“He was super helpful and said he’d ask some Army buddies about the weird bullet. I kinda blurted ‘Grams said’ before I could stop myself.”
“Did he hear you?”
“Oh he heard. He heard.” I pace from the four-poster to the secret door.
“Water under the bridge. We can’t cry over spilt milk.”
Laughter grips me. “A bird in the hand . . . a stitch in time . . . ” I laugh so hard tears come to my eyes.
“Well, I never.” Grams crosses her arms and shoots up to the ceiling.
“I thought we were just shouting out proverbs.” I wipe the happy tears from my eyes and catch my breath. “Regardless, it will be a day or two until we hear back from Odell. Where does that leave us?”
“Don’t you mean irregardless?”
I take a deep breath and prepare to launch into my well-rehearsed speech on this pet peeve, when Grams zips down to the Persian rug, laughing all the way.
“Well played. Well played.” I like this comfortable banter with my Ghost-ma.
She chuckles in spite of our no-mind-reading rule. “To answer the question you asked out loud, it leaves us with a pressing need to search Cal’s office. Are you able to do that tonight?”
Before I can answer, Twiggy’s disembodied voice interrupts.
“Mr. Willoughby is here, Mitzy.”
I look at Grams. “What the heck is that? Can she hear everything we’re saying?”
“It’s an intercom, dear. Over there next to the bookcase.” She floats toward the secret door. “See this fancy scrollwork? It covers the speakers, and these mother-of-pearl inlaid buttons are the way to respond. The one on the left let’s you talk and the one on the right is the ‘call’ button to ring the back room. The middle rings the museum.”
That reminds me that I haven’t seen the museum yet. Maybe tomorrow. I push the button on the left. “Can you send him up to the apartment?”
“You have to take your finger off to hear her reply,” Grams prompts.
“—his way, doll,” is all I catch, but I get the gist.
“Does Silas know about you?”
Grams looks at me and shrugs. “Does he know about you?”
“We’re not talking about me.”
Grams lifts a finger to protest.
I silence her with a shake of my head. “I’m not ready to talk about the incident. Is that clear?”
She nods obediently.
“Now, back to my question. Does he know you’re hanging around the bookshop like some kind of afterlife mascot?”
“Oh, that.” She hesitates and doesn’t make eye contact. “Let’s see if he picks up on anything.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“What are you getting at, honey?” She looks pensive.
“Do I tell Silas that the ghost of my dearly departed grandmother hangs out with me in the apartment?”
“It’s not hanging out, Mitzy. I’m trapped in between. I can’t leave the bookshop for some reason. I’m just making the best of things.”
I open my mouth to take offense at that last bit, but the bookcase slides open and Silas fixes me with a disappointed look.
“Good morning, Mitzy.”
He makes no effort to hide his distaste for my preferred name. “Hey, Silas. What brings you up to the clubhouse?”
He glances at the papers strewn about the floor. “Any progress?”
I bring him up to speed on my suspicions as Grams swirls closer.
Silas stiffens and steps past me. “I feel a chill. Do you have a window open?”
I raise an eyebrow in her direction and she snickers. “Maybe it’s a sense and not see thing, like Pyewacket.”
“Maybe,” I reply.
Silas looks at me as though I’m daft. “Maybe? Are you reporting that you are unable to recall if you raised a sash?” He looks down the row of casements. “They appear to be secure.”
Grams swirls closer.
Silas shivers. “Do you feel it right now?”
He pulls a pair of round spectacles out of his coat pocket and holds them in his right hand. He murmurs something I can’t quite make out and hooks the curved brass bows behind his ears. As he peers through the taffy-tinted lenses, a slow smile spreads across his lined face. “Ah, Isadora. I had hoped it was you.”
My face goes slack. I can’t help but wonder what just happened!
“Silas is an alchemist, dear.”
I gaze back and forth between my Ghost-ma and my lawyer-turned-wizard and can’t find a single syllable.
