by Alex P. Berg
“When you took the statuette. When you attacked her and killed her.”
“No,” said Iolite forcefully. “I didn’t kill her. I hit her with the statuette across the brow, stunning her and spraying blood, which yes, I did later clean. But I didn’t kill her. I threatened her. I threatened her with the truth. The knowledge that she’d killed Sophie in that fire, and my father, whether intentionally or not, and then I went further. I told her to run. To run and never return, because not only would I tell people about her deeds, but I’d kill her myself if she came back. If she ever tried to treat me or anyone else as she had Bertrand. And she did run. She stumbled through that passageway, leaving blood on the floor no doubt, and she’s been gone ever since. So yes, I threatened her, I admit that. But I didn’t kill her.”
I lifted my eyebrows. “Iolite, please. We found the body. It’s over.”
The young woman’s eyes widened. “What? That’s impossible.”
“Even without Bertrand at your side, you grew quite fond of spying on people through the hidden passageways, didn’t you, Iolite? Vezig told me he’d started seeing ghosts, sometimes a pair but often only one. Tell me, how long had you been spying on Angela before you discovered the truth about the paintings?”
Iolite’s jaw fell, and her skin turned ashen. She muttered something unintelligible while the others shared confused glances and whispers of “Angela?” and “What does he mean?”
I could’ve explained myself, but I figured everyone present had suffered enough already. I wasn’t even sure Marcus could physically handle any more surprises.
I took Iolite by the arm. “Iolite Streamshine? You’re under arrest for the murder of Clarice Vanderfeller. Everything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law, and while you have the right to remain silent, that right probably wouldn’t have helped you even if you’d invoked it ten minutes ago. Let’s go.”
I nodded to Steele, then Rodgers and Quinto, and with a firm grip on Iolite, we headed through the doors.
43
I headed down the nearest set of stairs and set out toward the Aldermont’s front entrance. Iolite didn’t resist, her mind gripped by that sense of existential dread and defeat I’d seen in so many other criminals upon capture. She stared at the ground as we walked, her eyes frozen wide and her head afflicted by a series of involuntary shakes.
Soon, her lips started moving in an imitation of speech, and I knew she was going through the scene of Clarice’s murder over and over again in her mind, analyzing every word, every motion, wondering what she could’ve done differently, how she could’ve dealt with the aftermath better or at the very least altered her story to avoid giving herself away. The inaudible whispers turned to an actual mutter as we reached the main entrance hall.
I lifted an eyebrow. “What was that?”
Iolite continued to stare at the floor. “The Vanderfeller curse. Everyone talked about it. Said Frederick Vanderfeller’s ghost, angry at his children for squandering his money, set a curse upon the family until the end of days. Said that’s what caused Edward Vanderfeller’s investments to fail and helped him along to an untimely death. What caused Nell Vanderfeller’s disappearance and led to Mrs. Vanderfeller’s dementia. I didn’t believe any of it. Mostly because people pointed to the fire as more evidence of the curse, but that hadn’t affected any Vanderfellers, just us, their servants.”
She lifted her head and stared at me. “But it did, didn’t it? Not only did a Vanderfeller start the fire, but it took the life of a Vanderfeller’s mother. Bertrand’s, because he’s one of them. And…so am I. And now the curse has ruined my life, too.”
I snorted, which caused Iolite’s stare to turn into more of a glare.
“Look, Miss Streamshine. As my partner will tell you, I tend to believe in all manner of supernatural oddities, impossibilities, and things that go bump in the night. Maybe curses and ghosts are real, and maybe one of them did afflict you. But I’ll tell you something I know for sure. Frederick Vanderfeller’s ghost didn’t pick up that statuette and bludgeon Clarice Vanderfeller to death, nor did a mysterious curse lift that statue and send it flying forth on powers sent up from the grave. You did. You made the decision. It may have been a spur of the moment one, one made while trapped in a bubble of panic and fear and desperation, but it was your decision all the same. And now you’ll face the consequences.”
