbalist along a path of questioning that revealed Beryl’s life and not the original subject’s. Three cookies later, I knew more about Beryl Tussett than whatever lay in any FBI file. The woman acted as if she’d found her new best friends and spilled her life story to us.
Kix’s next question threw me into the conversation. “Rory, you smoked at one time, didn’t you?”
“Um, what? Oh, yeah. I quit ten years ago, but you can never quite leave it behind.” I thought of the yellow tobacco tin Romanoff insisted I would use.
“Beryl said she quit last year. She still fights the u
rge to smoke.”
Liar. Eddie had told me Beryl bummed cigarettes from him.
“Oh? What brand? I used to roll my own,” I lied. “The commercially prepared ones don’t do the tobacco justice.”
Would she tell the truth about buying tobacco from Romanoff?
Beryl slid the empty plate from the counter and collected the teacups and mugs. “I have a friend who thinks the same way. Two friends, actually.”
“Oh?”
“Locally or back in England?” Kix asked, her eyes bright with excitement.
“One you know.” Beryl shot us a look as if to say, isn’t it obvious? “Eddie Renart. From the Mythic Path.”
I paused as if remembering. “That’s right. He told me he rolled his own blend.”
“His blend?” Beryl snorted and rolled her eyes.
“Bat be me own blan’,” I echoed his words in my best Scouser accent.
“The man’s mad. He wouldn’t know how to cross his fingers let alone make up something worth smoking.”
“Where does he get it, then?” Kix asked with assumed innocence. “From your other friend? You said two are particular about what they smoke. Does the second one live nearby?”
Beryl opened one of the apothecary jars and scooped out dried leaves into a plastic bag. “Originally from London, but living in West Haven for, what? Maybe six or seven months now. He’s not as mobile as he once was, so I do a lot of his shopping. Have you ever heard of the Leaf to Ash Tobacco Shoppe in Harbor Row?”
By the sheerest willpower, I did not look at Kix. “Yes,” I said, not mentioning that we’d visited it less than an hour earlier.
“I pick up what he needs, he does his magic—literally—and we sell the excess to smokers like Eddie.” She lowered her voice as if the trolls standing by the door had morphed into IRS agents. “It brings in a tidy penny for both of us.”
She’d solved the mystery of the package exchanged between her and Eddie on Friday night.
“Who is he?” I asked. “My stepfather smokes and has a birthday coming up. Maybe I can buy some as a gift.”
Amazing, how easily the lies rolled off my tongue as I searched for justice.
Her eyes glittered at the prospect of a sale. “Like I said, he’s not a mobile as he once was.”
Agile enough to kill two women and load one of them into a car trunk?
I covered Kix’s hand on the counter as if seeking her complicity in the illegal transaction we were about to commit. “We wouldn’t go behind your back, Beryl.”
She studied my face, and I held my breath. After a moment, she nodded. “I guess if won’t hurt if you know his name. After all, he puts it on the labels.”
Kix’s hand tightened under mine.
“Calcraft Golden Revival,” Beryl said.
“Calcraft? That’s unusual. Is it his first or last name?” Kix asked.
“Oh, first. Everyone calls him Cal, but he was born Calcraft. Calcraft Reese.”
Chapter Thirty-One
The hair at the back of my neck stood on end, and my lungs tightened.
Calcraft Reese? I didn’t believe in coincidences. He had to be related to Alex Reese. What else accounted for the murders of the Beckys?
He had motivation, protecting his relative. Opportunity? Once he learned Katie Leonard had taken the name of Becky Turner, he’d tracked down both, making an error in the first’s identity. How had he connected her disappearance in one area of the country to her appearance in West Haven? Had he stalked her from Portland or accidentally stumbled across her?
My nerves jumping, I squeezed Kix’s hand. I didn’t dare look at her.
She cleared her throat. “So you’re saying you shop for this Reese man, who takes the tobaccos you buy and mixes it into this Golden Revival blend, then you sell it to men like Eddie, who roll their own cigarettes?”
“That’s right.” Beryl nodded.
“How many? Men, I mean?” Any one of which could have murdered the Becky’s, but I wouldn’t bet against Calcraft Reese.
“Besides Eddie?” She paused to mentally calculate. “Seven. Of course, he has other customers for other blends, but Golden Revival is his most popular.” She dug under the counter and produced sheets of adhesive-backed labels. After selecting one, she pressed it onto the plastic bag she’d sealed.
“I’m sure we can get you a few ounces of his blend for your stepfather,” Beryl said, unaware of our turmoil.
“What? Oh, that would be great.” I stared straight ahead, unsure what I’d heard. Finding the killer couldn’t be so easy, could it?
“I’ll bring it to our session on Friday if that’s all right?”
