by Erin Johnson
Something else was nagging at me. I leaned against the wall and nibbled the inside of my cheek. “Heidi has a point though… what if Ludolf is using the sanctuary like jail? What if that’s where he’s sending shifters as punishment? Including the activist leaders he betrayed to curry favor with King Roch?”
Will frowned. “Okay, but why? He doesn’t need to do that. He could just kill anyone he wants to get rid of.”
Heidi nodded. “And why aren’t they just shifting back and like telling everyone, ‘Hey help me! I’m a person!’?”
I nodded. “He probably used some potion on them, and now instead of being stuck unable to shift into an animal form, like me, they’re stuck in animal form, unable to shift back.”
Heidi covered her mouth. “That’s so messed-up.”
Will paled. “All the more proof for my theory. The phoenix, tired of being imprisoned for all these years, attacked and killed Malorie when she fell into her cage.”
Peter leaned forward. “Yeah, but we still don’t know why or how the phoenix got ahold of that poisoned dart.”
I bit my lip. “And we don’t know what that photograph of the hand of her ex, Richard, meant to Malorie. Who murdered him and fed his body to a carnivorous plant?”
Will scoffed. “Uh, maybe the same lady who filled a zoo with trapped shifters?”
I exhaled slowly, already not a fan of what I was about to say. “I’m gonna go snoop around Ludolf’s lair. Maybe he still has records and I can find proof of the potions he used on those shifters trapped at the sanctuary. It’d either lend our theory proof, or maybe we could even figure out a cure for them so the shifters could testify about what Ludolf did to them.”
Peter sat upright. “I’m going with you.”
I grinned but shook my head. “Absolutely not.”
Heidi groaned. “I dunno, Peter.”
Will shook his head. “You can’t. You’ll def be killed.”
Peter dragged a big hand over his mouth. “I don’t like you going in there by yourself. It’s too dangerous—please, don’t. We can go back to the sanctuary and talk to more animals—they’ll probably give us all the answers we need.”
His eyes looked weary and desperate, a muscle in his jaw jumping. I could tell how worried he was, and I didn’t want to make it worse. I nodded. “Okay. Let’s do that.” I turned to my friends. “In the meantime, let’s keep looking through these photos.”
Will threw his head back and groaned. “It’s pointless.”
I raised my brows. “Keep looking, and I’ll buy you some coconut ice cream.”
He tipped his chin down and leveled me a serious look. “With sticky rice? From the cart I like?”
I rolled my eyes but grinned. “Yeah, whatever.”
He grabbed a stack of pictures off the chair beside him and pored over them. I paced as everyone munched and looked at the pictures. I ran over everything in my mind.
So Malorie’s first husband disappeared mysteriously, and we now had some evidence that he—or someone wearing his ring—had been eaten by a carnivorous plant at the last Night of the Phoenix party at the sanctuary.
I nibbled my thumb and traced a path back and forth in front of Heidi’s desk, the heels of my boots clicking along the linoleum. A few nights ago, fifty years to the day later, Malorie and the phoenix, who we now knew to be Maria Begin, died mysteriously. Malorie’s stepdaughter, Rebecca Rutherford, admitted to pushing Malorie into the enclosure in a fit of anger—but that hadn’t been how Malorie died. Where did that poisoned dart come from? Who had shot Malorie? And how had Maria Begin, the phoenix, died?
I frowned, thinking over our suspects. Rebecca had been consumed by guilt and fear and still mourning her recently deceased mother. I pictured her in her funeral blacks, all the mirrors in her shabby home covered in shrouds.
I froze, hardly daring to breathe as something slipped into place. The sanctuary—those mirrors that helped people see around corners had been covered in shrouds, too, after Malorie’s death. Had they had them fifty years ago, or were those recent installations?
“Jolene?”
Peter’s voice snapped me out of my deep thoughts. I looked up, grinning. “Check the photos for mirrors—round ones, mounted high up.”
Heidi bounced in her seat. “Found one!”
