A Magical Trio

by A. A. Albright

  ‘Yeah, I am.’ I finally stopped staring and found my voice. ‘And I was wondering about the staff on the train. Who does the hiring? Because I find it a bit odd that anyone would employ a waiter with a Vlad’s Boys tattoo to serve dayturners.’

  The driver sighed and put his cap back on his head. ‘As do I. And believe me, I’ve had words. But I have no say in hiring or firing. You’ll have to speak to human resources about that. Mick Plimpton – he’s your man.’

  ≈

  The fact that a supernatural train service had a human resource manager was, honestly, the most surprising thing I’d learned since arriving in Riddler’s Edge. Mick Plimpton’s office was based in Dublin, in a witch enclave called Warren Lane. Just one of the many place names I had listed in my special notebook. Take that, John!

  I would have been a lot more excited to see the place if it hadn’t been for the fact that we were, once again, travelling in Greg’s Wizardly Wagon. By the time we were parked on the street in Warren Lane, I was feeling so unwell that I couldn’t even get giddy about the fact that a man was flying past me on a broom.

  The office itself wouldn’t have made anyone giddy, though. It was bland and modern, with a bland and modern man sitting behind a bland and modern desk, pretending to be too busy typing to speak to us. Eventually he looked up and said, ‘Sorry, just had to shoot off a super-important email. What can I do you for?’

  I shrugged. ‘I’ve been accused of loitering in the past.’

  His smile fell. ‘It was a play on words.’

  ‘And a hilarious one, too.’ I sat forward. ‘We’re from the Daily Riddler. We were told you’re in charge of hiring the staff on the Riddler’s Express.’

  A self-important look crossed his face. ‘That’s me. Mick Plimpton, human resources manager. Our little joke, of course. I’d never actually hire a human for one of our trains. Ugh! Whenever new staff is needed, Mick’s your man! I have the final say on every staffing issue in the Irish supernatural train services. And I think I say with confidence that I am the best man for the job.’

  ‘Oh?’ I arched a brow. ‘Well then you’ll be just the man to tell me – how the hell did you think it was a good idea to hire someone from a well-known hate group? Did you actually think it was appropriate for Gunnar to serve meals to the very people his organisation has sworn to kill?’

  His eyes darted to Greg. ‘I … she … I’ve already spoken to Dylan Quinn about this. Why is this woman here, Greg?’

  Greg fished a liquorice stick from one of his pockets and chewed it thoughtfully. ‘You should address any questions you have to Ash. She’s the boss.’

  I smiled at Greg. ‘I prefer to think of us as partners. But you’re right. This is my story, so I’m not sure why Mr Plimpton here is ignoring me. Mr Plimpton?’

  His lip curled. ‘I didn’t know Gunnar was a member of Vlad’s Boys. I’ve only just heard about the tattoo, and trust me – he didn’t have it when I interviewed him. We have many vampires working in our train services. The early and late routes seem to suit them. Why, on that route alone we have Suzette, Vikram and Miriam. Each and every one of them is an exemplary employee, and I find your line of questioning to be – quite frankly – racist against vampires.’

  Greg looked like he was about to choke on his liquorice. I patted his back and glared at Mr Plimpton. ‘If you’re trying to shift the spotlight, Mr Plimpton, then you’re failing miserably. I take no issue with your hiring vampires. I take issue with your hiring a member of Vlad’s Boys. I came here today to get your take on that, and to make sure I accurately represented your point of view in my article.’ I stood up. ‘But I think I already have all I need.’

  18. The Fisherman’s Friend

  When Greg and I returned to the office, he had to run off and help Grace with a computer emergency, so I typed up my notes alone, replaying the day’s events in my mind. There was something that everyone was overlooking, I just knew there was. And seeing as this was the first story of mine that wouldn’t have the juicy bits edited to death, I wanted to do it justice.

  I read the report that Detective Quinn had submitted that morning, to see how his interview with Gunnar had gone. There wasn’t much to read, though, because Gunnar had been just as unwilling to talk with the detective as he’d been with me.

