Trifles and Folly 2

by Gail Z. Martin

  “I got your message,” Sorren said. “What do you want to do about the pin?”

  “As much as I’d like to drown it in the ocean, it might end up being evidence, if we could come up with an explanation the police would believe,” I said. “Someone murdered the woman who originally owned it. But the seller said it had been given to her aunt as a present. So either the aunt lied about how she got it—”

  “Or she had some kind of really freaky boyfriend,” Teag finished.

  “Either explanation is possible,” Sorren answered. “What else do you have?”

  I started to mention Teag’s reaction to the woven rug at the museum but stopped. I still didn’t know what prompted his concern and intended to get the details out of him sooner or later, but it was his story to tell.

  Sorren listened while I recounted my vision, and Teag added what he learned from the seller. “I’ve tried hacking into the police files, to see what I could find out about this ‘Smiley Killer,’” Teag said. “It’s long enough ago that I don’t think everything’s been scanned, but there was enough to get us started.” He poured me a glass of sweet tea and one for himself—Sorren rarely consumed food or drink, except for the blood he needed to survive, which he assured me long ago came from “willing and sustainable sources.”

  “According to the files, the Smiley Killer murdered five women over the course of several months back in 1997. He was never caught, but the murders ended abruptly that Fall and the police figured he either died or moved elsewhere, although there are notes that his ‘signature’ was never seen on serial kills elsewhere.”

  “Interesting,” Sorren mused.

  “The ‘smiley’ part came because of the punctures and the shape of the cut on the throat,” Teag said. “I double checked—despite the punctures, none of the bodies were drained.”

  “So it’s not a vampire,” Sorren supplied.

  Teag shrugged. “Had to check. Just in case. Anyhow, the police tried to keep the method of killing quiet, but there was a journalist who wouldn’t leave the case alone, and he leaked the information to the press. The lead detective was really pissed. But one detail didn’t get leaked. The killer stole jewelry from each victim. Police kept an eye on pawn shops and flea markets, in case the pieces turned up, but they never did.”

  “You think the pin we bought was one of those ‘trophies?’” I asked. I’d read about serial killers keeping mementos of their kills, everything from driver’s licenses to body parts, so by comparison; jewelry wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Still, the ghoulishness of wanting to relive the thrill of the murder turned my stomach.

  “I think it’s entirely possible,” Teag said. “Other serial killers confessed to enjoying giving their trophies as gifts, getting off on the idea of knowing the truth when the recipient had no clue.”

  “That’s so sick,” I muttered.

  Sorren shrugged. “Indeed. But unfortunately, more common across the course of history than most people like to think about. More proof, perhaps, that what makes a monster is what you do, not what you are.”

  Most people would automatically put a vampire in the “monster” category. Yet Sorren had been helping save the world for most of his existence. From what I’d seen, regular people gave supernatural creatures stiff competition when it came to mayhem and bloodshed.

  “Let’s go see the seller tomorrow, and find out whether her aunt will talk to us. If the guy who gave her the pin actually was the Smiley Killer, it might be a break in the case,” I said.

  “Which we’ll have a hell of a time getting the police to accept,” Teag grumbled.

  “Yeah, but if the killer is back—or there’s a copycat—it might be important,” I said.

  “I did find out a little bit about the recent murder,” Teag added. “All of the Smiley Killer’s victims were found in public places as if he were taunting police—and he probably was. The woman who was just murdered was found in a locked room, and the security cameras in her building didn’t show any visitors. But there was a ring next to the body—and it was one of the pieces stolen by the original killer.”

  “Shit,” I swore. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “I vaguely remember the murders,” Sorren said, frowning as he tried to recall. I couldn’t imagine having to sift through centuries of memories. “I didn’t pay much attention at the time, once I determined it wasn’t a supernatural killer. We’re usually so busy dealing with our own kinds of problems; mortal crimes just don’t stick in my mind. But these ‘Smiley’ murders were gruesome, and I had originally also worried about the punctures. When the killing stopped, I guess I just assumed he had been caught.”

