by Bailey Cates
“A holly tree?”
“No. A holly tattoo.”
He was silent. Then, “No. Not yet.”
Good.
“There are six of these trees,” I said, looking around. “Is that significant?”
“Probably.”
The rest of the yard was nicely landscaped, but not in any particularly creative way. There were few flowers, only a few of the herbs used in all sorts of spell work—lavender, sage, rosemary, rue—and no vegetables at all. Eastmore had not been a hedgewitch; he’d been a druid. There was no real reason for him to have a potting shed if he wasn’t much of a gardener.
But the birdbath was also a sundial—and, upon further inspection, a moondial. The space we stood in had a magical feel to it. I approached the potting shed, and the feeling grew stronger.
My footsteps quickened.
“Wait.” Steve strode ahead of me and stopped, blocking the entrance. “There’s nothing here,” he said. “Nothing to see.”
“Then there’s no harm in my looking.”
“Katie.”
Gently, I elbowed him aside.
“Fine,” he said. “Don’t believe me.” He stalked back toward the house.
I put his crankiness down to nerves. Heck, I felt pretty jittery, too. But Samhain was only a day away, and the idea that someone might summon that awful spirit or entity or whatever it was gave me the creeps more than ever. Before, Lawrence Eastmore’s death had been disturbingly real, and I’d felt a compelling need to see his killer brought to justice after finding his body in Johnson Square. It had been the psychic attack, however, that made me truly realize the magical consequences should we fail to find Dr. Eastmore’s murderer.
A feeling like tiny mouse claws ran across my neck.
The police barrier banned actual entrance, but it looked like Steve was right about the innocuous potting shed. Inside, a waist-high bench ran along the back wall. An assortment of garden tools was tucked into a vivid green pot, and larger tools hung on the wall. Then I noticed that not all of the tools were those a typical gardener would possess. The wicked blades of two scythes curved next to a hoe. A bundle of peacock feathers sprouted from another pot in a festive bouquet. Pot, or cauldron? A long staff, taller than a typical walking stick, was propped in a shadowy corner. Pressing slightly against the yellow tape, I leaned in to take a closer look. The gnarled surface was carved with runes and symbols I didn’t recognize at all. A long strip of leather studded with glass beads wound around the top.
This was more than a potting shed. It was Lawrence Eastmore’s equivalent of my gazebo: a sacred circle for spell casting, ritual, and ceremony, outside, like the druids of old would have done.
No doubt this shed would have put a hunter of magic like Detective Taite on high alert. He’d said Dr. Eastmore had been struck with a large pot. Not a scythe? Maybe the killer hadn’t seen them. Or maybe the pot came easier to hand. Not very well thought out, then. I looked at the ground, but there was no trace of the murder weapon. The police would have taken it away, of course. But before I turned away I spied a semicircle of smooth stones embedded in the walls. My bet was that there had been more that formed a full circle. The police must have taken some of those, too.
The air inside the potting shed felt tainted, dark shreds of violence hanging invisible in the atmosphere. The place needed some serious cleansing, and I didn’t mean the soap-and-water kind.
Tentatively, I reached out with my mind, as if dipping my toe into unknown waters, to see if I could recognize the flavor of the evil that remained within the wisteria-covered walls. I got a brief impression of cold, something beyond mere ice. I flinched away, then steeled myself to try again.
“Greer? Hello?”
I looked over my shoulder to see Steve leaning inside the back door of the house. “What are you doing?” I hissed.
He turned his face toward me, but his eyes were still trained inside the house. “Tried the door. It’s unlocked. Don’t you think he’d lock it if he went out?”
“How would I know?” I looked back into the potting shed. It would make sense to lock the door if his father’s collection remained inside the house—unless Greer was really home. Had he ignored our knocking? Did he know who I was? My resolve shattered, and I whirled around. “We should go.”
But Steve was gone.
The door gaped open. From my vantage I could see the corner of some white wainscoting, a rug inside the entry, and a pair of rubber boots. With reluctant steps, I walked across the grass until I reached the small cement step.
