by Erin Johnson
I frowned. "Sue? That's it? She didn’t threaten to disembowel them or anything?”
Libbie shrugged. "Nah. Malorie was pretty even keeled most of the time."
I gave her a doubtful look. “Except for when she was murdering her husband?”
She gave me a sheepish look. “Yeah, except for then.”
Peter frowned at her. “Any idea why we found a certain photo of the last Night of the Phoenix party in the office safe? Quincy indicated you’d found it and showed it to Malorie.”
She glanced at Daisy, then smirked. “Yeah, I think it reminded Malorie of her ex-husband and she felt guilty and wanted to lock it away.”
We looked at Daisy. She whined. Truth.
Libbie’s shoulders slumped and she clasped her hands together beseechingly, looking from Peter to me. "Look—Cassie was one of my original animals. I raised her since she was a baby, bottle-fed her even. Can I please take Cassie with me?"
I pressed my lips together and looked up at Peter, waiting for his decision. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's pretty clear, per the law, that this wombat belongs to the sanctuary." He let out a heavy sigh. "At the same time, the sanctuary is now understaffed, a dangerous firebird is on the loose, and I'm not sure how safe the place is, given we’re dealing with a double homicide."
Libbie’s eyes grew round. "Double?"
Peter ignored her question and turned to me. "If you're game, Jolene, maybe you could read the wombat’s mind and see who she'd rather live with?" He raised his brows, and I grinned and nodded.
"Sure. Why not?" I tromped through the grasses, lifted the surprisingly heavy leather backpack, and half carried, half dragged the grunting wombat a little way away from everyone else. Despite the whistling of the wind and the odd animal shriek here and there, it was pretty quiet out, and I didn't want to be overheard by those who didn't know about my special abilities.
I crouched down in front of the backpack, then glanced up at Libbie. “Do wombats bite?" Come to think of it, what was a wombat even? I didn’t think I’d ever seen one in person.
Libbie smiled and called back, "No way. Not my Cassie. She's a sweetheart."
That didn’t exactly answer my question, so with some misgivings I slowly unzipped the top of the pack. A brown furry head as large as mine popped out of the pack. The thing looked like a mix between a koala and a giant hamster. Its little round ears twitched, as did its whiskers, as its dark nose sniffed the air.
I took a deep breath, and never having spoken wombat before, hesitantly opened my mouth, unsure of the noises that were about to come out. As quietly as I could, I let out a series of grunts, clicks, and finished it all off with one hoarse cough. Lovely.
Heya, Cassie, my name’s Jolene. Can I ask you a few questions?
The wombat blinked her dark round eyes at me. She let out a piercing shriek that sounded like a pig squeal. I jerked back, shocked.
Hi, there! I'm Cassie! Nice to meet you! She lifted her nose in the air and took a deep breath followed by a heavy huff. She let out another shriek. Ah, the sweet, sweet taste of freedom.
I frowned, unsure if she was talking about freedom after her time in the sanctuary or her time the backpack. I let out a few more grunts and groans. Do you know this woman over here?
The backpack tipped and rocked as Cassie pulled her mouse-like paws out and gripped the open edge of the pack. She rotated around until she could see Libbie, then bounced like a dog happy to see its owner. She let out a few more shrieks. This time I caught sight of her long, rat-like front teeth. Oh, good. So she was basically an enormous rodent.
Oh, yeah! She's my girl! I love this lady. She raised me by hand.
Okay. That was a good sign for Libbie, but it didn't necessarily mean Cassie wanted to go with her. I took a deep breath and let out a few more grunts and clicks. Cassie, Libbie is leaving the sanctuary for good. She wants to take you with her. Do you want to go with Libbie, or would you rather stay behind at the sanctuary?
Cassie bounced on her back legs and let out some low grunts. I want to go with Libbie! I want to go with Libbie!
I raised my brows. Well, that was pretty definitive. But I tried again, grunting and growling. You sure? You don't want to stay behind with your other wombat friends?
Cassie’s eyes narrowed, and she let out a low growl. No way. There's only one other wombat, anyway. That guy is—she cocked her head, thinking—that guy is weird.