  “Did the police look for a connection between the woman who was murdered and the Smiley Killer?” I asked.

  Teag shook his head. “But she was the sister of the textile artist whose pieces gave us the jitters at the museum. Ann Delarue.”

  I was just about to ask him to tell Sorren about it when Teag’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket, glanced at the screen, and blanched, then swore under his breath.

  “Problem?” Sorren asked, concerned.

  Teag looked up. “That was Anthony. He said to turn on the news. There’s been another murder.”

  I had a small TV in the office, and we gathered there while I turned it on and flipped to the local news channel. The unflappable anchor person sat behind the desk, droning on.

  “—just in. Police have confirmed reports that a woman was found dead under suspicious circumstances earlier this evening. The dead woman’s identity has been confirmed as Sophie Johnston. Police are not releasing any details at this time, other than to confirm that the victim was murdered. If anyone has information that might aid law enforcement, please call the number on the screen. All tips will remain confidential.”

  I flicked off the TV, and we looked at each other. “Want to bet it’s another ‘smiley’ murder, and they’re playing it cool to avoid panic?” I asked.

  I nodded. “The question is, what’s the connection to the killer?”

  Sorren frowned. “Did the police ever find a connection between the original victims? Did they know each other? Or did he have a ‘type?’”

  “As far as the police ever knew, the original murders appeared to be random. They were all women, and all fairly young, but the builds and hair color all varied,” Teag said.

  A horrible thought occurred to me. “Do you think he picked them for their jewelry?”

  Teag raised an eyebrow. “It’s possible, I guess. There was one serial killer who stole his victim’s shoes, but I never heard that he targeted them for their Louboutins.”

  “Let me ask around to some of my sources,” Sorren said. “If this is a mortal copycat, then there may be little we can do since ghosts can’t testify. But just in case, I’ll talk to Alicia Peters, and see if she’s picked up any unusual ‘chatter.’” Alicia was a gifted medium who helped us when a situation required her specialized skills.

  “I’m going to see if I can find any photos or descriptions of the stolen jewelry,” Teag said. “There must be something in the files if the cops knew the jewelry had been taken. Let me poke around, and maybe I can turn up something useful.”

  We all agreed to reconnect the next evening. Teag and Sorren walked me to my RAV, and I was nearly home before I realized I had forgotten to press Teag about his reaction to the woven exhibit pieces.

  I felt frustrated and useless and vowed to go back to the museum on my own for another look at those rugs. I didn’t know if there was a connection to the pin and the long-ago serial killer, but if there was a chance I could help, I knew I wouldn’t be comfortable until I had run every possibility to the ground.

  That night, I double-checked all my locks and wardings, and just to be safe, laid down a salt-soaked length of rope across the doors and windows to my room. Then I grabbed my little Maltese dog, Baxter, and hugged him tight. Even so, it took a long time to drift off to sleep, and my dreams were dark.


  Alistair called me before I finished breakfast. “Cassidy. We found another piece by the artist Teag seemed so concerned about, Edna Willers. It’s damaged, so it never made it out of storage. Do you two want to come have a look at it? I’m sorry to call you, but I don’t have his number in my phone.”

  “I’ll stop by on the way to the shop,” I said, although the store and the museum were in opposite directions. “Let me finish feeding Baxter and drinking my coffee, and I’ll be right over.”

  Alistair chuckled. “I’ll have more coffee for you when you get here. See you soon.”

  I took Baxter out and let him run around in my little walled garden, and then made sure I picked him up and loved on him for a few minutes since I’d been out late the night before. He licked my nose and wriggled closer, and I fed him treats, before setting down more food and water for the day and finishing my own coffee. Bax gave me a reproachful look as I went out the door.

  “I don’t think I’ll be late tonight,” I promised, but I could tell he wasn’t convinced.