I rushed over to her and she handed me the photograph, pointing. Sure enough, the picture had captured not only one of the mirrors, but the reflection in it.
I grinned wider. “Check the reflections in the mirrors. Maybe one of them caught what happened to Richard Rutherford before his body was dumped inside that plant.”
Things moved quickly after that. It took another ten minutes, but we found enough photos with enough captured reflections to prove what happened to Richard Rutherford and who’d killed him.
Peter kissed my cheek. “You’re brilliant.”
I grinned, my face warm. “Go on.”
“Well, that solves one murder at least.” Will raised a brow. “What about the other ones? And I haven’t forgotten about that ice cream, by the way.”
I shrugged. “I’m hoping those will just kind of fall into place. And I’ll get you your ice cream.” I bit my lip, a theory starting to form. It stood to reason that someone who’d killed fifty years ago might strike again for the same reason. I nodded and turned to Peter.
“I think I’ve got it. Let’s get back up to the sanctuary.”
31
HABITS
We headed again to the top of the mountain and the sprawling Rutherford estate that contained the sanctuary. My legs had better look good after all this hiking up and down through Bijou Mer.
The servant showed us in, and we found Quincy with a pair of shears pruning a potted plant near the entrance to the sanctuary. He rose and gave us a sheepish grin. “We have a gardening staff, of course, but old habits die hard. I find it calming.”
I nodded. That’s right—he’d been the gardener before he married Malorie. Another bit of the puzzle made sense. I glanced at Peter, then back at Quincy. “That’s understandable—are you feeling stressed out from all the murdering?”
He blanched. “W-What?”
Peter’s hand closed around his wand, his eyes hard on the shears in Quincy’s hand. I grinned again, another piece of the puzzle falling into place for me. Quincy had a few habits—including his tendency to pick up small things and absentmindedly pocket them.
I stared Quincy down, a grim smile on my face. “We know that the phoenix was actually Maria Begin, a shifter. And we know that neither she nor Rebecca killed Malorie.”
Quincy scoffed, his jowls shaking. “What is this nonsense?” He glanced around, as if to sic his servants on us.
“Malorie was divorcing you. When Libbie showed her this photograph from the last Night of the Phoenix party fifty years ago, it wasn’t proof that Malorie killed her first husband, as Libbie thought.”
Peter flicked his wrist, and the photograph we’d found in the safe appeared in his hand. He held it up so Quincy could see. The man squinted through his glasses at it.
“What is this?”
I raised my brows. “It’s a picture that clearly shows a hand wearing Richard Rutherford’s distinctive ruby ring sticking out of the mouth of a meat-eating plant.”
Quincy took a step back, his mouth slack.
“Libbie thought Malorie paid her to leave to cover up her own guilt, but that wasn’t it, was it? Malorie saw it as proof that you killed her first husband, Quincy, and fed his body to one of your carnivorous plants. As the gardener, you’d have known the plant would dispose of the body nicely, leaving no trace.” I shrugged. “Maybe it was a suspicion Malorie had always held—maybe not—but she moved quickly once she realized her first husband had definitely been killed and suspected you. Malorie confronted you. You probably denied it at first, but confessed—that you’d done it for her, for the both of you together. She didn’t take it well, did she? Malorie didn’t like to ask questions—not about wher
e her animals came from or about the death of her husband—but once she knew the truth, she couldn’t handle being with you, knowing you’d killed Richard—because she did have actual feelings for him, that hadn’t been a lie.”
Quincy bared his teeth. “She had feelings for me, too!” His eyes grew huge and wild behind his thick glasses.
I edged closer to Peter, grateful that he and Daisy were by my side. Quincy seemed unanchored and likely to snap at any moment.
I nodded as Peter, Daisy, and I slowly advanced on him. “She did. But still—she told you it was over, didn’t she?”
Tears welled in Quincy’s darting eyes. “We could’ve worked it out. She didn’t mean that.”
I shook my head. “For all her foibles, Malorie wasn’t guilty of the one crime everyone suspected her of. In fact, you killed Richard Rutherford, isn’t that true?”