We pushed through the manor’s front doors and into the cool night air at the foot of the front lawn. Whatever warmth had lingered during the day had disappeared, perhaps winter’s way of reminding us that even though the season might be fading, it would be back, sooner than any of us might want.
Rodgers seemed to be thinking much the same thing I was. He shivered as he stepped into the night’s embrace. “So, seeing as rickshaws are pretty much only available around here with significant prior notice, you ready for the long walk back to the precinct?”
“I’m ready for a long night, period,” I said. “Though I might need a hearty meal first. I haven’t eaten anything all day, and coffee can only go so far.”
“A long night?” Quinto lifted a thick brow. “Miss Streamshine here basically admitted to the murder. What else are you hoping to accomplish?”
“A lot,” I said. “There’s the obvious stuff, like transporting Clarice Vanderfeller’s body from the attic where we stashed it to the precinct, taking official statements from the family and staff, and signing off on a host of paperwork. Some of those can wait, other can’t. But more importantly, there’s another case besides Clarice Vanderfeller’s murder to consider. Guys, I don’t know how well the captain briefed you before you arrived, but seven years ago, the youngest Vanderfeller, Nell, went missing. Disappeared off the face of the earth. Until today. I found her.”
Iolite blinked and stared at me, shocked by my admission. Rodgers had a more police-like response.
“Are you saying there’s a young girl in there? Trapped? Well, let’s get her! What are we waiting for?”
“It’s not that simple,” I said. “Trust me, in the pantheon of complicated rescues, this one ranks at the top. Am I right, Steele?”
She nodded. “There’s magic involved, guys. It could get dicey.”
Quinto and Rodgers exchanged glances.
“What kind of magic?” asked Quinto.
“One that Steele wasn’t even familiar with until today,” I said. “Look. I need the two of you to take Iolite back to the precinct. Lock her up, then talk to the captain. Hopefully she’s still in. Tell her we’ve cracked the Nell Vanderfeller case, then come back and bring as many warm bodies with you as you can. And bring wagons, ones big enough to fit big stacks of oversized paintings. This is likely going to take a while, and I’d rather secure the artworks before we get started.”
“Paintings?” Rodgers peered at me. “What are you talking about?”
“I promise, I’ll explain. But for now, go. Every minute we waste is another that lets Nell slip through our grasp. Go on. Go.”
Quinto muttered something about working in the dark, but he and Rodgers skedaddled with Iolite restrained between them.
A bit of fog crept in low over the ground, obscuring the path back to the estate’s front doors and hovering at the base of the overgrown grass. The moon, a little over half full, gleamed high in the sky, sending rays into the burgeoning fog and making it glow a ghostly white. I shivered in the cold and stared at the manor.
“You know we’ll have to tell Marcus,” said Shay. “About Nell and Angela, I mean.”
“I know. But with him in his current state? I worry what it might do to him.”
“What do you mean? Don’t you think he’ll be overjoyed to know his daughter is alive and well?”
“Alive? Yes. Well?” I shrugged. “I’m not so sure about that. Nell may look the same as she did when he lost her, which alone might be quite the shock, but she’s not the same. Even without having known her at the time of her disapp
earance, I can say that with confidence. Her memory is limited, and beyond that, she’s cold. Aloof. She won’t be the daughter he remembers, that he wants. And let’s not forget that in gaining one, he’ll lose another. Angela imprisoned Nell in that world. Maybe Nell asked her to, I don’t know, but I doubt the courts will see it that way. Yet beyond all that, I can’t help but feel that maybe…”
I felt Shay’s touch on my arm. “Maybe what?”
I took a deep breath and sighed. “Maybe Nell would be better off not coming back.”
Shay tilted her head. “What makes you say that?”