“Steve?”
Another step took me close enough to touch the doorframe.
“Greer?”
The smell of burning hair curled through the air, making my eyes water.
“Steve!” I yelled.
Pushing the door open all the way, I ran inside, hands out in front of me as my pupils struggled to adjust to the dark interior. Frantic, I passed through the small mudroom and ran down a hallway. My pounding footsteps echoed against the wooden planks. On the right, a cheerful modern kitchen beckoned, but when I paused and stuck my head in, no one was there. A dark wooden door on the left opened when I twisted the knob, revealing a richly furnished den.
Also empty.
Continuing down the hallway brought me to a bathroom appointed in brass and marble. A part of my brain noticed, of all things, a bidet. Opposite, a stairway rose to the second floor. It was narrower than most. Old. Beyond, a large living room sprawled, facing the street outside. I got the impression of thick Oriental rugs, gilded frames, and the aged patina of bulky antique furniture, but when it was obvious that no one was in the room, I turned back.
The acrid smell increased at the bottom of the stairs.
Muttering to the archangels under my breath, and throwing in a plea to my Nonna as well, I started up to the next level.
Chapter 24
“Stay down there,” Steve called when I was halfway up the stairs. He appeared at the top.
“You’re okay?” The words squeaked out of my tight throat.
“I’m fine.”
I sank to the step, my usually strong running muscles suddenly turning to jelly. “Thank goodness.”
“Yeah, well, I think we’d better call the police.”
“Why?” I pulled myself up by the banister, glad to see that my legs could hold my weight after all, and started up the stairs again.
“Just turn around and go back downstairs. I’ll be there in a minute.”
I stopped, hands on hips, and looked up at him with eyes still burning from that horrible smell.
The creases in his forehead deepened. “Why are you crying?”
“I’m not crying. Can’t you smell that?” But I could tell he was oblivious.
“What?”
I sighed. “Burning hair.”
Slowly, he shook his head. He hadn’t been able to smell it the night before, either. My stomach roiled at the thought that whatever—whoever—had attacked me had been in this house.
Or was still in this house.
Sudden anger swept through me. So Greer Eastmore had killed his father and come after me. The thought made my scalp positively tingle with fury.
I went up a few more steps until I reached the one right below where Steve stood. “Is Greer here now?” I whispered. He might not have answered the door when he saw who it was. Or he could be sleeping off the aftereffects of last night’s hostilities.
He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my face. “I don’t think you have to worry about Greer anymore.”
My apprehension deepened. I gripped the railing. “Why not?”
“I’m sorry, Katie. He’s dead.”
I felt my eyes go wide. “Dead?” Slowly, I sat down on the top step. After a few moments, Steve sat beside me and put his arm around my shoulders.
“Is it bad?” I asked.
“I didn’t see any signs of violence, if that’s what you mean. Maybe he had a heart attack or an ane
urysm.” Steve bent forward to see my face. “But it wasn’t a heart attack, was it?”
I bit my lip. “How would I know?” But I was afraid I did. I leaned back so that I could see more of the upstairs hallway. More wooden floor, another intricately woven rug, and a burled-walnut sideboard topped with a tall mirror at one end. Five doors opened off the space. One was a bathroom, one revealed bookcases, and I could see enough of two more to know that they were bedrooms.
He took his cell phone out of his pocket. I put my hand on his arm, and he paused, eyes searching my face. “Katie?”
“You really can’t smell that stink?”
“Uh-uh.”
I swallowed convulsively, not wanting to say the words but knowing I had to. “Do you…do you think I killed him?”
His head jerked back. “What?”
“When he…when I, you know, fought back last night?”
“No. No, of course not. No.”
He thinks I did it.
“I want to see him before you call the cops.”
He rolled his eyes and shook his head.
I stood and stepped onto the upstairs landing. “Where is he?”
“Katie, wait!” By the time Steve got to his feet, I was moving down the hallway.
