by Noel Cash
I swallowed bile. “How did you make the connection?”
“I’m not stupid.” He shouted, his accent thicker. He tapped his head. “I know people. My ‘network’ as you youngsters like to say. I asked around. Young witches aren’t so numerous. Mysterious young witches, appearing from nowhere, with no background, are scarcer yet. My sources hinted she had spent summers with her grandparents in this area. Grandparents named Turner. Then Beryl here,” he gestured to her, “tells me about a young witch with a past she doesn’t want to talk about. I couldn’t believe my luck.”
He scratched his head and grinned. My heart sank.
We’re going to die.
“The next time the class met, I waded through a storm to find out for myself. She matched the looks of the woman who wanted to put Alex away for life. All I had to do is ask her if she’s the right one.”
“Becky Turner. Why not ask if she’s Katie Leonard?”
“He didn’t think of it,” Beryl said, disgust on her face. “He’s old. Anyone else would have made sure.”
He turned on her. “Even old fools make mistakes. All I heard for a week from you is ‘Becky Turner this,’ and ‘Becky Turner that’. It stuck in my head, okay? When I asked her, she said yes, so I popped her.”
I glanced away, unable to stomach his callousness. “But you made a mistake.”
“Miscalculation,” he corrected. “The news didn’t say anything about the dead girl being someone else, so I looked for another Turner witch. Didn’t take me long to find the real one. This time I made sure.”
“You let your witness go,” I said, angling for a repeat. I couldn’t look at Kix. I itched to morph into superhero mode and leap to her rescue, but guilt and the responsibility for leading her here weighed too much. Not to mention the dozen strands of twine keeping me in place.
He shook his head. “A mistake. Maybe.”
I glanced at Beryl. “What’s in for you? I can’t believe a few grams in tobacco sales are worth an accessory to murder.”
She shrugged. “Our stars align. We’ve connected in previous lives. I can’t turn on him now.”
I shuddered and asked the question I dreaded having answered. “So what’s next?”
His eyes narrowed. “I think you know.”
Cal Reese lifted a gun-laden hand.
Chapter Thirty-Four
I was going to die. First me, then Kix, then the bodyguards. My pride and stupidity had led to their deaths. I didn’t have time for hopes, regrets, or scenes of my life to flash before my eyes. They squeezed shut the second he’d leveled the weapon.
I recoiled at the sound of the gun firing.
A second passed. I felt nothing. Does instant death hurt?
I opened my eyes at the same moment a body thumped on the floor.
Not mine. I turned my head to witness the violent bloom of blood on Cal Reese’s chest.
I followed the possible trajectory of the bullet and stared at Kix, upright, holding her brother’s Glock in a shaking hand.
“Kix?” My gaze whipped to Bruno and Mars on the chance one of them had shot Reese, but the bodyguards snoozed in la-la land.
Her hand dropped. “I didn’t think it wise to do the whole gather all the suspects in the drawing room scenario to make him see reason. He didn’t strike me as the patient type.”
“Yeah. Well. Probably.” I glanced at Beryl, who’d gasped and bent over Cal’s body, but she didn’t pick up his gun and complete his task.
Kix jerked forward and kicked the weapon to the other side of the room. “Get up,” she said, her voice cold. “Call Myth and tell them what happened. We don’t want the human police involved.”
Beryl glared at her but rose, her movements that of an old woman. She grasped the counter for balance and shuffled to the wall phone.
“Are you all right?” I asked Kix. Her hands shook, and her porcelain pixie skin had taken on an ashen hue.
“Been better.” She laid a hand on my shoulder and leaned hard. “I should have suspected something.”
“Let’s leave self-blame for later, okay? I’ve racked up more points than you can ever imagine. Is there anything around to cut me free?”
“Yeah. Sorry.” She grabbed a pair of scissors and sawed at the twine binding me in place. The strands fell away, and I stood, shaking my arms to redistribute the blood.