  I told myself I’d take him to the dog park this weekend, feeling like a guilty parent as I got into the SUV and headed toward the museum.

  True to his word, Alistair had a fresh pot of coffee waiting when I made it to his office, and I accepted a cup gratefully. “Before we go down to storage, would you mind taking me past the rugs we saw in the exhibit room?” I asked. “I picked up some strong vibes from them, and I want to see if I read any more off them than I did before.”

  “Do you think it’s something dangerous?” Alistair might not know the full truth about what we do, but he’s been part of enough strange circumstances to understand that the supernatural is real and it can be dangerous.

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “That’s why I want another look—and why I need to see the piece in storage. If I think there’s any danger to people viewing the exhibit, I will definitely let you know.”

  This time, I focused in on my gift as we walked through the other woven pieces on display. My magic kicks in the most strongly when I actually touch something, but being close can trigger impressions if the energy is strong enough. I moved past the rugs, textile sculptures, and other beautiful items, picking up either no vibes at all, or calming, peaceful sensations.

  That changed like the last time as I came around the corner, and confronted the woven pieces that had rattled Teag. I kept my distance so the impressions wouldn’t overwhelm me, and sorted through what I picked up. Sorrow, fear, and despair were strongest. I screwed up my courage and moved closer. Sometimes, I get images; other times, it’s just feelings. Whoever made these beautiful rugs had been terrified of something, and felt guilty, too—although that emotion ran second to the fear. I sensed that the weaver had used her craft as catharsis, a way to ease her conscience. I wondered what might have weighed so heavily on her mind, but part of me was afraid to find out.

  When I got closer, I let my palm hover just above the fabric. Up close, I could feel a faint tingle of magic, and that made me remember how viscerally Teag had reacted. Edna Willers had Weaver magic, but it had a different feel from what I’d sensed of Teag’s power. Edna’s magic felt strong and mature, carefully controlled, intentional. Protective. That’s when I realized that she’d created a bulwark in her weaving, a cocoon of defensive energy. What was she so afraid of, to make her art into a fortress? I wondered.

  “Cassidy?”

  I could tell from the tone in Alistair’s voice that he had been calling my name without a response. I looked up, blushing a bit at being caught up in my thoughts. “Sorry. I’m just getting a lot of feelings from these pieces, and I wish I knew more about the artist.”

  “She was local,” he replied. “Very talented, but never sought the spotlight. Her executor sent us the pieces for the exhibit.”

  “So she passed away?” I frowned, feeling like there was a piece missing, something important.

  “Edna died of a heart attack a month ago. It’s so sad—her sister was just murdered two days ago.”

  My head jerked up. “Sophie Johnston?”

  “No. Ann Delarue.”

  Of course the last names might be different if one or both of the sisters married. “The copycat killing?”

  Alistair nodded. “I guess that’s what they’re calling it. Terrible thing. Neither of them had any living family, so the bank’s taken over the estate.”

  “Let’s go see that other piece,” I suggested, and as we walked away, a sense of relief swelled through me as I left behind the sadness of the woven pieces behind.

  “It’s really a shame,” Alistair said as we went downstairs to the museum’s storage area. “I’m not sure what happened to the one rug, but it’s been torn, and that made quite a bit of it unravel. It’s not her best work, thank heavens, but there’s a somber beauty to it. Like a storm on the horizon. Makes me think of thunderclouds, looming. You’ll see what I mean.”

  I followed Alistair through a maze of aisles between tall wooden shelves chock full of tagged and labeled bits of history. Some shelves held boxes, while others had taxidermied animals and birds, clay pots, woven baskets, and other pieces not currently on display. I held my arms close to my body and tightened control over my gift. Far too many things in a museum held strong resonance, and I didn’t want to get sidelined.