I glanced in the bathroom, saw nothing unusual, and kept going. I stopped in the doorway of the first bedroom. A huge sleigh bed dominated the room, which reeked of masculine presence in everything from the scent of citrusy cologne to the boldly striped curtains on the window overlooking the backyard to the solid reading chair and clean lines of the lamp beside it. A navy blue bathrobe lay across one corner of the fully made bed.
Citrusy cologne. The burning smell was fading if I could smell that. I inhaled with relief, feeling like I could take a full breath again.
“This was Lawrence’s room,” I said to Steve, who now stood watching me. He had an odd expression on his face, something like irritation mixed with admiration. But I didn’t have time to pick it apart, or respond to it. I turned my back on Eastmore Senior’s digs and marched to the bedroom opposite.
Suddenly Steve was by my side, his hand closing on my arm. I curled my fingers over his. “I have to see,” I said, pushing the door open all the way with my toe.
Unlike his father, Greer Eastmore was pale and wore his dark hair cut quite short. His full lips and hooked nose reminded me of the body in the square, though, and I winced. I couldn’t tell what color his eyes were, because they were squeezed shut. He lay on top of the wrinkled sheets, wearing green-and-white-striped pajamas. There was no blood, no bruising on his visible skin, and the room was tidy as could be.
“Are you sure he’s dead?” I breathed, grabbing the doorframe for support.
Steve put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure.”
I turned away, then forced myself to look again. “He looks like he was asleep when he died.”
“Probably,” Steve said.
“He wouldn’t have cast a spell from there,” I said. “But he might have gone right to bed after casting it.” I ran my hand over my face. “Could my backlash really have done this?”
“You can’t know that was Greer last night.”
“But that smell—”
“Which was all over your carriage house, right?”
I nodded. “Oh. Oh, dear.” I rubbed at my face with both palms. “Of course. Whoever came after me could have killed Greer.”
Killed. Last night had been an attempt on my life.
“Which means just because this poor guy is dead, this business with the Spell of Necretius and finding his father’s killer may not be over after all,” I said. A wave of weariness washed all my anger and fear away. I just wanted to go home and take a very long nap.
Steve shrugged. “It’s possible. So are a lot of other things, most of which involve Greer dying of natural causes. It happens. Katie, you can’t blame yourself. Even if he is dead because of some kind of magical backlash, that’s not your fault.”
He didn’t use the term self-defense, but I could tell he was thinking it.
That sure didn’t make me feel any better. I sighed. “Okay. Let’s call the police. But there’s probably something you should know about Detective Quinn’s new partner.”
* * *
Steve made the call from the hallway. When his back was turned, I tiptoed into Greer’s bedroom again. If the younger Eastmore had been the one in my head the night before, then we were home free. But if he was a victim, as I’d been…then why?
Keeping my back to the silent form on the bed and muttering, Sorry, sorry, sorry, I sidled across the room to the closet. I grabbed a tissue off the dresser and used it to open the door. It looked like he’d already unpacked. Clothes were hung in a neat row, each hanger spaced two inches from the one next to it. I counted two pairs of slacks, two of jeans, two silk T-shirts and three cotton ones, three collared shirts, a sports coat, and a charcoal gray suit. The dress shoes on the floor looked new and matched the suit. With a start, I realized he’d been planning to wear them to his father’s funeral.
“Oh,” I said out loud, and closed my eyes. I didn’t have the heart to go further. Despite my original intentions, someone else would have to go through the pockets.
Sorry.
On the other side of the closet from the dresser, a matching chair and ottoman backed into the corner. A floor lamp like the one in Dr. Eastmore’s room loomed above the chair. A biography of the writer Conrad Aiken lay in the center of the ottoman. Between the chair and the bed was a small writing desk—yet another antique. A laptop sat open on the surface.
Turning my back on the bed, I moved sideways to the computer and pressed ENTER with a tissue-covered forefinger. The screen sprang to life. Program icons were scattered across a photo of the Parthenon, but I didn’t see any files. Greer Eastmore had been a very tidy guy. Freakishly so.