I frowned. Weird, how?
She grunted. Hard to talk to. Gives me the heebie-jeebies. She threw her head back and jumped again. I want to go with Libbie! Libbie, Libbie, Libbie!
All right, that settled it for me, at least. I dusted off the black slacks I'd borrowed and stood, dragging the pack back to the little group.
Libbie watched intently, her hands clasped together. "Well?"
I looked at Peter and shrugged. "Cassie said she wanted to go with Libbie.”
The former zookeeper let out a happy shriek and dashed over to the pack, scooping the wombat and the bag up together and holding them tight to her. She squeezed her eyes shut, still squealing and rocked back and forth.
While I knew we weren't technically following the letter of the law, I couldn't help but smile up at Peter. He’d done a good thing, reuniting a wombat with her adopted mother. I squeezed his arm. "Nice work Officer Flint. You’ve made that lady and that wombat very happy.”
Peter nodded, his lips pressed tight together. I suspected he wasn't entirely comfortable with this decision, but I felt it was the right one, morally. Most of the time, people had to guess at animals’ wishes and make the best decisions they could. But in this case, Cassie had let us know exactly what she wanted for herself, and I thought it right to honor that. Plus, the two of them were pretty cute together.
Peter cleared his throat. "Miss Brown?"
Libbie and the wombat, still embracing each other, looked our way.
Peter’s tone grew serious. "Don't leave the island—you’re still a suspect in an active investigation."
Libbie nodded and went back to squealing and hugging Cassie. Peter glanced down at me, his expression soft, and winked.
15
REBECCA
Peter, Daisy, and I left Libbie to celebrate with her wombat and headed back toward the big stone mansion.
"I think we need to go speak to this Rebecca Rutherford person, Malorie’s stepdaughter." Peter's warm hand wrapped around mine.
"Agreed." I ticked the facts off on my free hand. "We have multiple witnesses who all say Rebecca hated Malorie, she crashed the party tonight, and Libbie saw the two of them arguing in the sanctuary. Quincy probably left the office unlocked, giving Rebecca access to the poisoned dart. She's got means, motive, and opportunity."
Peter grinned down at me.
"What?" I pursed my lips and opened my eyes wide.
He shook his head, smiling. "Nothing, just… you sound like a cop again."
I grinned, pleased. "Or a good lawyer."
AFTER SOME ASKING AROUND, we discovered that Rebecca was no longer at the party. I raised my brows at that. "Fleeing the scene of a crime? Sounds like something a murderer would do."
Peter called up to Edna at the station using his magical communication device and got Rebecca Rutherford's address.
Peter, his canine partner, and I trekked through the blustery fall night, my hands shoved in my pockets, until we reached the lower tier of the island, just a couple of levels above my own home in the dingy Darkmoon Nightmarket district.
A bell rang as we stepped into the building's lobby. Scratched brass mailboxes lined the left-hand wall, while a flickering chandelier cast the only light in the mildewed space. We made our way across a rug that looked like it was more dust than fabric and climbed the rickety, groaning staircase to the third floor.
I raised a brow. "This is where Rebecca lives? I thought the Rutherfords were well-off."
Peter glanced back at me. "Quincy told us that Malorie’s first husband left every
thing to her, remember?” He frowned as he took in the peeling wallpaper and the sparking enchanted oil lantern on the wall. "Guess he meant everything."
Something heavy thumped against the hallway wall to our right, and shouts sounded behind the next door. Peter hesitated, clearly wanting to intervene, but I placed my hands on his shoulders and pushed him forward.
"One case at a time, Officer Flint."
Peter rapped on the door with a brass number three nailed crookedly into it. Light footsteps sounded, followed by the click of several locks, and then the door opened a crack. A pale eye peered out at us.
"What do you want?"
Hospitality at its finest.
Peter cleared his throat. "I'm Officer Flint, and this is my partner, Daisy." He turned to look at me, and his lips twitched toward a smile. "And this is police consultant Jolene Hartgrave. We're looking for Rebecca Rutherford?"
