by Bailey Cates
Chapter 4
Quinn looked up when he was finished with his note-taking. “Well, that was interesting.”
“How so?” I asked brightly. Too brightly.
His eyes narrowed.
“What?” I tried a smile and failed. “Now, come on. You can’t seriously think Randy had anything to do with this murder. He’s a respected firefighter who happened to install a security system a couple of weeks ago. There was a disagreement about the bill, but so what?”
Lips pressed together, Quinn went into the other room. The sound of voices rose as he opened the door farther, and when he came back he was carrying a plastic bag. He brought it to me, and I saw the word EVIDENCE on the outside, as well as a form that documented the chain of custody of the contents. Inside was an object about a foot long and six inches wide. It was a figure of a doglike animal. A fox, perhaps, only instead of a fluffy tail, it had what looked like a long whip of a tail wrapped twice around itself.
A whip . . . or a snake.
The statue appeared to be carved of stone or, perhaps, a dark wood. However, I was pretty sure the red blotch at the base was Kensington Bosworth’s blood.
Quinn confirmed my suspicion. “This was used to bludgeon the victim. It was found beside the body.” He looked at it for several seconds, sighed, then turned his full attention back to me. “There’s a stand behind the desk, empty except for a plaque that says ‘Ginegosh.’”
“The statue the secretary described,” I said, glancing toward the foyer where Cardwell was waiting.
Quinn took the hint and went over and closed the door.
Returning to my side, he said, “So not only did Randy Post argue with the victim and install the security system that had been turned off, he also coveted the statue that was used to kill Bosworth.” He tried to keep his expression thoughtful, but I could tell he was relieved to think the case might be that simple. “Post felt he was owed more money, so he used his security code to sneak in and take the statue in lieu of payment. The victim unexpectedly walks in on him, and he strikes out with the very item he’s stealing. All the magical paraphernalia aside, this doesn’t look too complica—”
I interrupted. “Let me see it.”
He pressed his lips together, then held the evidence bag out toward me.
I shuddered and covered my mouth when I saw there was even more blood than I’d thought, but I didn’t look away. Instead, I forced myself to peer more closely, feeling a complicated energy coming from the figurine. It felt familiar, or perhaps it was more that I felt it should be familiar.
“My dad has a picture of something like this in a book of his.” I paused, then reached out and touched the corner of the bag with my fingertip. “This is different, though. There’s something . . . I don’t know.” I met Quinn’s eyes. “But I bet my dad would.”
Puzzlement creased his brow. “Your father’s an expert in Native American artifacts?”
I shook my head. “He’s a shaman.”
Quinn just stared at me.
“Shawnee,” I said.
The spellbook club seemed to think that it had been Dad’s gifts combined with Mama being a hereditary hedgewitch that had made me a lightwitch.
“Lightfoot,” he breathed.
I nodded. “Yep. Skylar Lightfoot. His given name was really Skylark, but his teachers kept dropping the K when he was in school, and it stuck. Anyway, he’s coming to Savannah tomorrow, but I’d like to text him a picture of this now, if I may.”
He licked his lips and looked down at the bag. “I don’t know if that’s such a great idea.”
I shrugged. “Your call, of course. But just because my father isn’t a professor at some university doesn’t mean he doesn’t know his stuff. I would think that in the course of your investigations you contact outside people for information all the time.”
He frowned. “Of course we do. But this would be different. . . .”
“Well, you called me because you thought I might be able to help. And maybe I can. I don’t know what the deal is with all this other magical stuff.” I took in the room with a sweep of my arm. “But I might actually be able to get information about your murder weapon after all. Just not in the way you expected.”
“I had no idea what to expect from you,” he grumbled. “I never do.” A deep breath, and he nodded. “Okay, take a couple of pictures and send them to your dad. But I want you to promise me something.” He set the evidence bag down on an empty corner of the desk.
Taking out my phone, I turned on the camera feature and asked, “What’s that?”
He gently put his hand over my wrist, and I looked up at him. “I mean it. Will you promise?” he asked.
“Well, how can I answer until you tell me what I’m going to promise?”
“Do promises mean anything special to people like, you know, witch types?”
“As special as to anyone else,” I said, feeling a little insulted. Then I reconsidered. “Actually, that’s not a bad question. Witches, at least those in the Wiccan tradition, try to live by the Rule of Three.”
He looked uncomfortable.
“It’s nothing weird,” I assured him. “Think of it as karma on steroids. The idea is that anything you do comes back to you threefold—good or bad. The keeping and breaking of promises falls under the Rule.”
He considered. “I want you to promise to show only your father the pictures you take of the murder weapon.”
I thought about it, then, “Okay. I can promise that.”
“Not Declan McCarthy,” he said. “And most definitely not Randy Post.”
Sighing, I said, “I won’t show anyone besides my dad the pictures I take of the murder weapon. I promise.” It wasn’t like I really had a choice, after all.