  “Here we go,” he said, stopping to pull out a marked cardboard storage box. He set it down in the middle of the aisle and opened it up. I crouched beside it and caught my breath. Even from a foot away, I felt a psychic stench that made my gorge rise.

  A ruined woven rug lay in the box, and I guessed it had originally been about the size of the other pieces, perhaps three feet by five feet. The colors were black, gray, and a muted green the color of stagnant water. Its pattern looked jagged, a harsh and brutal clash of color and geometric figures. Now that I could compare it to Edna’s work upstairs, this piece resonated with anger, vengeance, and hate so strongly my throat closed and I struggled to breathe. Just being close to it made my skin crawl, and I fought an instinctive reaction to scramble away.

  Alistair laid a hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  I nodded, though my stomach clenched and my mouth felt dry. No way in hell did I intend to touch the weaving, and I didn’t think it was a good idea for Alistair to come in contact with it either. Forcing myself to peer more closely, I could see where something had caught on the rug and torn across rows of weaving, releasing the threads from the warp and woof to let them dangle like viscera.

  The rug felt like a corpse, I realized with a shock. Something about it made me think of an empty vessel, a body that had held a soul which had departed. What remained was an empty, discarded shell, cast aside as the spirit within went free.

  My heart froze with the possibilities. Did Edna trap some kind of demon in the rug, and it’s been set loose? Something truly evil had touched this woven piece, and the psychic residue clung to what remained like toxic sludge.

  “This... thing... is dangerous,” I managed, getting to my feet and backing away. “Is there a safe you can put it in until we can figure out what to do about it? Preferably a nice, thick lead safe?”

  Alistair gave me a questioning look, but he didn’t call me crazy. “I thought it was just my imagination, but the rug gives me the creeps,” he admitted. “And since we put it down here, none of my staff will come into the storage area alone.”

  “Good instincts,” I replied. “Let me do some research, and I’ll get back to you as quickly as I can. Just... don’t let anyone near that.”

  Alistair agreed, and I knew he would keep his word. I felt skittish until I was out of the museum. As soon as no one was around, I called Teag.

  “Can a Weaver trap a demon in a rug?”

  Teag’s silence gave me the answer I feared. “Come to the shop, and I’ll tell you a story.”

  Anchors

  When I got to Trifles and Folly, Teag and Maggie were taking care of customers. I put my questions asi
de, and went to help, sending tourists on their way with their new-found treasures until the rush of visitors slowed to a trickle. I ordered in pizza, and Maggie shooed us into the back room, promising to let us know if she got swamped.

  “Okay, spill.” I sat down at the table and leveled a look at Teag that made him squirm.

  He turned a chair around and straddled it, resting his arms across the back. “Before I knew anything about magic or being a Weaver, I took a textiles class in college. I’d always been intrigued by looms and fabrics, and I thought it would be fun. It was, and—big surprise—I had a knack for it,” he added with a wan smile.

  “Looking back on it, I’m certain the teacher had magic,” he said. “And maybe she knew that I did, too. She never mentioned anything woo-woo, but she definitely encouraged me to stick with textiles, even suggested I get a small loom to work on at home. We stayed in touch, and she retired a couple of years later. When I was working on my doctorate, she had a stroke, and I went to visit her once she was well enough to have visitors.”

  His expression grew pensive. “She knew she was dying. So she told me something she had never told anyone else. She wanted to get it off her chest, I guess. She said that she had done a bad thing for good reasons, trapping the soul of a monster in the weaving of a rug.”

  “Did she say what kind of monster?”

  Teag shook his head. “She said that someone begged her for help with a monster they couldn’t control and couldn’t kill. She wove the thing’s soul into a rug and left it there. I guess she figured it would be forever. I didn’t ask questions because I didn’t really believe her at the time. Thought maybe the stroke messed with her mind. I told her it was the right thing to do because, hell, I wasn’t going to guilt-trip a sick old lady. She lingered on for a couple of years in poor health, and I heard she died about a month ago. Heart attack.”