Despite my annoyance, I reach for a set of gloves. It's better to help a little bit than not at all. Maybe I'll get to be an expert witness in court, or something like that.
I snap each of the gloves on, earning a funny look from Ambrose.
"What? You don't want evidence compromised, do you?" I'm surprised he hasn't provided gloves himself.
I take the bag and unseal it. If I didn’t know better, it looks like the resealable bags I keep in my kitchen draw. I suppose that's a good thing to know in case I ever need to bag anything as evidence.
Ambrose shrugs. "I'm just surprised you have disposable gloves lying around," he says after a moment.
"Maybe I have them in case I accidentally murder detectives who walk through my door," I mumble under my breath.
Amusement comes off Herbert in waves. I refrain from celebrating my hilarity with him, I don’t think Ambrose would appreciate it.
"I doubt that's the reason. There were no notes on your file when I pulled it up."
Hmm, he sounds serious.
I'm mildly surprised given my history with the PPD. Not that I ever broke any laws. At least not knowingly.
"I use them when I'm handling wand repairs," I answer before he can ask. "Once they've had an owner for a while, it's best I don't let any of my own magic seep into a wand. They're not just latex gloves, they're for witches specifically. There's a company who does that kind of thing."
"People come to you for wand repairs?"
Really? That was what he took from that?
I give him my best confounded look. "I'm a wandmaker, where else would they go?"
Surprisingly, he doesn’t respond. I don’t know much about mages, but I heard they make and repair their staffs themselves. He probably wouldn’t appreciate someone else polishing his rod.
I chuckle to myself over the childish wordplay.
Ambrose sighs. “You’re weird, has anyone ever told you that?”
"Weird is my middle name," I answer.
He taps the counter next to the piece of wood. “The owner?”
“Right…” I pull the sliver towards me, intrigued by the colour. “Huh... It’s quite a light colour.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“It’s neither. Can I touch the wood?” I ask, trying not to snort. He already doesn’t seem amused, I’m sure he won’t appreciate my puns.
He nods. “Go ahead.”
Despite the magical gloves, I can feel the splinter as if it were in my bare hands and the soft bounce confirms my suspicions. “As I thought. It’s a softwood.”
“Isn’t most wood soft?”
“Not in the morning, it’s not.”
Ambrose glares at me. “Really?”
“Sorry.” I’m not. “Hardwoods come from trees that shed leaves as the seasons turn. Softwood is made from conifer trees. The ones with needles.”
“I know what conifer trees are,” he snips.
“All right… I was just explaining.” I sniff the splinter and nod. “Pinus.”
The detective eyes’ widen. “Did you just call me a penis?”
“No. Pinus. This piece of wood came from a pine tree.”
“Oh. Right…” He runs a hand through his springy hair and pulls a sheet of paper from his trench coat. “European black pine, according to our lab.”
The lab?
My joyous mood immediately sinks. “You were testing me?”
“I had to know you were up for the task,” he replies with a shrug. “Now I do.”
Asshole.
I cross my arms, giving Ambrose my best death stare. If they already figured out the type of wood, there has to be another reason he came to consult me. Something they don’t know yet.
“If you’re done wasting both our time, you can tell me what it is you actually need my advice on.”
“There’s no need to be insulted.” He pulls a printed picture from his inner pocket. “There are markings on the sliver, what can you make of those?”
With dented pride, I pick the piece of pine back up. I don’t need his pictures, I can take a proper look for myself with my magnifying glass.
“Aha… Thin, elegant carvings. Expertly done, unfortunately.” I push the sliver back to him. “I know what this is.”
“You do?”
“Yes.” I pull my own wand from my sleeve and show it to the detective. “Can you see the little amethyst at the end? I put it on every wand I make.”
“It’s the logo from your shop,” Ambrose remarks.
“Good eye.” I pocket my wand again and push the piece of wood back. “Every wandmaker leaves an identifier. These scratchings are part of a signature. Letters. E. L.”
“Of course. A signature” He holds the sliver up to inspect it. “I’ll go through the database, see which registered wandmakers have those letters in their name. Could be a fair few… E… L… Very common combination.”
A smirk tugs on my lips. “Very, but this grade wood isn’t that easy to get your hands on these days. There are probably only five or six wandmakers licensed for this grade in the area.”
Detective Ambrose clicks his tongue as he pockets the evidence bag. “Brilliant, then it’ll be easy to track them down. Good work, Amethyst. Sorry. Amy.”
He turns to leave and disappointment floods through me. That was it? I got excited for… that?
I hurry around the counter and grab him by the sleeve. “Was that all?”
He smooths out his trench coat. “Yes, the PPD appreciates your assistance.”
“I had to sign all those forms just for that?”
“Standard procedure.” He pulls the door, the little bell clinking mockingly. “Well, Amy, I won’t bother you any longer. Give my regards to Herbert, ey?”
“Wait!” I block his exit. “What if I told you you don’t need to look at any database?”
He looks intrigued. “And why is that?”
“Because I know who made that wand.” I shoot him a beaming smile. “And, he’s an old friend of the family. I can facilitate a meeting.”