“Myth’s on their way,” Beryl said then sagged against the counter until she hit the floor.
“Good,” Kix said. “I suppose that means Hugh will be here soon.” She raised a hand to her forehead then swayed.
I caught her before she fell. I glanced at the prone witch and the wounded elf then led Kix to the door.
“Let’s get out of here.”
She’d never forget the sight of the horrors, but I could not allow her to witness them a moment longer.
Holding her tight in my embrace, I waited for the sound of sirens.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Two weeks later, I sat alone in my office, the whisper of spring melting the snow outside my window. Lucille had family issues and had taken the afternoon off. Myth, after their initial inquiry about what I knew about Cal Reese’s actions, had abandoned me. His death had tied a neat bow on a troublesome box and they didn’t want any reminders of an amateur solving their case.
Business improved, boosted in part by the inescapable notoriety of the murders. I’d like to think my clients hired me for my olfactory powers, but the truth is, everyone likes to ride on the coattails of success. Until something new, bright, and shiny replaced me, I was a nine-day wonder.
I should have enjoyed the increase in business, but it felt hollow.
Kix wasn’t around to share it with me.
Myth first responders had separated us to check on the effects of the poison Beryl had administered. Then Max Brady pulled me aside to get my statement while Mickelson interviewed Kix. Before I knew it, an officer held up the crime scene tape so I could drive out of the parking lot.
Kix didn’t answer my call the next day. On the following day and every day since, the message on her voicemail indicated she’d left town.
For how long? And where had she gone? Back to the private investigator who had once captured her heart?
The click of the outer door jarred me from dark thoughts of him returning and sweeping her off her feet. I glanced up from my desk, expecting them to enter and announce their engagement. Pitiful, I know.
Kix, wearing a royal blue lightweight coat and looking anything but engaged or newly married, smiled at me from our tiny entryway.
I jumped to my feet, my heart hammering. Had my luck turned?
“Kix,” I breathed then shot forward, stopping awkwardly before her. What could I say? What did she want to hear?
“Rory.” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “How are you?”
Lonely? Missing her? No way would I tell her the truth.
“Good,” I said, glossing over my two-week session of misery. “And you?”
She shook her curls as if she hadn’t just arranged them. “Better every day.”
An awkward silence descended on us again. Realizing it was up to me to break it, I spoke, but we said the words in unison.
“I’m sorry—”
I blinked and gestured for her to continue.
“I should have called,” she said and paused, avoiding eye contact. I said nothing, allowing her to find the right words.
“I had to sort things out.” She glanced at me. Why? Seeking approval or expecting condemnation? “I’ve killed animals before, hunting, but not another person.”
“It’s not an easy thing to get over.” Now was not the time to share my story. “You had no choice. He would have killed all of us in the blink of an eye.”
“That’s what Vaughn said.” At my raised eyebrow at the mention of her brother, she ducked her head. “I flew to his ranch in Montana. Of all my siblings, he’s the one who understands me the best.”
“Family’
s important.” I should talk, with my mother split between her home and the rehab center, where Da still recovered. I’d not heard from my sister since our brief text exchange.
“I’m finding that out more and more. Anyway, he helped me understand what’s important and what I should be doing with my life.”
“All that in two weeks?” I indicated for her to sit in one of the reception area chairs, but she shook her head.
She smiled, a fleeting gesture. “It’s taken longer than that.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s important to you, and what should you do with your life?” I held my breath. Did her appearance tie in with her decision?
“Not working for Myth, that’s for sure.” She wrinkled her nose. “Which leaves me with a problem.”
“Oh?”
She glanced out the door window then back to me. “I like investigating.”
A spring inside me unwound. “You’re very good at it.”
“On the other hand, I don’t like being at the bottom of the roster at Myth.”
“Understandable.” My jaw unclenched. Did I read too much between her words?
“And I would hate to take any business away from you by opening my own agency.”