“Can you communicate with her?” asks Silas.
I close my mouth, swallow, and—
“Mitzy, he can see me now, but he can’t hear me. Maybe it will take some time . . . I don’t know how this works. You have to bring him up to speed.”
I continue to search my brain for word bits.
“Sweetie, Silas is the one who uncovered the information in one of my wonderful books. He’s studied the rare books since I began collecting them and he convinced me I could find a way to wedge myself between the worlds and have a chance to meet you.”
I manage to force out a single word, “Yes.”
He smiles up at Grams, and she presses her hands to her ghost-chest in a pantomime of gratitude.
I find my voice. “Are you a wizard?”
Silas chuckles and coughs. “I’m an alchemist. It’s the study of mystic and scientific transmutation of matter. Some people confuse it with wizardry. Some might even be inclined to label me a warlock; however, I would protest such nonsense.”
A memory leaps forward. “That day in the hospital! When you touched my gunshot wound and I stopped bleeding . . . Was that magic?”
“It’s not magic, Mitzy. Through the knowledge I’ve gathered, I’m able to make permanent changes to the state of matter.” He smiles warmly.
“Sounds like magic to me.”
Grams floats between us. “It’s not magic, dear. I’d say it’s more philosophical than spells and potions.”
“It sounds like magic to me, Grams.”
Silas’s sagging cheeks perk up. “You can truly communicate. Magnificent!” He claps his hands together and nods. “We did it, Isadora.”
A happy glistening of tears wets the corners of his eyes, and despite my confusion, I can’t stop myself. I hug Silas tightly. “Thank you. Thank you for giving me a chance to know my grandmother.”
He stiffens uncomfortably, clears his throat, and steps away. “You’re quite welcome. Now, I came on business.” He takes off the round spectacles and slips them back in his pocket. “I’ve arranged a meeting with your father.”
“Oh.” Now that he’s scheduled something, I’m not entirely sure I’m ready to meet dear old Dad. I’m looking into the case, and I hope he’s not guilty, but what if he is?
“You know your father didn’t do this, Mitzy. You have to meet him and hear his side.” Grams flickers in and out. The powerful emotions must be draining her or something.
She has a point. I’m pretty certain my dad didn’t commit the murder, and I’ve lost everyone else in my life. What have I got left to lose? “I’d like to hear his version of events.”
Silas nods.
“When do we meet?”
“How about breakfast tomorrow at that dining establishment you prefer?”
“Myrtle’s Diner? That seems too public. I might cry or yell or—”
Silas offers another option. “How about in the museum, after breakfast? Perhaps 10:00?”
“All right. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”
Silas puts on his spectacles, smiles at Grams, and says, “That gown and that age suit you, Isadora. Until tomorrow.”
She waves.
As the door closes behind him, I fire off a few inquisitions. “Um, why didn’t you tell me about Silas and the alchemy? Why didn’t you mention you planned to stick around after death? And how on earth did you and Silas come up with this crazy plan?”
After hours of questio
n and answer regarding rare books, magic, alchemy, and the afterlife, I’m temporarily out of queries. I reserve the right to re-open the investigation at any time.
Grams agrees to my terms.
Back to the business of my current investigation.
“Tell me again how this thirty-year-old key to a penthouse office is going to work?”
Grams explains the layout of the train station/office complex for Midwest Union Railway and how easy it will be for me to gain access to Cal’s office.
“Now, I haven’t been there in years, dear, but they never had any security or anything. Pin Cherry is a safe town.”
Except for Cal’s murder, I guess.
We agree to disagree on the relative safety of the town and enter the holy closet to select the proper attire for prowling. I vote for all black, but Grams wisely points out that I don’t want to look like a burglar.
In the end, we agree on a charcoal-grey Donna Karan pantsuit with a lilac blouse.