“A hunch. Her mental blockage that I told you about? I can’t shake a feeling it’s not due to the magical nature of her environs, or at least that those environs had no more of an effect than any other kind of isolation would’ve. What if she intentionally blocked part of her memory? You didn’t see her when I told her I’d come back for her, Shay. There was real fear etched in her face. She’d said Angela put her in there to protect her. Maybe she did.”
“But protect her from what?”
I shrugged. “I have no idea. There’s a massive difference between adultery and child molestation, but still. The Vanderfellers have proven themselves to be far more twisted than any of us could’ve imagined coming into this. Perhaps there are more secrets we don’t know, secrets implicating members of the family in crimes we’d rather not know about.”
Shay remained silent for a while. “I suppose that’s possible. But at least now we know their history. We can protect Nell from whatever further abuses might lie in her path, and Angela, too, assuming she’s absolved of wrongdoing.”
“We can only protect them so much. For all its frightening aspects, that art world is a far less scary one than our own. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. The first thing we’ll have to do is find Angela and Nell.”
“You think they’ve gone into hiding?”
“If they both care for each other and depend on one another, then yes. Who knows how long it might take us to find them? We don’t understand the most fundamental aspects of the power Angela wields. No one does if what you’ve told me about your magical studies is true. We may have numbers and stubborn determination on our side, but I can’t help but fear that if Angela doesn’t want us to find her, we never will.”
“All we can do is try, Daggers. That’s all we can ever do.”
I nodded, trying to project more confidence than I felt. I’d put in the work. Of course I would. But I suspected it would be for naught, and if that were the case, I’d have a hard time shaking that lasting image of Nell from my brain, that of her, shrinking into the paintings in the replica studio, terror wracking her and me, reaching out and making a promise I couldn’t keep.
Shay must’ve recognized the look on my face, the same one I’d sported back in the attic. “Come on, Daggers. We solved the case. And I have one more tidbit of good news that might brighten your night.”
I tried to smile. “Which is?”
“Pierre made a beef stroganoff for dinner that was to die for. With the amount he cooked, I’m certain there’s leftovers, and even if they’re cold, I’m sure he’d be willing to warm them up for you. Heck, I could easily do it.”
“You’re offering to cook for me?”
“I’m offering to reheat food for you, but sure. Let’s say cook.”
My smile broadened. I reached out an arm, taking hold of Shay’s hand and squeezing it. “Thanks for looking for me.”
“To no avail. Thankfully you managed to free yourself.”
“But you looked, and I know if I hadn’t gotten out, you would’ve found me sooner or later. That knowledge was comforting. It kept me calm in the face of danger. So thank you.”
Shay smiled back. “You know I’d never leave you behind, Jake, just as I know you’d never leave me to fend for myself. I won’t ever give up on you.”
“I’ll hold you to that. I can get pretty ornery at times.”
“I know.”
I nodded toward the manor. “Come on. I’d been doing fine, but now that you’ve mentioned hot beef, my stomach is ready to go to war. And I’d better get to it before Quinto returns and decides to eliminate the remaining evidence.”
Shay nodded. With hands still clasped, we strode our way back through the growing fog and up the front steps.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Hi. I’m Alex P. Berg, a mystery, fantasy, and science fiction writer and the author of Steele Life. If you enjoyed this Daggers & Steele mystery, be sure to check back for the next novel in the series, Liquid Steele, in which a visit to a seaside town turns out to be anything but idyllic.
Want more exciting adventures, head-scratching mysteries, and snarky dialogue? Check out two of my other series:
*The Tau Ceti Transmutation (Rich Weed #1): Follow private detective Rich Weed and his trusty android sidekick Carl in this pulp-inspired science fiction mystery set in the year 3330.
*The Black Mast Murder (Driftwood #1): Mystery and intrigue rule the high seas in this Pirates of the Caribbean-style adventure featuring constable John “Driftwood” Malarkey and his supernaturally-gifted wife, Gwen.
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