Sisters of the Mist

by Eric Wilder

  Rafael glanced at me. “Wyatt retrieved the dagger.”

  Rory, again, showed us his palm. “Tell me no more,” he said.

  He handed me the dagger. When I touched it, the same force I’d felt when I pulled it from Father Fred’s heart surged up my arm. Abba gasped, and Rafael’s jaw dropped when the dagger with the heroic name began to radiate a golden glow.

  “Oh my God,” Abba said. “I don’t believe this.”

  “Believe it,” Rory said. “I created this dagger using specific instructions from the sorceress. The runes on the blade have a secret meaning known only to her. I do not lie when I tell you they give the blade magical powers. Did you sense the power when you first touched the blade?”

  I was silent for a moment before answering. “We exited the room when the floor and walls caught fire. I was halfway down the stairs when an overwhelming urge caused me to return to the room. By the time I had the dagger in my hand, the smoke, fumes, and flames had grown almost intolerable. I couldn’t see the door for the smoke. Some force in the dagger pulled me through the gloom and out the door, my skin barely scorched. I should be dead now, and I’m not.”

  “The dagger called to you. You had no choice but to possess it.”

  “I have a choice,” I said, “Please, take it back.”

  “No,” Rory said. “The dagger is yours, along with its magic. You must keep it until its purpose is served.”

  “And then what?” I said.

  “Your duty will be complete, and ownership conveyed to another, for another purpose.”

  “But that’s why we’re here,” Abba said. “We are looking for my sister. At least a person I’m beginning to think of like my sister. The witch, or sorceress, is the only person that can help us. Can you please tell us how to find her?”

  “She can only be found if she wants you to find her,” he said.

  “How did she find you?” Abba asked.

  “My father and grandfather were both smithys. In Scotland, their blades were considered the best of any in the world.”

  Rory grinned when Rafael said, “Your business doesn’t seem like the type where you have to do much advertising.”

  “Rory has a waiting list that spans more than two years,” Cyn said. “He’s quite literally the best knife, dagger, and sword maker in the country; perhaps the entire world.” She touched his hand. “That’s how we met. He and his father sold my dad a sword many years ago.”

  “We were both quite young. I fell in love with those eyes of hers the first moment we met,” he said.

  Though she punched his big arm, she didn’t deny the attraction they both must have felt.

  “You speak of the woman we thought was a witch as if she’s some sort of mystical goddess,” I said. “Surely she didn’t just drive up in a car and ask you to make her a knife.”

  My comment made Rory guffaw. “Aye, Wyatt. You are correct about that.”

  “She didn’t ride in on a broom, did she?” Abba asked.

  “She could have if she had wanted to. The sorceress is a shape-shifter. She flew through the window of my smithy shop in the body of a pigeon. When I glanced around, she transformed into an enormous black woman dressed like an Antebellum field hand.”

  “I’m having trouble believing all of this,” Abba said.

  Rory was prepared for everyone’s skepticism. “Then suspend your disbelief lassie, because what I’m telling you is true. She gave me specific instructions on how to construct the blade. She returned a week later, took the knife and left me with twenty pieces of gold.”

  “Surely, you’re making this up,” Abba said.

  “I assure you that I am not. Cyn, show her the gold.”

  Cyn stood on her toes and reached for a cardboard box on an upper shelf of their bookcase. I could see it was heavy by the way she carried it. As we watched in amazement, she dumped the contents onto the coffee table. Rafael whistled softly as he reached to pick one up.

  “These are Spanish gold doubloons, aren’t they?” he asked.

  “Looking bright as the day they were minted in the 1500s,” Rory said.

  “Are you sure?” Abba said.

  “Pick one up. What else could they be? You can feel how heavy they are,” Cyn said.

  “How much are they worth?” Abba asked, hefting a single doubloon in her hand.

  “A dead man’s ransom,” Rory said.

  Before anyone else could comment, a beautiful black, long-haired dog came through the back door. After receiving head rubs from Cyn and Rory, he checked out Rafael, me, and finally Abba. His tail never stopped wagging.

  “What’s your name, pretty boy?” Abba asked.

  “Slick,” Cyn said. “He’s a Gordon Setter.”

  “Looks almost like an Irish Setter,” Rafael said. “Except slightly smaller and black instead of red.”