Detective Ambrose returns with a dashing grin of his own. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m afraid I can’t take a civilian along. Listen, I appreciate your help, but that’ll be all.”
“But—”
“I said, that’ll be all.” Without giving me the opportunity to argue any further, he straightens his coat and steps outside. The wind tugs on his sleeves and without even looking back, he walks away.
So rude.
I slam the door shut and glare at Herbert. “Yeah? What are you looking at.”
The stone cat just looks at me.
“It’s not my fault he left. This isn’t over.”
Herbert doesn’t react, which only annoys me more.
I boop his nose. “What do you mean? Of course, I have a plan.”
The cat stares quietly.
“Don’t use that tone with me.” I grab my handbag from behind the counter and swing it over my shoulder. “Now, behave. I’m going to visit an old family friend.”
3
My heels clack against the stone path on the other side of town. I pass a statue of some king. I'm not sure which one, or what he did to earn a statue. I don't particularly care either.
It only takes me a moment to locate Elmer’s Wand Wonders. A truly terrible name, but perfect for the old fart that he is. It's nestled between a florist and a soap shop, which must be hard on Elmer's allergies. I try not to be too pleased by that.
The repelling spell he's put on the place does nothing to deter me, but then it shouldn't. I'm not human, just a rival wandmaker.
To my satisfaction, the shop is empty when I enter. That serves him right, with his pretentious pricing and overly-adorned wands. Though I'm not sure I can really talk, the only people who have been through my door this morning are a man incapable of reading fine print, and a detective who isn't as fast as I am at deciphering clues.
“Amethyst. What a surprise.” An old man whooshes towards me
on his library ladder and adjusts his round glasses. “Are you finally ready to exchange your dusty old wand for one of my sleek models?”
“In your dreams,” I counter, instinctively checking my sleeve. The familiar weight of my trusted wand is reassuring, especially near an old crook like him. I dread to think how much he could learn from one of my creations.
He climbs down the ladder. “Then to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I just wanted to chat.”
“Nonsense.” Elmer adjusts one of his shiny, expensive wand boxes and polishes the azure gemstone next to it.
I roll my eyes. He thinks all of his fancy gadgets and trappings make his wands better. He's wrong. Wandcraft is about nothing more than the wand. I may use gems in my wands, but that's because they have a purpose in amplifying and enhancing magic. None of my wands need to sparkle, or have intricate carvings that don't mean anything. It detracts from the power of the wood.
“What do you want?”
“Information on a client of yours,” I say offhandedly.
His eyes narrow. “Aha! So you admit you’re stealing my clients?”
That’s insulting. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You’re right. My clients would never go to your shop.”
“Thank you.” I smile as sweetly as possible, knowing it'll wind him up.
“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”
“Too bad.” I lean closer to one of the wands on display. “Ash, looks like sapwood, grade two, lots of bells and whistles, but not badly crafted.”
Elmer huffs loudly, not unlike the sound a camel makes. “Expertly crafted, as is all my work.”
“Sure, whatever you say. Do you remember making a pine wand? Heartwood, H grade,” I ask, fiddling with one of the wood-carved animals on his counter.
“H grade?” Elmer pulls his glasses down to wipe them with his shirt. “Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t. Why do you need to know?”
“Yes, why do you need to know?” a voice echoes from behind me.
I turn around and find Detective Ambrose’s fine face wrinkled in a frown. He taps his foot impatiently and crosses his arms, only adding to his stern expression.
Oh, he does have a personality. It's annoyed.
“Oops. I guess you caught me,” I chuckle, shooting him my best innocent smile.
“That’s not going to work on me,” he replies, shaking his head. “I was warned you were a pain in the ass.”
Elmer appears back at the counter. “You’re a smart man. What can I do for you today? Looking for a wand? Or perhaps a crystal booster for your staff?”
“I don’t need a booster for my staff.”
Ah, it's not just me he gets annoyed with. Definitely his personality.
Ambrose holds his badge up. “PPD, I’m here to ask you some questions about a wand you’ve made.”
I nod and gesture to the record he pulled up. “Yes, tell him about the pine wand, Elmer.”
“Hey!” The detective shoots me a glare. “I’m asking the questions, Amethyst.”
“Amy,” I growl back. “My name is Amy.”
"Business must be slow if you're teaming up with the PPD." Elmer raises an eyebrow at me. “Or did they finally accept you after years of begging?”
I don’t respond. He doesn’t deserve it, that wrinkly old pear. I hope he withers away like his terrible wands.
Detective Ambrose steps in, tapping the counter to get the attention back to him. “Who did you sell the wand to?”
To add to the effect, I cross my arms. I know it’s not going to make things go faster, but the immature way of dealing with things fills me with perverse pleasure.
Elmer isn’t impressed with our interrogation techniques. His face contorts into a smug grin. "I'm sorry, Detective, but I don't give out the names of my clients. Wands are a delicate subject matter, I'm sure you can understand."
I scoff. "He just doesn't want to share because he thinks they'll tell you he's breaking the rules.”
Elmer stares me down. "Just what are you implying?"
"Exactly what I said,” I say, smiling as sweetly as I can manage.
"I don't bend the rules." His glare would be enough to cower most witches.