  With nothing new to read in the detective’s latest report, I reread everything he had submitted previously, in case there was anything I missed. I wanted to check, in particular, if Mick Plimpton had been telling the truth about Gunnar’s tattoo. But it seemed that it was a recent addition, just as he’d said. Detective Quinn wrote that he saw the tattoo for the first time on the day of Bathsheba’s murder, even though he’d interviewed Gunnar before. And in those previous interviews, Gunnar had seemed like little more than your average jerk.

  Every passenger and member of staff on the train had received thorough background checks, and I took another look through all of those, too. Some staff members seemed to have received a greater going over than others – the younger guys, in particular, because intelligence seemed to suggest that Vlad’s Boys specifically recruited younger men.

  Now that his tattoo made his affiliation so clear, it really did seem that Gunnar was the most likely suspect. If only it weren’t for the pesky little matter of Greg’s aura-reading equipment. I wondered how the detective would react when Greg and I offered him that evidence tomorrow. Probably with only slightly more crankiness than usual.

  I was holding a well-chewed pen in one hand, my other hand poised at the computer keyboard, when a shadow fell across my desk.

  ‘Still here?’ asked Grace. She was holding a compact open, applying a fresh coat of lipstick.

  ‘I was hoping to go over some things with Greg before the end of the day,’ I said.

  Grace laughed lightly. ‘The end of the day has long passed. Greg’s left the building. I saw him call out a goodbye to you, but you didn’t seem to notice. You and I are the only ones left. And …’ She glanced at her watch. ‘… you’re almost late for your dinner with Arnold. Although I can’t say I blame you if you want to take a rain check.’

  I snatched up my purse and stood up. ‘Good goddess, I didn’t realise the time. I … I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then? I mean, unless Arnold’s decided to bring the trial to an early end.’ As I said it aloud, I realised that I was actually worried about that very thing. What if I came out of the Fisherman’s Friend remembering nothing?

  ‘He wouldn’t dare end the trial early,’ said Grace. She sat on the desk, giving me an even better look at her outfit. It was magnificent. A poodle skirt, red heels and a boat-neck sweater. ‘Listen Aisling, I … well, Greg’s been updating me on your progress. And I just want to say, it sounds like you’re doing an adequate job.’ She stood up once more and snapped her compact shut. ‘Enjoy your dinner. It’s not a supernatural establishment, but it’s an interesting little place if you’re in the mood for that sort of thing. Oh, but whatever you do, do not order the seafood platter.’ She clicked her fingers, and disappeared.

  For a moment I stood there, gaping at the spot where she’d just been. Sure, I’d read all about the whole finger-clicking thing, but boy oh boy! There had been many moments in life when I’d wished I could click my fingers and disappear. Tonight’s dinner might just end with such a moment. But seeing as I didn’t have magic at my fingertips, I picked up my bag and walked to the door.

  ≈

  Now that I was standing out in front of the Fisherman’s Friend, it didn’t look olde-worlde – it just looked ancient. Like the tavern I’d been to in Riddler’s Cove, it too had a thatched roof. But this thatch clearly needed work. It was thinning in spots, and nearly non-existent in others. The stonework of the building was higgledy-piggledy, and to be honest, I wasn’t sure how it remained standing.

  I pushed the door open gingerly, afraid that it would fall off its hinges, and entered a dark room. I had to step down into it, and even then the ceiling beams felt too close for comf
ort. I wondered what someone as tall as Detective Quinn or even Greg would do in a place like this. Probably stoop.

  I could see Arnold in a booth in the far corner, waving at me. As I went to walk over, I noticed he wasn’t the only person I knew. Greg, Pru and Jared were seated at the bar, drinking stout and eating steak and chips.

  ‘I’ll be with you in a sec,’ I called to Arnold, and made my way to the bar. ‘I know you said you were having a boys’ night out,’ I said. ‘But this place wasn’t quite what I imagined. And also, I’m pretty sure Pru is a girl.’

  Pru tossed back some stout, burped, and then smiled at me. ‘I’m an honorary bloke tonight, and I intend to act like one.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘And what about the two of you?’ I arched a brow at Greg and Jared. ‘This is your usual haunt when you’re out for the night?’

  Jared gave an oh-so-innocent shrug. ‘It could be. I’m quite enjoying the local colour.’

  I glanced around the pub. There were three old men sitting at one end of the bar, and an even older two seated on stools by the fireplace. They all wore heavy black coats and caps, and not a single one of them was talking.