Quinn turned the evidence bag over so the figurine wasn’t obstructed by the writing on the front and stepped back. I snapped a photo, looked at it, and saw the light was reflecting off the plastic bag, which made it hard to capture a good picture of the contents. I moved around the desk to try from another angle.
The door to what I had already started to think of as the murder room opened and the white-haired gentleman called to Quinn. He went over to consult with him. I took another picture.
Quinn and the other man were discussing the time of death.
“I estimate he’s been dead three to four hours. The housekeeper called 911 at six thirty?”
“A little after,” Quinn said, glancing at his watch as if it would tell him when she called.
I looked at the time on my phone. It was ten minutes after eight.
Still listening hard, I turned on the video function and scanned the room, zooming in on the items displayed on the tables. I wanted to know what the spellbook club thought of Kensington Bosworth’s magical collection, and I hadn’t promised not to show anyone pictures of those items.
“So, the victim died between four and five,” Quinn said. “Assuming death was instantaneous, or close to it.”
“From that wound, I’d guess it was. We’ll be able to say for sure after the autopsy.”
So much for that last soup-and-sandwich supper.
“Thanks, Ed,” Quinn said.
Ed Carrell. I recognized the name of the medical examiner from the paper.
I scrolled back to the photos of the evidence bag then visually scanned the other contents of the desk. A Rolodex sat next to the typewriter, and I leaned down to take a look. It was flipped open to a business card for a business ungrammatically called How’s Tricks.
“Ahem.” Quinn had rejoined me.
I tore my gaze away from the card.
“Get your photos?” he asked.
Showing him the best one, I said, “I’ll send this to Dad tonight. But I still can’t believe you seriously think Randy killed some poor old man.”
Quinn’s express
ion didn’t change. “We’ll explore all possibilities. You know that, Katie. But I must say, the victim was anything but poor. We’ll investigate his finances, of course, but he was a member of one of Savannah’s oldest families, a family whose wealth has only grown as time goes on.”
“I didn’t mean literally poor,” I said. “More like pitiable. Because, you know, he’s been murdered.”
“Oh.” Quinn gave a nearly imperceptible shrug, then motioned with his chin. Obediently, I followed him out to the entryway.
“Thanks, Katie. Appreciate your help. Call me if you hear anything from your father about that statue.”
“Okay.” I wanted to say more, but Detective Quinn was already striding toward where the murder victim’s secretary waited by the stairs. I started toward the door, then saw the blond woman still sitting in the same chair where she’d been when I walked in. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Quinn’s back was toward me. Casually, I veered toward the dining room and stepped inside.
The woman turned her head as I approached, bewilderment in her red-rimmed eyes. She wore a white chef’s apron over a brown dress, and sensible shoes. Some of her hair had fallen out of its bun, so that lank tendrils clung to the sides of her heart-shaped face.
“Hello,” I said. “You must be Mrs. Gleason.”
She nodded but didn’t speak.
“You found Mr. Bosworth?”
Her hand rose, and her fingertips brushed her lips before falling back into her lap. “In his office. On the floor.”
I slid into the chair beside her, feeling torn. At least a dozen questions were ping-ponging around my brain. However, I couldn’t bring myself to ask them of someone so obviously distressed. Mostly, I wanted to give her a steaming cup of tea steeped with lavender, chamomile, and licorice root to soothe the anxiety that hovered around her like an aura.
Anxious because she found him, or anxious because she killed him?
The uncharitable thought intruded before I could stop it. I pushed it away with an effort and leaned toward her. “Detective Quinn already spoke with you?”
Her hand dropped to her lap. “Briefly. He said to wait.”
I felt my lips thin. “How long ago was that?”
She blinked. “I don’t know. An hour?”
“Do you have someone to come get you when you’re finished here?”
“Um, I guess my daughter could. But she doesn’t need to do that. I can drive myself home.” As she spoke, her words took on strength. “Really. I’ll be fine.”
“All right. I just—”
“Ms. Lightfoot, may I speak with you out here, please?” Quinn was standing in the doorway. His face was expressionless, but I could still sense his displeasure.
Popping to my feet, I said, “Sure thing. Excuse me, Mrs. Gleason.” I touched her on the shoulder as I went by.
Back in the entryway, there was no sign of Malcolm Cardwell. I opened my mouth to ask where he was, but Quinn whirled around and hissed, “What do you think you’re doing?”
My jaw set. “I was seeing if that poor woman was all right.”
“That’s all?”
“Of course.” Never mind that my original intention hadn’t been so altruistic. “She’s obviously upset. Anyone would be, left in there for an hour, all by herself, with nothing to do but stew over finding her employer dead.”
He took a deep breath and let it out before saying, “I’m going to talk to her now, and then she can go home.” He gave me a pointed look and gestured toward the door. “You, on the other hand, can go home now.”
“Right.” I flashed a half smile and walked to the exit.
“Take care of yourself, Katie,” he said from behind me as I yanked the door open.
Startled, I turned, but Quinn was already walking back where Mr. Bosworth’s housekeeper waited in the dining room.