“What—no!” Quincy’s face turned bright red.
Daisy, who stood beside Peter, barked. Lie!
Peter shook his head, expression grim. “We don’t even need Daisy to tell us you’re lying. We have photo proof—the sanctuary’s mirrors captured you spelling Richard to death, then feeding his body to the plant.” He held up the stack of photos that we’d found.
Quincy stumbled backward toward the wooden rope bridge path that led deeper into the enclosures.
“Don’t go anywhere yet.” I raised my brows. “That was your first murder. You and Malorie had been having an affair back then. You killed her husband, she inherited his entire estate, and when you and Malorie married, you became rich.” I shrugged. “Which meant, when you could see that she was going to leave you, you knew that she could leverage her proof against you and you’d either end up penniless, or worse, thrown in jail for murder.”
I clicked my tongue. “But you two still had to get through the Night of the Phoenix party. You probably fought in the office, which is where you palmed the poison dart—a habit of yours. Grabbing things and carrying them around with you.”
Quincy edged back, shaking his head, mouth agape.
“Rebecca pulled Malorie aside. They argued when Malorie wouldn’t give Rebecca money. She shoved Malorie, and she fell into the phoenix’s cage, hitting her head and knocking her unconscious. The phoenix, tired of her life in captivity, snatched up the talon Malorie wore as a necklace and slashed herself across the heart with it.”
It’d come to me, just then, as I was speaking. That poor woman, Maria Begin, feared that her rebirth would simply mean fifty more years of captivity. As a phoenix, she didn’t even have the respite of death to look forward to—the cycle would go on, endlessly. No wonder she’d made the choice she’d made.
“When Maria died, she shifted back to her human form. Which was when the curtains came up. You, Quincy, were the first person to rush in and drop to Malorie’s side. Which was when you saw your chance.”
He sobbed and pressed a trembling hand to his mouth. “No.”
I nodded. “You told everyone Malorie was dead—you hoped she was. You thought all your problems were solved—if she didn’t leave you, you’d inherit her fortune. She couldn’t turn you in for murdering Richard.” I shrugged. “That was, until she blinked or breathed—somehow you realized she wasn’t dead.”
“That’s not it,” he gasped.
But Daisy barked. Lie!
I smirked—I knew it. I was on the right track. “You panicked… you only had a few moments before Mark came rushing in from the door on the other side. You remembered the poison dart in your pocket, the one you’d pocketed out of habit earlier, and with your back to everyone, pulled it out and stabbed Malorie with it. It’s how you got around Daisy—technically, you didn’t shoot your wife with the dart. You just stuck it in her neck. It did kill her then, and by the time Mark and the others rushed in, she was dead for real.”
Peter set his jaw. “Quincy Rutherford, you killed your wife, Malorie.”
“No!” He shook his head wildly. “I did not!”
Daisy growled and stalked out in front of Peter and me, her hackles raised. Lie!
I smirked. “You didn’t rush out of there to look for the phoenix. You snuck back to the office to grab the blowgun. You planted it to throw us off, didn’t you?”
“No.”
Daisy growled again. Lie. He does nothing but lie.
She stalked him, her ears flat, pointy teeth bared. Man, was I glad to be on her good side—usually.
The thin man lifted his wobbly chin and tried for some false bravado. “And besides the word of a dog and a lot of speculation, what proof do you have, hm?” His pinched eyes darted between us.
Peter crossed his arms over his chest. “We have photographic proof of you killing Richard Rutherford and feeding his body to a plant, plus enough circumstantial evidence in Malorie’s case to convict you.”
I held up a finger. “Especially when the judge factors in that you’ve been imprisoning trapped shifters.”
Quincy balled his hands into fists. “Malorie never told me that!”
I smirked. “Yeah, but Mark did. It’s why you hired him back, right? He knew that another vet would figure it out, which put you in a bind.”
Quincy snapped his mouth shut.