The woman’s eye, barely visible through the dark crack in the door, grew wider, then her lid fluttered and she stumbled back. "I— Now is not a good time. Come back later."
I pressed my lips together and raised my brows at Peter. That was exactly what a guilty party would do.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but this can't wait. Are you Rebecca Rutherford?"
The woman let out a choked sob, then dragged herself to the door. She slid the chain off then opened it wider. She stood to the side, her head hanging, and gestured for us to enter. "Yes, I'm Rebecca Rutherford. Come in." She said it like she already knew she was done for.
I followed Peter and Daisy inside and looked around. She hadn’t been kidding about it being a bad time. Unless her apartment looked like this all the time? I shuddered.
Shouts and thumps still sounded from the neighbors through the thin walls. A dead plant sat in front of the window, which had been propped slightly open and let in sounds from the street—shattering glass and angry shouts. I raised my eyebrows and nodded as I looked around. Felt like home. It was extremely odd for an heiress to be living in the kind of squalor I was used to.
Aside from the one kitchen window with the plant, all the others were covered in black drapes, as was a full-length mirror and a couple of smaller ones hanging on the walls. The place was cluttered, the sink piled with dirty dishes, and several bouquets of dying flowers were littered on dressers and a dinette set.
"My mother recently passed away." Rebecca dabbed at her eyes with the hanky, and I suddenly realized that she was also wearing funeral blacks. Her gray, wiry hair hung unstyled around her drawn face, her eyes swollen from crying. She wrung the hanky between her trembling hands.
I gasped as I recognized her as the woman who’d pushed past me earlier this evening. “You were at the Night of the Phoenix party tonight.”
She gulped and shook her head, but Daisy growled. Liar.
I nodded at Peter. “I saw her—she rushed out of there looking upset.”
16
PUSHED TO THE EDGE
Peter and I exchanged concerned looks, as Daisy sniffed around the water-rotted base of the kitchen cupboards.
“I’m sorry to hear about your mother.” Peter stepped closer to the older woman and removed his policeman's cap. "Are you all right?"
Rebecca hadn't moved from her place beside the door, so Peter gently closed it and turned one of the locks. She stared down at the hanky between her trembling hands and nodded. “Uh-huh.”
Daisy looked up from her sniffing and let out a quiet growl. Lie.
I shot her a flat look. No doy, Daisy. I wasn't sure I'd seen anyone who looked less okay in my life.
Peter, in a soft tone, asked, “Do you know why we’re here, Ms. Rutherford?"
Rebecca's voice shook. "No…"
Daisy trotted to Peter’s side and growled. Lie.
Peter almost looked regretful as he glanced down at his dog and then addressed the mourning woman. "My dog, Daisy, smells lies. I'd like you to keep that in mind as you answer our questions."
Rebecca slumped against the wall and let out a whimper.
Oh, she was definitely guilty.
Peter licked his lips and began gently. "We’re here because Malorie Rutherford, your stepmother, was killed earlier this evening at a fundraising event."
Rebecca did her best to look surprised, but her expression just came out pained. "Oh?"
Daisy looked almost bored as she huffed. She's lying.
I crossed my arms. “Again—I saw you. You bumped into me.”
Rebecca whimpered. She startled when Peter began speaking again.
"A couple of witnesses say they saw you speaking with Malorie.”
“Oh, uh—” She scratched at the back of her neck and looked away. “They must’ve been mistaken.”
Daisy, ears flat, growled. Untrue.
I crossed my arms and huffed. “You are aware that we know you’re lying, right?”
Muffled shouts sounded from the other side of the wall that Rebecca leaned against. The woman cowered.
Peter, frowning, kept his tone gentle but firm. “Did you kill Malorie Rutherford?”
She looked up so quickly and her tone grew suddenly so venomous that I startled and instinctively took a step behind Peter.
“It’s Malorie Smithe, Smithe!” Spit flew from her mouth, illuminated by the few stubby candlesticks littered about the apartment. “How dare she keep my father’s name!” She bared her teeth and clenched her bony hands. “Yes, okay? Yes, I killed her!”
Peter and I looked at Daisy, who stood with her chest puffed up between Peter and the suddenly irate woman. The dog barked. True!