  ‘Uh huh. Local colour.’ Seeing as Greg was staying silent, I turned to him. ‘And that’s your answer, too? You’re also here for the local colour?’

  Greg’s face reddened. ‘I … well … y’know …’

  ‘Eloquently put. Well, I have to get over to Arnold. See you guys around.’

  As I turned to walk away, Pru caught me by the hand and said, ‘Wait. We’re here because of you, okay? We just want to make sure Arnold doesn’t do anything funny.’

  Greg looked down into his pint. ‘We want you to get the job, Ash. I’m getting sick of reporters coming and going. Pru really likes you. I like working with you. And, well, Jared just likes you because you’re so pretty. So will you do us a favour and come and chat with us when you’re done? So we can make sure you’re still … intact?’

  Aw! I was coming over all warm and fuzzy. Sure, Jared probably did just care because I was the latest female in town. But Pru and Greg really were two of the nicest people I’d ever met. Okay, so Greg was also the nuttiest, and the one with the most snacks on his person at any given time. But you could be nutty and nice, and Greg was the living proof.

  ‘But if I’ve lost my memory, how will I remember to come and talk to you guys?’

  ‘Good point,’ Jared said. ‘If you don’t come to us, we’ll come to you. And we’ll be keeping an eye out the whole time, okay? If you need us, just holler.’

  ‘Thanks guys.’ I felt a genuine swell of fondness, and had to stop myself from hugging the three of them. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  I joined Arnold in his booth, sliding in across from him. The fabric on the seats was a little on the shabby side, but it sure was comfortable.

  ‘I see you’re making friends.’ Arnold nodded in the direction of the bar.

  I picked up a menu and began to study it. ‘Mm hm,’ I said quietly. The menu was far shorter than the one on the train. There was steak and chips, lamb stew, and a seafood platter. There was a choice of apple tart with ice cream or apple tart with custard for dessert.

  Arnold seemed about to say something when a waitress approached. She was a woman in her sixties or so, with dyed red hair and the sort of outfit that made her look like a medieval wench. ‘Welcome to the Fisherman’s Friend,’ she said. ‘I’m Bod’s wife, Biddy.’ She pointed to the bar, where a man with an eye-patch and a fake parrot on his shoulder was pouring a pint. How had I missed him when I walked in? ‘That’s Bod,’ said Biddy. ‘Now, I know Arnold very well, but I’ve never seen you before, my love.’

  I pasted a smile on my face. ‘Well, you probably won’t be seeing much of me in the future, either. Arnold has me on trial at the Daily Riddler, and he’s very fussy about who he hires.’

  ‘The Daily Riddler!’ Biddy’s blue eyes widened, and a crazed look took over her face. ‘I just love their puzzles. Will you be adding more? Please say you’ll be adding more.’

  ‘That’s not really my department,’ I said. ‘I’m covering local news and events.’

  ‘Oh.’ Biddy’s face fell. ‘Well, that’s almost as good as doing the puzzles, I suppose. Although not much happens here. The local choir will be singing sea shanties in a fortnight. That might be worth covering. So what can I get you? The seafood platter’s on special offer. A platter for two is only a fiver. We’ll even throw in free chips.’

  ‘Thanks, but I can’t stand seafood.’ Actually, I loved seafood almost as much as I loved minestrone soup. But if you could get a platter for five quid, then it was probably best to heed Grace’s warning. ‘I’ll have the steak and chips.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Arnold. ‘And we’ll have a bottle of your finest red.’

  Biddy scribbled our orders down quickly, and went to walk away. ‘I’ll have a lemonade, actually,’ I called after her. ‘Not much of a wine drinker.’ Another lie. But I wasn’t about to drink anything Arnold gave me tonight. I’d be watching my lemonade like a hawk, too, because as soon as I looked away, he’d probably slip a potion into my glass.

  ‘You’re suspicious of me,’ he said sadly. ‘I can’t say I blame you. By now you know that I lied about my daughter. Her position has been vacant for far longer than I led you to believe. And though I wish she were, she isn’t spending her time writing crime novels.’ He let out a long sigh. ‘Dylan never should have told you the things he did. He’s made it all so much more difficult for you. I might have to have a word with his superiors, see if I can get him moved from Riddler’s Edge.’