But not me. I walk over to the display stand for a willow wand with jewel inlays, E grade, according to the listing, but with a simple glance I know that’s not true. I feel sorry for the witches coming to his shop and going away thinking they've found a bargain.
"Don't touch that," Elmer hisses.
"This?" I ask sweetly, picking up the willow wand and moving it around. "Is there a reason you're selling this as including rubies?"
"Because it does."
The red stones around the handle sparkle in the light but it doesn’t take a genius to recognise they aren't the real thing.
I give it a little wave. "This is glass. And B grade wood at best. But you're selling it for more than it's worth. I don’t even stock wands of this low quality in my shop. ”
"If the materials aren't of the quality expected, then that is on the suppliers," Elmer insists.
"Mmhmm. I wonder if the CWC would say the same" I put the wand, trying not to look too triumphant when I see the defeat on his face. I turn to Detective Ambrose and smile. “He's ready to answer your questions now.”
He raises an eyebrow, but turns his attention back to Elmer. "Who bought the wand?"
Elmer glares at me. “If you think your thinly-veiled threats are going to work, you’re mistaken. I’m not telling you anything without a warrant. If you have a problem with my wands, take it up with the CWC.”
What an annoying git.
"Then I'll be back with one," Ambrose answers, turning to leave. "You coming?" he asks me gruffly.
"Sure. Got nothing better to do." I shrug, pretending I don’t care. Inside, I’m bursting with excitement. He’s going to bring me along to solve this crime.
I skip after him, whistling a soft tune. What a great day.
The door to Elmer’s shop slides shut behind me and I almost bump into Ambrose’s back. What’s he doing standing still in the middle of the street?
He turns around and grabs me by the elbow, pulling me away from the shop. “What were you thinking coming here?"
"I thought I could help.”
“But you didn’t."
I give him a look. "Really? If I didn’t put the pressure on, he wouldn’t have revealed that he knows something, and you wouldn't be able to get your warrant. Unless you were also aware of the wood-grades but I didn’t think mages used that system.”
"We don't." Annoyance flares in his eyes, but he clamps it down. Impressive. Not many people can control their emotions as well as he just did.
"Then how would you have picked up on his duplicity?" I raise an eyebrow and cross my arms. "If the answer in this crime lies in a wand, then you need me. I have answers you don't even know the questions to."
Is it wrong to want to high five myself over the last bit? It’s like a line out of one of those crime dramas. Now I just need a bit of some suspenseful music and it’s like a movie. Perfect.
Ambrose sighs dramatically. "Fine. You can come back to the office with me. But no going off on your own because you think you know better. You don't."
"Are you always this much of a killjoy?" I shout after him, chasing him on his way to the bust stop. "And are you really taking the bus?"
"How else am I going to get around?"
"You could tell me where your office is and we can drive?" I throw my thumb over my shoulder in the vague direction of where my Beetle is parked.
Indecision wars over his face, as if he doesn’t want to accept my help, but does want to get around quicker. After a couple of seconds of wavering, he nods. "Fine. But I pick the music."
“It's my car," I insist.
"We'll just take the bus then."
"Fine. You can pick the music. But I'm not listening to any of that bluesy new age stuff." It gives me a headache every time I hea
r it.
"I was thinking of eighties classic rock."
"Acceptable. This way." When I woke up this morning, I had no idea this would be the way my day goes. Not that I’m complaining. This is going to be fun.
4
“Don’t. Touch. Anything,” Ambrose growls as he invites me into his small, dark office. No wonder he's so grumpy, he's lacking vitamin D.
Despite the limited size, it’s packed. The shelves hold multiple trophies and medals from various sports, each shiny and freshly polished. Everything is meticulously placed, tidied and dusted. There isn't even a book out of place.
On the shelves, anyway.
I’d call him a neat freak, but his desk is piled high with all sorts of clutter and shiny trinkets. Ballpoints, paperclips, magnets. The ocean of random stuff only ends where it meets a mug mountain, each dirty and stacked high.
It's so at odds with the man I've gotten to know in the past few hours.
“Wow.” I stare at the mess. “And I thought I was a hoarder.”
“I’m not a hoarder,” Ambrose counters. “I knew I shouldn’t have brought you inside.”
“Well, you need my help so…”
I contemplate pulling the chair out to sit but that looks like it will trigger a folder avalanche and I don’t feel like cleaning that up. I’ll remain standing, folding my arms so I look confident and like I know what I’m doing.
Ambrose shoots me a funny look. “What are you doing?”
My cheeks heat up and I quickly take a regular pose. “Nothing. Would you like me to tidy for you? Just a couple of flicks of my wand and I’ll have your office in tip top shape.”
“No, thanks.”
“You sure? It won’t take much magic.”
“I’m sure.”
I shrug. “All right then. So why did we come to the station?”
“How’s your stomach?” he asks.
What a weird question.
I glare at him. “If that’s your way of asking me out to dinner, that’s a negative. Unless there is pickled stuff. I love pickles.”
“What? No. One, pickles are disgusting and two, I’m asking if you have the stomach to look at crime scene photos.”
Hexes and Vexes Page 2