A smile tugged at my mouth. “You’d have it all within a month.”
“So,” she said with a cheeky grin, “I thought maybe we could come to an arrangement.”
Certain parts of my anatomy stirred at the prospect.
Not now, buddy.
“What kind of arrangement?” I angled closer to her in a cool, totally suave way.
“We should be able to work something out to our mutual benefit.” She glanced out the window again, and I couldn’t decide if she was being coy, flirtatious, or dismissing me as unimportant.
“Mutual benefit, eh?” The blood had left my brain, and I could only repeat her words.
She leaned forward. “Mutual. Benefit.”
I gulped. I’m sure my mouth hung open and my tongue brushed the floor.
Get it together, Harper.
“Okay. Like, what for example?”
She moved away, toward the back of the building. I, poor slob, followed like a lap dog. What was it about this woman that scrambled my brains like eggs at a Waffle House?
“A partnership,” she said over her shoulder. “Fifty/fifty. Harper and Burrowes. Notice I’ve given you top billing.”
She passed the door to my office.
“I like the name the way it is.”
“We’ll talk about it. How do you feel about A Nose for Crime?”
She opened the door that led to the storage area behind the other rooms. Her heels clicked on the concrete floor, and I stared first in fascination that she wore heels in March, and second at her shapely calves.
“Why are we back here?” I’d never paid much attention to the place, but it came with the lease. It inspired neither romance nor a business conversation.
“In a minute.” She held up a finger, then strode to the overhead door that opened to the alley in the back. With a little too much emphasis, she punched the button that opened it.
The metal groaned and clacked, and sunshine poured in.
“What?” I asked as I stopped abreast of her.
She held up a finger again, then I heard it: the unmistakable beep, beep, beep of a commercial vehicle backing up. I followed the sound to a white panel van entering the alley backward and slowing to a stop at the door.
Two trolls emerged from the cab. Not Bruno and Mars, but huge, burly, and looking as if they ate accountants for lunch. The first one, the name Chuck emblazoned over his breast pocket, handed Kix a clipboard. She scanned it then scratched her name at the bottom of the second page with the pen he provided.
“Kix?” I asked as the trolls opened the back of the truck and unloaded the first of many cardboard boxes. “There’s no need for supplies. I can afford office furniture and paperclips.”
She laughed and turned toward me, a light in her eyes I hadn’t witnessed since she’d tracked down Becky Turner’s real identity on the internet.
“Not supplies, Rory. A special surprise. What’s missing in the arsenal of a private investigator who solves cases with his sense of smell?”
Confused, I stared at her. “A box of tissues?”
She grinned. “No. How about all the samples he’s collected over twenty years?”
“What?” The enormity of what she’d done slowly sank in. I released myself from her grip and stumbled toward the first box troll number one had placed on the floor. Toeing it, I read the label plastered on the side and top:
Birds and Snakeskins.
I tore off the tape and delved inside.
“The Budapest bird collection,” I cried, emotion choking my throat as I viewed the contents. “My South African snakeskins.”
I rushed to another box but stopped when I read the label. Cold sweat broke out on my forehead. I turned to Kix, my muscles rigid with disbelief.
“The Frag pelt,” I whispered.
She smiled and looped her arm through mine. “I asked Hugh to return everything Myth confiscated from you when Bertie died.”
“When Frank killed Bertie,” I said, the memory of my brief encounter with the troll washing over me. My boss had killed her, but Kix and I had worked together to put him in jail.
“Poor Bertie,” Kix said. She shook herself and glanced at me. “I know how much you loved owning a Frag pelt, and I wanted you to have it back. Along with the rest of your collection.”
Speechless, I could only stare down at her as the trolls unloaded the truck.
“I have no words,” I said at last. “No one has done anything like this for me. Truly.” As mushy as it sounded, my heart swelled.
“Remember the first time I screwed up on a case?”