I shrugged at Peter. “Well, this has been an easy one.” I dusted off my hands. “Case closed.”
Rebecca lunged forward, and Peter spread his arms wide to shield me. The hackles rose on Daisy’s neck, but the older woman seemed not to notice the danger she was in from the huge German shepherd. She bared her yellowing teeth and snarled.
“That witch took everything from me! She killed my father—you’ve heard that, right? He disappeared at the last phoenix party, not long after he left my mother for that bottom-sucking sea slug!” She ground her teeth. “She got him to put the ring around her finger and then she whacked him! Probably fed him to the lava bear!”
“Hm. Lava bear?” I made a mental note to check that out.
Peter slowly withdrew his wand from his pocket. “So you killed Malorie for revenge? Why now?”
Rebecca sneered. “I got my revenge, yes, but…” She dropped her gaze and frowned, suddenly troubled. “I didn’t actually mean to kill her.” She looked up and spread her palms imploringly. “I’d been trying to get her to see me for weeks. My mother passed away recently, but she was sick for a very long time. When Malorie inherited my father’s estate, very little money came to me or my mother. The medical bills added up. I got desperate.”
Peter nodded, and I marveled at the compassion he could show a woman who was clearly so far gone that she’d just killed someone.
Rebecca talked with her hands, the hankie fluttering between them. “She wouldn’t even show me the courtesy of speaking with me! So I snuck into her party. She couldn’t just ignore me there—not in front of all her high-class friends. She asked me to step in the back, into the sanctuary for more privacy.”
Her pale eyes grew hard. “I demanded more of my dad’s money.” She clenched her jaw, eyes far away. “We walked and talked. She couldn’t even give me her full attention. Said she wanted to make sure all was in order in the phoenix’s cage. Malorie, always so smug, refused to give me a single coin and I—I got angry and shoved her—” Rebecca’s eyes opened wide, as though the scene were playing out in front of her again. “She fell backward into the phoenix’s cage. And she lay there—unmoving.”
I raised my brows. Well, that explained Malorie’s head wound.
She pressed a trembling hand over her mouth. “I killed her. After that I panicked. I figured the phoenix would burn away the evidence and maybe more of my father’s estate would revert to me. I
ran.”
A heavy silence followed until Daisy, pointy ears pricked and hackles still raised, whined. All true.
“Welp.” I squeezed Peter’s shoulder and lowered my voice so that only he could hear. “The ramen carts are still going to be open after you process her. Want to grab some dinner and call it an early night, Officer Flint?”
He turned and gave me a quick grin before clearing his throat and turning back to Rebecca, who stood with her chest heaving and a crazed gleam in her eye.
Yep. Super guilty.
Peter’s scroll and quill magically appeared beside him, and he perused the scribbled writing for a moment before looking up at the madwoman. “Just a couple more things, ma’am?”
Her eyes shifted to his face, and Daisy, who still stood between them, tensed.
“After you pushed Malorie off the railing, what did you do with the phoenix, and why did you kill that other woman?”
I frowned. Oh, yeah. In all the excitement of solving Malorie’s murder, I’d nearly forgotten about our psychedelic Jane Doe.
Rebecca wrung her kerchief. “Phoenix? Other woman?” She shook herself. “I’m sorry—the firebird was in the cage when Malorie fell.” She shuddered. “Her body nearly crushed it. It had to scamper out of the way. Are you telling me it’s not there now?”
I sucked on my lips. “Afraid so. It’s how we figured out Malorie was dead.” I lifted a palm. “The whole unburned body thing?”
Rebecca frowned and shook her head. “And what other woman? I haven’t killed anyone else!”
Daisy, still on alert, let out a curt whine. All true.
Peter and I exchanged confused looks.
He cleared his throat. “Walk us through everything again. You say you pushed Malorie and she fell into the phoenix’s cage?”
“Yes—there’s a second-floor viewing platform. She toppled over the railing.”
Peter nodded. “That would explain the head wound—she probably sustained it when she landed. Did you then go get the blow gun from the office and shoot her with a poisoned dart, just to ensure she was truly gone?”