“You’ll look like you belong there. If anyone is there after hours, they won’t think twice about a business woman with a key to the place.” Grams nearly pats herself on the back.
“If anyone is there after hours, I’m going to rip out of there like a cat with its tail on fire.”
Pyewacket gives a soft hiss from his perch atop the antique mahogany armoire.
“Oh Mitzy, so dramatic.” Grams rolls her eyes.
I plug my phone in. I’ve seen enough movies to know that a fully charged battery is essential for spy photography. “Do you have a thumb drive, Grams?”
“Is that a gardening tool?”
I chuckle. “It’s to save files from a hard drive.”
“You’ve lost me, honey. Just take pictures.”
My spy kit is shy a few nifty gadgets, but I resign myself to reality and wait for sunset.
Chapter 21
The narrow streets around the train station are utterly deserted. I drive by several times to make sure there are no cars in the parking lot.
It seems the only folks out at this time of night are a few die-hard locals at the dive bar, Final Destination, down by the docks.
Once I satisfy my nerves, I park my rather obvious silver gull-wing Mercedes two blocks over and walk back to the Midwest Union Railway building.
I slide the key in the lock in the back door and whisper a prayer as I apply pressure to the key.
CLICK!
No way. Grams will never let me forget this. I carefully open the door and tiptoe down the hallway, searching for the steps up to Cal’s office.
I get turned around a couple times, but eventually find the stairwell Grams described and gain access to the office with my handy master key.
The room is impressive. Enclosed in thick, gleaming glass, Cal’s office looks over the entire train station. The converted building houses office space, conference rooms, a break room, and part of the original terminal has been preserved as a display housing a shining steam engine.
I close the door and lock it. Again, I’ve seen the movies.
I reach for my phone and panic. I pat myself up one side and down the other and stifle a scream. I left my flipping phone on the charger!
New plan. If I find something important—take it.
I choose a methodical search pattern. Framed photos. Bookcase. Desk. Trash.
I make my way around the Viking statue in the corner and move to the photos hanging on the one section of wall that is not glass. The light from the few after-hours fixtures in the station cast enough illumination for me to make out the faces. Two family photos from my father’s early years. I chuckle at the likeness of the Isadora in the photos to her current form. She does indeed look similar to the ghost that haunts my bookshop. The third image is a hunting-trophy shot with Cal, a moose, and another man I don’t recognize. The fourth picture is much older. Cal looks about twenty, and he and three buddies are all bunched together for the camera. They each have a cigarette hanging from the corners of their mouths and they are all in military uniforms. Army, I’m guessing. Before I turn away, something grabs my eye. That man next to Cal—
I inhale sharply. I’d recognize that buzz cut anywhere. The hair might be several shades darker, but that man next to Cal is absolutely Odell Johnson.
Funny, Odell never mentioned they served together. I make a mental note to ask Grams if she knew.
The bookcase holds a few small art pieces, several awards, and hardbound volumes that seem to be all for show. In fact, one has a hollowed-out spot for a flask. Nice touch. But a thorough search doesn’t turn up any secret messages or hidden keys.
I pass the trash can on my way to the desk. Not to jump out of order, but the waste bin is empty.
The desk has been cleaned and organized. Possibly the sheriff, but more likely a secretary. Cal was apparently too modern to have a paper desk calendar and someone has taken his computer. I go through the drawers.
Nothing of interest in the top drawers. The right file drawer contains a bottle of D'Aincourt Cognac Premier Cru. The matte black bottle with raised metal insignia rests in a custom wooden case. Grampa Cal’s fancy. It’s irresistible. I have to take a sip.
It smells like baked pears with cinnamon. The taste of vanilla, nutmeg, and luscious fruit warms my whole tummy. Good gravy! So, this is how the other half lives.
I have one more sip. It’s beyond words.
I reluctantly replace the bottle. Didn’t Grams say they met at AA? Maybe Kitty drove him back to the bottle? I shrug and continue my search.
