by Beth Lyons
“Necromancy, Vox. Really?”
“Sure. This is about justice. Using an evil spell for good…. Why not?”
“How very… bardic of you.” Boleian stroked his beard. “Don’t supposed you’ve ever tried talking to a corpse? First, their jaw has to be fairly intact. The girl in gold, she was strangled, so she might have trouble speaking.” Boleian placed his hand at his throat. “Damage to the vocal cords, you see. Second, you usually only get two or three questions and the dead, well, they have a unique perspective. Even a simple question like ‘What is your name?’ can be skewed in a dozen ways. Not to mention finding a cleric willing to perform the spell for you.”
He sighed and shook his head. “There are no shortcuts here, Vox. But we know more than you think. She was an entertainer of some sort – the dress, the hair, the heavy makeup. I assume she was on the stage somewhere: an actor, singer, that sort.”
“That narrows it down to about a thousand people.”
Boleian pushed himself off the desk and walked to the windows. “In a city the size of Thornbury, that’s no small feat.” He stared out the window for a long moment. “Of course, she might have only wanted to be an actress – dressed for the part, if you see what I mean – but wasn’t actually an actress.”
I thought about what Del Totley had said about the poorly applied makeup, the run in her stocking and the too-small dress. Maybe there was something to Boleian’s idea, but then I became demoralized all over again. Too many possibilities, not enough clues. I must have sighed because Boleian lightly slapped my head. “Sitting here isn’t going to solve the case,” he said. “Go see your fae friend; go poke around Raven’s Rest, hit the smaller theaters. Ask questions. Just get off my couch. What am I paying you for?”
I said, “Do you really think no one in that house knows the girl?” None of the household staff at the Morningstar’s admitted to recognizing the dead girl. “How’d she end up there if nobody knows her?”
“You should know by now that everyone lies, Vox. Most people lie for innocent reasons, but someone is lying to protect themselves or someone else. We just have to figure out who.”
“So I should go see the Morningstars?” I got off the couch and grabbed my jacket.
“No, I’ll handle that. Clarissa Morningstar needs a deft touch. She’s a bit skittish.”
“Rich widow. I see your game.” I was teasing him, of course. The idea of Boleian as a gold digger was absurd, but I was actually surprised that he was going into the field. He hadn’t helped on any of the few cases we’d had since the Cirdore Forlone murder.
“She’s not a widow; Hugo Morningstar is not dead, though some people probably wish he was.” Boleian opened the office door. “Now go! And don’t come back until you know something.”
I blinked in the morning sun of Thornbury. It was a cool, late winter day, warm enough that I left my jacket open. I hurried down Anson and considered my options. The boss wanted me to check out Raven’s Rest – locals simply called it The Rest. It’s a wide boulevard known for its theaters. The northern end of the street has nice venues, buildings that sparkle with gold trim and polished windows. But Boleian expected me to canvas the southern end, the rundown part, just the sort of place where the girl in gold might have been trying to make her big break.
You can’t just walk into a theater and start asking questions though. What if you’re talking with the killer? Besides, what are you going to say? “Excuse me, are you missing a blonde? Seen any buck-toothed amateurs lately?”
Maybe I should start with Dewey, my fae informant. Even in slow times I try to connect with him every couple of weeks so he doesn’t forget me. If the girl in gold was anybody, Dewey’d know it. If he could get me a name, I’d have something real to work with. Of course, no one might have noticed that she was missing yet. According to the pallys, she was killed Saturday night, about midnight, give or take a few hours, and here it is Monday mid-day. Could be a few days before anyone expected to see her again.
I turned onto Yarnel. I had no idea where Dewey might be this time of day. I couldn’t even be sure that he was awake yet, but I knew that once he woke, he’d head to Holcombe’s Discount Doughnuts.
The shop is tucked into a spot on Yarnel Arch between a wig shop and a loan company. Not much to look at from the outside – Holcombe’s has a faded sign that says “Sweet Treats!” The display window holds a sun-faded pastry box filled with dusty fake doughnuts. Most times of the day if you were to happen to glance into the shop you’d see a kid in a paper cap leaning over the counter, eyes glazed from boredom.