  For about ten seconds, I just stared. He still had that sweet old man expression on his face, all benign and innocent. But he was so far from innocent in all of this. ‘You ...’ I began, shaking my head. ‘You …’ I continued, clearly getting into my stride. ‘You can’t …’

  Biddy arrived with our drinks, and I clutched my lemonade while I waited for her to leave.

  ‘This is not Detective Quinn’s fault!’ I hissed once she was out of earshot. ‘I pestered him into telling me the truth, and I still don’t think he would have told me a thing if he hadn’t thought I could handle it. He is a good man. A cantankerous one, maybe, but a good one, and if you try and get him relocated you’ll probably make an enemy of pretty much everyone in Riddler’s Edge. And what does it matter, anyway? He could have told me the biggest secret in the world, and it wouldn’t matter a jot. You’re just going to go and wipe my memory on Friday, the way you did with the other reporters. So why shouldn’t I know the truth, even if it’s just for a little while? And–’ Once again, I had to pause while Biddy arrived. This time she had our meals, and she chatted for at least two minutes before leaving the table.

  By the time she was gone, I was all out of anger. I just stared at Arnold, shaking my head. ‘You know what? It doesn’t matter. You’ll just go ahead and do what you want. Just tell me though, will you – what is the criteria that a person has to meet in order not to get their memory wiped?’

  He had begun to cut into his steak, and he ate about a quarter of it before answering. ‘You’ve already surpassed the others. Grace tells me that Dylan believes you can see things. He told her, apparently, that you could see the Wandering Wood. He said that you were figuring it all out on your own, anyway, and that all he did was help things along. I do believe you might just be the person I’m looking for. I have every confidence that you’ll pass the final trial on Friday.’

  I sat back, arms folded, regarding him. Sure, I hadn’t eaten since lunch time, but the thought of eating with him was suddenly turning my stomach. He still had that sweet-guy smile on his face, like he thought he was doing me a favour by giving me this opportunity in the first place. ‘You’re not just looking for any old reporter, are you? You’re looking for something more than that. I mean, there are people all over Ireland who know about the supernatural world and who help you keep it quiet. Like John. I’ll bet his whole job is to ma
ke sure the real stories never make it as far as the public.’

  His smile widened, and he put down his cutlery and clapped his hands. ‘You really are the best candidate, by far. I knew it as soon as I met you.’

  I sniffed my lemonade, and took a cautious sip. ‘You should record your conversations, you know. I think that listening back to them might give you some valuable insight into your many personality flaws. I’ve seen the Daily Riddler’s employment records, and every single one of those reporters whose memory you wiped would have been an excellent candidate for any newspaper. Each of them deserved the job on journalistic merit alone. So just come out and tell me, what are you really looking for? You might as well. I’ll have forgotten it come Friday.’

  He drained a full glass of wine before replying. Once he set the glass back on the table, I could see that the false smile had finally left his face. But it wasn’t replaced by the wiliness I expected to see in its place. Instead, he looked sad. Deeply, truly sad. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you. I am looking for someone in particular. I’m looking for my granddaughter.’

  19. Family Ties

  ‘Once there was a little girl,’ said Arnold, refilling his glass and sitting back. ‘And she was the loveliest little girl in the world. Her hair was a golden shade of red, her eyes were as blue as the sky, and her father loved her more than anything. Her mother had died in childbirth, so it was just the two of them, and yet it never felt lonely. They were so alike, you see. Kindred spirits. She loved to read and write, just as her father did. And oh, the stories she concocted.’

  He paused to wipe a tear from his eye, and I waited patiently, not wanting to say a thing that might make him stop.

  ‘As she grew older, she grew headstrong. But her father didn’t mind, not at first. She was a chip off the old block, as they say. She started to work for one of his newspapers, and her stubbornness ensured she always uncovered the real story. Her articles won awards all over the supernatural world. Her father couldn’t have been prouder. But then … then another man entered her life. She and her father fought about it, and she refused to leave this man. He was all wrong for her, she just couldn’t see it. But her father could. And he thought that, with a good dose of tough love, she would see it too.’ His voice trailed off, and he gazed down into his wine glass. He had long forgotten about the remainder of his steak, and all of his chips were as cold and uneaten as mine.