* * *
* * *
Declan still leaned against the porch column, only now his arms were folded over his chest, and his eyes had narrowed. He was watching the crowd gathered on the other side of the police tape, so he didn’t see me at first. I followed his gaze and saw his attention was really on one person in particular.
Steve Dawes was chatting with a uniformed policewoman. She nodded at something he said, and he flashed a bright smile at her. Her body language shifted—a slight softening of her rigid posture. Charm practically oozed from the man’s pores, and I knew exactly how it felt to be on the receiving end of it.
However, his clan of druids influenced business and political interests throughout the state, and they didn’t respect the Rule of Three. I knew he was willing to do some things I didn’t like, and he’d even dabbled in a bit of dark magic to try to convince me to leave Declan. So, of course, I was over my former attraction to Steve now.
Totally and completely over it.
Then he glanced up at me standing on the porch, and his brown-eyed gaze cut through the distance between us. I blinked, slightly stunned, and then my lips parted in surprise.
Oh, good Lord. Really? He’s using some kind of spell to elicit information from that policewoman?
What was it, though? A glamour of some kind? His Voice?
I frowned at him and shook my head. He ducked his head sheepishly, then looked back at me with a grin. Then his expression became speculative, and I knew he was wondering why I’d been inside the house.
Declan turned to see what Steve was looking at and saw me standing a few feet behind him. He unfolded his arms, straightened, and strode over. “How’d it go?”
I looked up and met those eyes of blue I loved so, seeing quiet tenderness along with utter confidence. Sliding my arm around his waist, I said, “It was weird. I’ll tell you about it on the way home.”
“We have to run the gauntlet first.” He nodded at Steve, who was watching us with avid interest. “Mr. Reporter has been working the crowd like a carnival barker.”
“He’s just doing his job,” I said mildly.
Declan made a noise in the back of his throat.
Suddenly very weary, I rubbed one hand over my face. “Let’s go.”
We stepped off the porch, nodded to one of the officers keeping people back, and ducked under the yellow tape. Steve hurried over to meet us.
“Hey, guys,” he said. “What’s up?”
“Pretty sure you already know, or you wouldn’t be here.” Declan’s words were clipped.
Steve’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Well, I know Kensington Bosworth is dead, but that’s about it. Since the crime scene unit is here, I assume it wasn’t from natural causes.” He turned his attention to me. “And now I know it has something to do with our Katie-girl here.”
The muscles in Declan’s jaw flexed. He knew how much I disliked the nickname Katie-girl.
Steve continued, “Who apparently has a front-row seat.” His head tipped to the side. “So. Tell me why you’re here.”
One side of my mouth turned up. “I don’t think I’m supposed to be talking about anything going on in that house right now. And certainly not to a reporter.”
“I’ve helped you out before,” he said. “In fact, whenever you wanted my help, you got it, no questions asked.”
I nodded. “And I appreciate it. Believe me, when I can tell you anything, I will. But right now, I just can’t.”
He glared at me for a few seconds, then his attitude softened. “All right. I get it. But what about off the record? Are you okay? Because you’re obviously involved in another murder investigation.”
Declan shifted his weight toward Steve. “Katie’s fine. Quinn just wanted to consult her about something.”
Steve’s eyes widened. “Quinn is consulting you now? How did that happen?”
I looked down at the toes of my trail runners. “I sort of told him what I am.”
When I looked back
up, he was staring at me. “You told Quinn you’re a witch.”
“Yeah. And a lightwitch. And about Franklin Taite.”
He let out a low whistle. “Why on earth would you do that?”
“He kind of saw me, you know . . .” I sighed. “Glow.”
“Oh. Oh, wow. Well, yeah. I guess you’d have to explain that some way.” He peered at me. “How did he take it?”
“With a grain of salt, I expect. He’s a pretty down-to-earth guy, after all. But when he saw Bosworth’s collection of—” I stopped, but his eyes had already lit up.
“Collection of what?”
“Off the record,” I said. “Bosworth collected magical paraphernalia.”
Steve started to ask another question, but I held up my hand. “That’s all I’m going to say right now.”
“But—”
“Nope,” I said. “Maybe later.” And then completely changing the subject, I asked, “How’s Angie?” I was referring to his girlfriend, another witch. They’d been dating for about six months.
“Fine,” he said.
But there was something in the way he said that single word. I would have pursued it, but I could sense Declan’s impatience. Instead, I simply said, “Tell her hello for me,” and turned toward where Mungo waited for us in Declan’s truck. “And I promise I won’t give any other reporter information.”
“Better not,” he mumbled, already scanning for someone else to question.
As Declan and I drove away, the WSAV news van turned the corner.
“Looks like Mr. Reporter is going to have some real competition,” Declan said, flipping on his turn signal.
“Mmm-hmm,” I said.
He glanced over at me, then returned his attention to the road. “What did Quinn want to ask you?”
“About the murder weapon,” I said. “And like I said, Bosworth had quite the collection of magical paraphernalia. From different disciplines and from all around the world. It felt pretty weird in that house, let me tell you.” Not to mention the protection spell around the house.