Everything tells you to find another shop, and if you override your brain and actually walk into the shop, there’s no happy ending. If you’re a human or an elf and you buy a discount doughnut, you get what you deserve. A fae’s metabolism, though, it burns high so they’ve used up the food before whatever mold is living on it has a chance to settle in. And dwarves – nothing can live in the fiery pit of a dwarven stomach. So when the rush happens at Holcombe’s it’s wall to door with fae and dwarves.
I had to shoulder the door to get it to open. As expected, the place was deserted. A young human leaned against the glass case. “They won’t fix the door,” he said slowly. “Said it’s part of the experience.”
I smiled in response and pulled out a silver wort. “I’m looking for a fae – name’s Dewey. About my height, shaggy brown hair. Wears a knotted necklace…” I gestured to my throat. “Worth 10 silver to know if you’ve seen him today.”
“Even if the answer is no?”
I shrugged. “Information is information, friend.”
The kid held out his hand, and a second voice said, “You oughta know, he’s just starting his shift. That’s practically cheating, Purce.”
I drew back the coin. “Is that true?” I peered at his name tag. “Is that true, Percival? Did you just start your shift?”
“That wasn’t your question though.” He kept his hand out.
I admired his persistence and told him so. In the meantime a dwarf arrived at my side. “Ask me your question, eh? Ask me if I’ve seen the fae,” he mimicked my previous gesture, “with the necklace.”
“Is it going to cost me anything to ask?” I felt suddenly protective of my little 10 silver piece.
The dwarf grinned and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Pay what you think my knowledge is worth. The answer is yes. He was here about an hour ago. Bought a couple day-old bear claws and a strawberry cream kruller.”
“Day-old discount bear claws?” I couldn’t successfully suppress my shudder. Luckily the dwarf threw back his head and laughed. “My wares aren’t for everyone.”
“Y-you’re Holcombe?”
“Some folks have trouble pronouncing my real name.” He shrugged. “Holcombe works.”
“Here’s the wort. I appreciate the help.” I started to turn away and then thought better. I pulled another 10 silver piece from my pocket. “Three pastries won’t last him all day. If you see Dewey again, give him a couple more bear claws and tell him to come see Vox Swift.” I handed the wort to the kid behind the counter. “Keep the change for yourself, eh?”
Back on the street I headed east for no good reason. The sun was almost to its zenith, and it felt good on my face. Figured if I thought that, so would Dewey. Making my way up Yarnel, I started pausing at alleyways looking for Dew. He’s the type to gobble up the sweets and nap somewhere before beginning his rounds of the clubs and bars. A little hustle, a little drug selling, a little information exchange – Dewey had carved out a life for himself, and since I benefited from it, I couldn’t judge him.
I found him in an alley snoring softly in a ratty old armchair that had stuffing spilling out of the arms. His mouth hung slightly open, a smear of strawberry cream in one corner. Resisting the urge to tickle his nose, I simply stood in front of him and called his name.
“Vox?” He rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”
“Almost noon – Holcombe said I’d find y
ou around here. What are you doing?” I gestured at the chair.
“I guess this is my ‘table.’” He laughed.
“You lost me, Dew.”
“The dwarf book! That professor. Everyone’s talking about it.”
“Right, Table for One. You’ve read it?” Dewey didn’t seem like the type to read a dry book about urbanization. He didn’t seem the type to read anything.
“Yeah, no. But I don’t need to, do I? He’s a friend of the fae. Wants better things for us.” He gestured at the chair and the alley. “Better than this.”
“Huh. Maybe I should read the book.” The Nori Hawktite I knew – albeit from being his messenger – didn’t much care about common folk. I’d bet a gold coin he didn’t know my name, even after seeing me for a year of Sundays. “Who’s he blaming for the way things are now? Not elves, I hope. Just because we’ve been around—”
“Nah, rich people. Human, elf, dwarf.” He waved his hand airily. “The ‘haves’, right? They take the best and leave the rest behind.”