The left file drawer contains a few manila folders with notes for supplier meetings and one with receipts.
I sit in my grandfather’s cushy, ergonomic leather chair and sift through the slips of paper. Lunches, dinners, fishing trips, hunting lodges, and a—private investigator?
A noise from downstairs startles me. I shove the PI receipt in my bra and put the file folder back in the drawer.
If I hide under the desk and get discovered I’ll look guilty. If I walk around the room like I own the place—
I move toward the books on the shelf when the beam of a flashlight hits me right between the eyes.
“Don’t move. I’m going to need to see some identification.”
Great. Sheriff Erick.
He fumbles with the handle. “Miss, I’m going to need you to unlock this door, or I’ll be forced to break it down.”
I saw the thickness of the door and I’m certain he has no chance, despite his burly shoulders and powerful legs. However, I also know that he’s a little trigger-happy, and I don’t want another accidental bullet wound. No point in testing the breadth of Silas’s skills.
“Don’t shoot, Erick. I’m opening the door.”
“Miss Moon? I didn’t recognize you.”
I open the door.
He holsters his gun and stares at me.
I choose to take this as progress.
“How did you get inside that locked room?”
He doesn’t know I have a key. Time to think fast. “I came up earlier to get a feel for the kind of man my grandfather might’ve been. I guess the secretary didn’t see me sitting in here in the dark. She just locked me in. I’m awfully lucky you showed up. I could’ve been stuck in here until day shift.” I pat him gratefully on the back as I slip past and head to the stairs.
“Just a minute, Miss Moon.”
I stop, but don’t turn.
“The door unlocks from the inside.”
Darn! He’s got me there. “I must’ve forgotten with all the emotion of being in my grandfather’s office and knowing I’ll never have the chance to meet him. I wasn’t thinking straight.” There, that sounds like a solid girlie reason.
“You wouldn’t be poking around in Cal’s murder case would you?”
“Me? I just own a little bookshop. Before that, I was a barista. Hardly sounds like the pedigree of a crack detective.” I start down the steps.
He hurries to catch up, and the scent of his nearness gives me
a little infarction.
“If you happened to stumble across something you’d let me know, wouldn’t you, Moon?”
The sound of my name on his lips . . . “Have you hit a dead end in the case?” I reach the bottom of the stairs and turn. “You don’t still suspect me, do you?” I reach out and adjust the nameplate above his badge.
“Is that alcohol on your breath? Have you been drinking?”
Oops. “My grandfather had some lovely cognac is his—office. I just drank a toast to his memory.” It’s best not to mention the bottle was in the desk. I don’t want him to think I was snooping.
“I see.” He looks me up and down.
I shiver and smile. “You didn’t answer my question, Erick. Am I still a suspect?”
He swallows twice and looks everywhere except at me. “You’re not our primary suspect, but we haven’t found evidence that knocks you completely off the list.”
“There’s a list? Whose company am I keeping, Erick?”
“I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation.”
“Swallow once for yes.” I lean toward him. “Is Kitty on the list?”
He swallows and steps back.
“How about Finnegan?”
He swallows again. “Let’s clear out of the train station, Miss Moon.” He steers me out by my elbow.
I step out to the parking lot and chew the inside of my cheek. Maybe he’ll drive off and I can walk to my cleverly concealed car without his notice.
“Assuming you only had the one drink, can I give you a ride to your car?”
My eyes widen.
“I observed it parked over on Chokecherry Lane. This is the third building I cleared.”
Awww, he was worried about me. “Like I said, lucky you found me.”
He chuckles and opens the passenger door of the patrol car.
At least I’m sitting in front this time. That’s progress, too.
Chapter 22
I quietly let myself into the bookshop and make my way without the aid of light. I wish I had my phone.
I am gaining some familiarity with the place, and I’m rather proud that I’ve made it to within sight of the chained staircase without—
CRASH!
Fries and Alibis Page 11