“Sure.”
Kix slipped her hand from beneath mine. “That’s generous of you, Beryl.”
“Not by half,” the woman said. She lifted the bag to hand it to Kix then frowned. “Oh, darn, I’ve packed the wrong tea for you. I want to make sure you have the right remedy for your headaches. Do you feel the effects from the tea yet?”
“Ah, not yet.” Kix glanced at me.
I shook my head as if to tell her play along, but the movement, coupled with the rank odor of the live plants, punched me in the gut. I must have looked green because Kix touched my arm. “Rory, are you okay?”
“Give me a minute.” I tried breathing through my mouth, but the nausea didn’t disappear.
Her features swam before me, and I clutched the edge of the counter to keep from falling over.
What in hell was happening?
“It’s all right,” Beryl said from a long distance.
I squinted to make out her face.
A thud, followed by another followed her words. Holding my stomach, I rotated.
Bruno and Mars sprawled on the floor.
Poison!
“Kix, get away,” I whispered, then my vision narrowed, and I joined them.
Chapter Thirty-Two
I didn’t stay unconscious for long. A headache tapped the inside of my skull with thousands of blunt needles. Late afternoon sunlight filtering in through the front windows and the overwhelming stench of rotting herbs told me I hadn’t left the shop.
Arguing voices punctuated the fetid air.
“You’ve ruined everything, you with your stupid ideas.” Clattering teacups and spoons accompanied Beryl’s voice. Cleaning up the evidence of the poison she’d slipped me and the others?
“Stupid? How was I to know you’d do something even more stupid? I told you to play dumb and don’t answer their questions. Now we have four problems on our hands.” The voice belonged to a man and held traces of a British accent. Some of the words slurred, and he sounded incredibly old. Calcraft Reese?
Ice skated up my spine. He’d killed twice. He wouldn’t allow a witness to stay alive. Or witnesses. Where was Kix?
Beryl’s shriek cut through the sound of my pounding heart. “We? Our? Think again, Cal. Leave me out of it.”
“My dear, you’re in this so deep you’ll need a ladder to see the bottom of the hole we’re in.”
A moan interrupted her reply.
My breath hitched.
Kix.
I turned my head, preparing for two things: the worst possible condition she could be in, and if I could stagger to my feet in time to prevent anything more from happening to her.
She lay on her side, her face turned my way, her eyes closed and brows drawn. A finger twitched then stilled.
I’ll kill them. Long and painfully until they wish for a swift end.
For eighty-eight years, I’d avoided combat and violence, but I’d break the rules —legal and moral—if they’d hurt her.
Bruno and Mars lay unconscious on the floor beyond Kix, too far away for me to grab one of their guns.
I’d have to take out Reese and his accomplice before I could get help for Kix. I didn’t know what, if any weapons they had.
I had two. Surprise, and a little bit of magic.
“To hell with them,” I muttered under my breath. Steelin
g myself for disaster, I lumbered upward and conjured a flare of light and threw it in the direction of Beryl and Reese.
The Gods were with me. The light, a flaming ball of fire, split as I intended and leaped for them. Beryl screamed and jumped back. The man, an elderly elf, just as Millie had seen in her dreams, barked out an order.
The flame sizzled and died inches from its target.
My momentum didn’t die. I crashed into Reese and pushed him into the counter. We fell, a knot of flailing arms and legs. I cocked my arm to hit him. Dear Gods, I wanted to pummel him into a bloody mess in retribution for the two Beckys and for hurting Kix.
My arm froze in place. He’d thrown up a hand in defense, its angle perfect for deflecting any threat.
I could not move. Before I could react by punching him with my left, he raised his other arm. Both palms pointed at me, the heat from his power as intense as a hot poker.
I gritted my teeth and shoved against his magic. He was old, I was younger. He couldn’t last much longer. I would win.
Then Beryl entered the game and threw something over my head. A fleeting glance registered twine, the type she probably used to tie packages. She looped it around me a second time and a third before I could break through Reese’s magic to pull it off.
In no time, she had me trussed up tighter than a Thanksgiving turkey.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“You won’t get away with this.” I directed the impotent threat at Beryl, as I had more of a relationship with her than the old elf. At least, maybe, possibly, she would see reason. He, on the other hand, had killed in cold blood.
“I’m not going to get away with anything,” she said with a nod to Reese.
I glanced at him, my vision blurring as I shook off the effects of the poison she’d added to my tea. “We’ve sent what we know to M.I.C.U.. It didn’t take us long to make the connection between Katie Leonard, aka Becky Turner, and your . . . grandson?”
He nodded, his eyes cold. “Blood is thicker than the law. Did you think I’d let him live through another trial?”