His comments took me by surprise. The vehemence in his voice, that was new. “Right. So anyway, Dew, I came looking for you ‘cause I need your help.” I leaned against the far wall and crossed my arms. I explained about the girl in the gold dress, dead in the Morningstar’s mansion. “She’s likely an actress or something. Showy dress, fancy shoes, but a little worn. So have you heard any buzz around The Rest?”
“Nothing, elf. But she’s important, this girl?”
“Rich people want to know how she ended up dead in their house.”
He laughed softly. “I bet! I just bet they do.” The expression on my face made him sit up. “Didn’t mean anything by that, Vox! I don’t know nothing. Swear to Shayna.” He shrugged. “But yeah, rich people. Fuck ‘em, right? ‘Bout time someone crapped on their rug.” He pulled at the chair’s loose stuffing. “It’s just some people ain’t nice, Vox. And when life hands you a little victory like this—”
“A girl is dead, Dew.”
“Right. Right-right.” He stood up and swung his arms out wide. “I’ll ask around.”
“I appreciate it.” I repeated the pertinent facts and said, “You know where to find me.” I turned away and then snapped my fingers. “Oh and your next pastry at Holcombe’s, it’s on me.”
I didn’t want to return to the office empty handed so I headed over to Raven’s Rest myself, but the forest of signs and awnings overwhelmed me. There were just too many places, too many people to talk to and almost nothing to go on.
I headed back to the office fully expecting to get an earful about diligence as it relates to detective work, but the gods smiled on me. Boleian had a customer – two customers – seated in his office.
I waved hello to Boleian and he said, “Vox! Do come in. Gentlemen, my assistant, Miss Vox Swift. Vox, these gentlemen need our help finding a missing girl. A blonde-haired singer named Helena Grimwell.”
Chapter 4 Rich Man’s Plight
My ears perked right up. Blonde-haired singer? Had to be our girl. I swiped a pencil and pad from my desk and squeezed into Boleian’s office.
“Vox, this is Miles Edjrest and his son, Farley. They were just about to tell me more about Miss Grimwell’s appearance.”
The older man nodded at me and turned back to Boleian. That’s when I noticed that he was sitting in his own special wheeled chair. How in the world did they get to the third floor with that thing?
“She’s a petite girl,” the older man said. “About 5 foot 2, I expect. Short blonde hair. She likes to make it spiky.” He patted his head. “She’s cute – no end of young men lining up to dance with her.” He frowned. “She’s a dear young thing. Trusting and kind, and the police won’t help us,” he said. “They say she hasn’t been missing long enough.” He banged his fist on the arm of his wheeled chair. “She’s been missing plenty long enough to the people who love her!”
Boleian nodded and said, “You said she didn’t show up for Sunday brunch, and that’s when you first wondered where Helena was?”
The younger man said, “Helena has gotten into the habit of joining us at Soothe’s on Sundays.”
I looked up at the name. Soothe’s wasn’t some cheap diner; these men had serious coin to throw around.
“You and Helena been close long, Mr. Edjrest?” I addressed my question to the son, but the father answered. “I met her over the summer and took an interest in her career.”
Boleian and I exchanged a glance, and the older man said, “Not that sort of interest, dammit. But I understand why someone like yourself would wonder. No offense but you deal with the worst of the worst in your line, am I right, sir?”
With a smile Boleian inclined his head. “All too often, Mr. Edjrest.”
I realized that the old man hadn’t spoken to me yet. “So this is a business relationship? You’re acting as her agent? Manager?”
At my words he swiveled his head to stare at me. “I don’t need money, Miss Swift. Helena is all alone in the world and—”
“Jana is very fond of her, father.” The son then addressed me. “Helena’s older sister – Jana Grimwell. Maybe you’ve heard of her?”
I shrugged as Boleian said, “She sings at the Lamplighter. Quite a voice. Quite a presence.”
The old man nodded vigorously. “Helena is just as talented. Just as talented. She needs training, that’s all. She’s quite capable of great things.” He looked at all of us as if challenging us to disagree.