“You? Impossible? I think I owe you for saving my life four or five times already.”
“Remember it on my fifth or sixth screw up.” She slipped her hand into mine. My toes curled. “Ready to start our new partnership?”
I squeezed her hand. “It will be my supreme pleasure.”
Afterword
While you’re waiting on the next story, if you would be so kind as to leave a review for this book, that would be great. I appreciate the feedback and support. Reviews buoy my spirits and stoke the fires of creativity.
Thank you
About the Author
To be transparent, Noel Cash is a pen name for a female writer. I’m saving the world an internet-flaming debacle by exposing it here.
Rory Harper sprang to mind in first person (“I, me, mine”). I’ve tried my best to think like a man. Any variables are mine and mine alone.
The pen name Noel Cash is based on the six initials of my grandchildren’s first names plus two others that fit. At one time, he was Charlie Lycos. I much prefer Noel Cash. It reminds me of Christmas money.
A good story is worth more than the identity of who wrote it.
I hope you enjoy Rory and Kix’s adventures as much as I did writing them. Please forgive me for the small deception.
To receive advance chapters of future books, please visit my website and signup for my newsletter.
www.cherylsterlingbooks.com
Also by Noel Cash
Schnoztopia
Smell You Later
A Nose For Crime
Follow Your Nose (Available 3-2-2021)
NonScents (Available 4-13-2021)
Nosetalgia (Available 5-25-2021)
Preview of Book Four-Follow Your Nose
Chapter One
Lying to impress a woman backfires in one of three ways. First, it’s a bitch to remember all the details. They either fade into obscurity, forcing you to invent new fictions, or the lie takes on a life of its own and snowballs faster and faster. The “truth” you heard from a guy becomes gospel told to you from a llama herder in Colorado who caught fire while saving a Boy Scout troop. With one hand tied behind his back. There’s no way to contain a l
ie.
Second, women have this amazing lie-sniffing radar thing going on. They’ll never admit it, but they know, consciously or subconsciously, when a guy lies to them, and they’ll ferret out the truth. Once they set down that trail, you might as well kiss the relationship goodbye.
Third, and the most unexpected and dangerous, is you might begin to believe the lie. What was once stupid and laughable becomes reasonable.
I teetered on the precipice of reasonable on a warm April night in West Michigan. I waited in a room above The Harbor Bakery, about to take part in an exercise to get in touch with my inner brownie.
Granted, I’d not known of any brownie blood mixing with my elf, troll, vampire, and—regrettably—human, blood until a murder investigation had brought me to the bakery six weeks earlier. I’d enrolled in a self-discovery class at the Mythic Path to interrogate the other participants. The owner of both businesses, Delanna Storm, encouraged me to explore my “powerful” brownie side.
Once I’d solved the murder, I continued to attend, but not to impress Delanna. No, that honor went to Kix Burrowes, pixie, fellow private investigator, a woman I lusted after, and the one who kept our relationship on a path slower than a Michigan winter. A snail could have outpaced the progress I’d made in the eight months I’d known her.
But I’d continued the twice-weekly sessions for no other reason than to spend more time in her company. As if the five days a week we worked together at our PI agency, A Nose for Crime, wasn’t enough. Pathetic, I know.
“Are you excited?” She settled onto an orange beanbag chair next to the forest green one I’d claimed as my own. “After your breakthrough last week?”
I squirmed to get more comfortable and to step around the truth. “What’s not to be excited about?”
I hadn’t lied the previous Friday night because I couldn’t explain the words that had appeared behind my closed eyelids. As I made a living from my extraordinary sense of smell and not the vagaries of my eyes, I didn’t believe the scrolling, foreign letters as anything but an overactive imagination. Kix had caught my gasp of surprise, and before I could stop her, she’d shared the phenomenon with Delanna. My temporary visual anomaly morphed into a breakthrough in finding my inner brownie. I’d never felt a bigger fraud.