Peter pulled a pair of magically glowing gold handcuffs from his back pocket and started toward Quincy. “Quincy Rutherford, you’re under arrest for the murders of Richard and Malorie Rutherford.”
About that time, the backup Peter had called for on our way up the mountain showed up. Several other officers bustled in and took over booking Quincy and reading him his rights.
I pulled Peter aside, glancing around at the many enclosures. “How are we going to prove that these animals are trapped shifters?”
He squeezed my shoulder. “We’ll think of something.”
I bit my lip. “In the meantime, what’s going to happen to all of them?” Would the staff continue to make sure they were fed and cared for? Would Ludolf just make sure they were shipped to some new prison… or worse?
Peter gave me a tight smile. “Let’s talk later tonight, okay? We’ll make sure they’re cared for. For now, I’ve got to escort Quincy up to the station and turn in all the evidence. You want to come?”
I hesitated, then nodded. “Normally, yes, but—I’ve got to run home for something. I’ll meet up with you at your place right after!”
Daisy gave a noncommittal growl. You’re up to something.
Peter looked unconvinced for a moment, then pulled me in for a tight hug and kissed my forehead. “You were amazing tonight.”
I grinned against his chest. “You can tell me more soon.” I winked and dashed off, leaving Peter and the other cops to book Quincy.
32
RECORDS
I followed the twists and turns of the sewer, feeling slightly guilty that I hadn’t told Peter what I was up to. But if I’d told him I was going to sneak into Ludolf’s potion making lair and try to steal his files, he’d have insisted on going with me and then we’d both have probably ended up dead and there was no point in that.
I’d worn my old boots, and my footsteps splashed along the dirty water pooled at the bottom of the round stone tunnels. Torches set into brackets on the curved wall at uneven intervals lit my way in flickering orange light. The tunnels grew narrower and darker, the stones crumbling away. While the rest of the shifter underground had surprised me with how lively it was—there were bars, restaurants, and housing developments down here—Ludolf had hidden his potion makers in an ancient, unfrequented part of the sewers.
A red, flickering glow up ahead let me know I was close. I reached back and tightened my high ponytail, then squared my shoulders. I’d been summoned down here several times to have potions tested on me.
My plan was a loose one, at best, but I planned to bluff my way in. I hoped the three creepy old potion makers bought it and were so distracted by their work, as they had been every other time I’d been dragged down here, that they wouldn’t notice me snooping around.
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My heart pounded in my chest with nerves, but I plastered on a bright smile and ducked through the half-collapsed doorway into a large, round room. I gave a half wave. “Hey, ladies.”
Three hunched old women, who could’ve been triplets, worked around the room at various stations. One stood beside the huge cauldron, stirring a wooden paddle through a bubbling green liquid, red flames licking the side of the black iron pot. Another sat on a tall stool using a black blade to chop something that looked a lot like frog legs. The third stood at the top of a tall rolling ladder, organizing glass vials on one of the top shelves that ringed the room.
The shelves were formed from stones and rocks that either jutted out or were set back into the wall to form alcoves. Every inch of wall was littered with glass vials, jars of glowing potions in all colors, and strange specimens. Super homey.
The women focused on their work, their stringy gray hair half covering their faces. None of them so much as glanced my way. Ludolf was thankfully absent.
I sucked in a breath, my chest tight and voice unnaturally high. “So, Ludolf asked me to come down here? He might want to test something on me or just… I don’t know… talk?”
My excuse for being down there seemed incredibly thin, but the women made no comment, didn’t even hesitate in their work.
I nodded and ran my tongue over my teeth. “Cool cool cool. Don’t mind me.”
I threaded through the grouping of stone tables in the center of the round room, past the woman on the stool. She picked up a mortar and pestle and began to grind up something that hissed and sizzled. A pungent, acidic smell like burning hair filled the room, and I fought to keep my ramen down.
I sidled past her and snuck to the large wooden cabinet at the far side of the room beside the second entrance. I’d never been past this point and assumed the other door led to a private area for Ludolf.