“What are you doing?” Steve asked from the doorway.
“Just a quick look, that’s all,” I said.
“Come on,” he urged.
I retraced my steps toward Steve waiting in the doorway. But I stopped when I saw the cell phone on the dresser top. Ignoring my companion’s frantic gestures, I carefully picked it up and scrolled through to the recent calls.
One number caught my eye.
My cell number.
I stared at it, unable to process what it meant.
“Katie. What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Put that down! Let’s go.”
I placed the phone back where I’d found it and shouldered past him to the hallway, thoroughly shaken. Taking a deep breath, I tried to focus. Before leaving I had to check out the room with the bookcases. It was still possible to get the The 33 Curses for Andersen Lane. I could decide later whether to actually give it to him or not. Sure enough, when I pushed the door open I discovered a small library. I noted the lovely musty scent of yellowing paper and old ink—the burning smell was definitely fading. I moved quickly down the shelves, scanning titles.
As I expected, the volumes were primarily related to the occult. However, none looked all that old, and the book Andersen wanted me to borrow from Greer was not in the section that seemed devoted to spellbooks. Then I saw the metal door at the far end of the room, so out of place in that atmosphere of leather, wood, and money. It appeared sturdy enough to withstand a bomb and no doubt housed the climate-controlled atmosphere that Andersen had mentioned—the one that Lawrence Eastmore employed to preserve books like the Spell of Necretius for future generations of Dragohs.
The 33 Curses would be in there.
My thoughts whirled as Steve grabbed my arm and pulled me out into the hallway. With a murmured “Come on, Katie-girl,” he hurried me down the stairs to greet the authorities. My stomach felt like someone had run an old-fashioned eggbeater in it. Why was my number in Greer Eastmore’s recent-call list? Had it been a dialed call or a received call? I wasn’t familiar enough with his model of phone to know, and I berated
myself for not looking closer. But either way, I hadn’t received any calls from strangers lately, and I sure hadn’t called Greer Eastmore.
I should have deleted the number. My gut did another twist. No, that wouldn’t have worked. The police would still have Greer’s phone records.
Nonetheless, there was still a part of me that wished I’d hit that DELETE button.
* * *
Detective Taite boiled out of the passenger side of the unmarked Caprice before it had even stopped moving. He strode to where we stood waiting on the front step while his partner exited the vehicle, closed the door, and paused on the sidewalk across the street to take in the whole scene. An ambulance and two Savannah patrol cars had arrived moments earlier, and we’d told them where to find Greer Eastmore inside.
“Katie Lightfoot. Imagine seeing you here.” New York–accented sarcasm oozed from all six words, and he looked at me like he wanted to suck every secret out of my soul.
“Detective Taite,” I said. “This is Steve Dawes.”
Quinn caught up to his partner. He nodded at Steve, taking in his face, his clothes, his stance, and who-knew-what-else in one sweeping glance. His eyes settled back on me. “This is getting to be a really bad habit with you.”
I held up my hands in a warding gesture. “I know, I know. Twice in one week. But it’s not my fault,” I lied. Sort of. We’d come up with a story that bordered on the truth, so I plunged on. “Steve knew Greer Eastmore when he was a boy. When Steve was a boy, not Greer. Anyway, when Steve heard he’d come back to town after his father’s death, he decided to stop by and pay his respects.”
“Which explains nothing about why you’re here,” Quinn said with a hard look.
I shrugged. “He asked if I wanted to come along, and I said sure. Moral support, you know?”
“Right.” Taite’s nostrils flared.
“I did find his father, you know. I thought maybe he’d have questions.”
“If he had questions he needed to ask us, not you,” Quinn said.
Two more patrol cars arrived, and two of the officers herded the gathering crowd across the street. I turned my back to them. It would be just my luck if some of them recognized me from the bakery. The Honeybee had already been associated with one murder.