I was having trouble taking notes on my lap, so I grabbed a random book from Boleian’s shelf.
Farley noticed the movement and said, “That book! I see it everywhere.”
I looked at the title. “Oh, yes, someone was just talking about the Hawktite book. Table for One.” I held it up. “Describes my life right now.”
“It’s filled with lies.”
Miles Edjrest patted his son’s hand. “You are giving him too much power.”
“The things that dwarf said about us—”
“Inconsequential.” Miles looked at me. “What were you saying, young lady?”
I stared at the book. Now I wanted to read it just to see what had Farley Edjrest in a twist, but after an awkward silence I realized that the elder Edjrest had spoken to me. I said, “Um, when did you last see Helena alive? I mean when did you last see her, sir?”
“Saturday night.”
Farley Edjrest nodded and added, “We were all at the Lamplighter. Jana had her usual set and then Helena went on stage.”
“Management’s letting Helena do a late set,” Miles added to his son’s words. “Getting some practice in front of a crowd.”
Farley said, “We have part stake in the club, so it’s easy for us to make suggestions about the artist line up.”
“No harm in helping out a friend,” Miles Edjrest grumbled into his chest.
“So Helena was on stage about 11pm? Is that right?” Boleian looked intently between father and son. Farley shrugged. “Give or take. A set’s usually an hour.”
I licked the tip of my pencil – a habit I’d picked up from Even Weymoor. “So Helena was done singing about midnight?” The paladins had put the time of death for the girl in the library between 10pm and 2am. “Do you know what time she left?”
Father and son looked at each other. “I left as Helena’s set was ending.” Miles gestured at his chair. “I don’t have the stamina I once did.”
“Jana, Ramon, and I had a corner table. Ramon is Jana’s manager. Helena joined us after her set for a few drinks. She left about 1 o’clock maybe. Jana finished her drink about the same time and went to her dressing room to change.”
“And what time did you leave, Farley?”
He frowned at my use of his given name – or maybe he was embarrassed by what he said next. “They tell me it was about two when I was escorted out.” He looked at his hands. “I don’t usually drink, you know. But Helena had been in high spirits. She’d—” He glanced at his father. “She’d gotten some
good news and wanted to celebrate.”
“You don’t say. What news?” Boleian raised an eyebrow.
Farley glanced at his father again. “She was coming into some money. I think.” He shrugged. “Even Jana, for all her fame doesn’t bring in a lot of cash.”
“So the sisters celebrate, you drink too much, and here we are.” I looked from son to father.
Boleian said, “Has she ever done this before? Dropped out of sight?”
“No,” Miles replied quickly. “Never.”
“Now Father, we haven’t known her all that long. Who can say what she may or may not do?”
“I know.” The old man sounded petulant. “She’s a good girl. A smart girl.”
In a low voice Farley Edjrest said, “Benbroll’s report turned up—”
“Damn him and damn you for going behind my back! I didn’t build an empire by misjudging people, boy.” Miles turned his upper body to face his son. “As if you never had any youthful follies of your own.”
A silence descended on the room. Boleian finally broke it by saying, “And, you’ve been round to her apartment, yes?”
Both men began to talk at once, and Boleian held up his hand for silence. After a moment Farley said, “She and Jana share a place not far from the Lamplighter, and yes she never came home Saturday.”
“We’ll want a list of her known associates and the address for the apartment.” I could tell from his voice that Boleian was ready to end the interview. The Edjrests and their verbal sparring would strain even the most patient person.
It seemed genuine enough, their bickering, and I’d seen enough family squabbles up close to judge.
Boleian scrawled something on his desk blotter. “The rate is two gold a day, plus expenses. We’ll need a five gold-piece retainer to start.”
I kept my eyes on my notebook. Boleian had just doubled our regular rate. I waited for the men to protest, but instead Miles Edjrest waved one finger at his son who then placed a small bag on Boleian’s desk. “That should be enough,” the older man said, “to get you started.” He pointed a finger at Boleian. “I expect results! Don’t think you can draw this out and milk me for extra gold. No one takes advantage of Miles Edjrest.”