  “Gordon Setters are Scottish,” Cyn said. “We rescued him from the pound.”

  “Who would abandon such a beautiful dog?” Abba asked, by now hugging the friendly animal.

  “Unscrupulous breeders,” Cyn said. “Only solid black Gordons are usually kept and bred. Those like Slick that are born with a white blaze on their chests are often killed when they are still puppies.”

  “Horrible,” Abba said, giving Slick a motherly hug. “He is so beautiful. Why is it I’ve never heard of or seen a Gordon Setter before?”

  “They’re very active dogs. They need to run ten or more miles a day to be happy and healthy. Slick will climb over our fence when he feels like a run,” Cyn said. “We’ve stopped trying to keep him penned.”

  “He runs down by the river until he gets enough exercise for the day. When he does, he always returns home,” Rory said.

  “Definitely not a dog for most city dwellers,” Abba said.

  Cyn put the doubloons in the cardboard box, and then back on the shelf. I still had the dagger. It felt warm in my hand and continued to glow.

  “Are you telling us that you don’t know where the sorceress lives?” I asked.

  One of the front windows was open, and we could hear the sounds of boats on the river. A gust of wind blew the door ajar, and fog wafted in through the crack. Rory slugged his Southern Comfort, got up and closed it.

  “I didn’t say that,” he said. “She lives somewhere in the Honey Island Swamp.”

  “That’s a wild and treacherous place,” I said. “How on earth can we find her if we don’t have directions?”

  “If she wants you to find her, then you will. If not, there’s nothing more I can do for you.”

  Chapter 17

  Eddie missed his favorite pillow, his neck sore when sun shining through a window awoke him the next morning. After showering and getting dressed, he padded down a long hallway, following his nose to the aroma of bacon and eggs. Everyone else was already at a long dining room table, drinking coffee and orange juice as they waited on him.

  “Have a nice nap, sleeping beauty?” Frankie asked. “We thought you were going to sleep all day.”

  “It’s not even eight o’clock yet.”

  “Everyone gets up earlier on the farm,” Frankie said.

  Adele had risen from her seat and led Eddie to an empty chair next to Josie and Jojo.

  “Don’t mind him,” she said. “He can be an old bear until he’s had his first pot of coffee in the morning.”

  “No problem,” Eddie said. “That’s something I can relate to. What’s on the agenda for you girls today?”

  “Lil and I are going to play a few sets of tennis and then relax at the spa; maybe have a massage.”

  “I’m in heaven,” Lil said. “Tony and I tried out the hot tub last night.”

  “Good for you,” Adele said. “How was it?”

  “Wonderful. We’re going to get one for our backyard.”

  “How about you, Tony?” Frankie said. “You like hot water?”

  “In my life, I’ve been in plenty,” he said.

  Eddie was more interested in what Josie
was doing. “What do you and Jojo have planned?” he asked.

  “I’m homeschooling Jojo this year. When we finish for the day, I’ll probably just cuddle up in bed and read a book.”

  “I’m jealous,” Eddie said.

  “Dad has lots of great books in the den.”

  “Wasn’t exactly what I meant.”

  Everyone at the table, including Frankie, tried to ignore Eddie’s comment. Josie just grinned and shook her head.”

  “You?” she asked.

  “Tony and I are headed to the track to ask a few questions. Maybe we can go for another walk when we return.”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  Josie and Jojo were soon off to study lessons, Adele and Lil on their way to get dressed for tennis. Frankie was lacing his coffee with scotch, his attention somewhere else.

  “Why the long face?” Tony finally asked.

  “Cops arrested my right-hand man Bruno Baresi last night and charged him with murder.”

  “Who did he kill?” Eddie asked.

  “Nobody,” Frankie said. “This is a frame job, pure and simple.”

  “Let me rephrase my question; Who is he supposed to have killed?”

  “Diego Contrado. Chuy Delgado’s nephew.”

  Tony whistled softly through his teeth. “What kind of evidence do they have?”

  “Circumstantial. They were both eating at the same restaurant.”

  “Surely that can’t be all they have,” Tony said.

  “They got other evidence.”

  “Like what?”

  “Contrado was killed with Bruno’s pistol.”

  Tony had to stifle a laugh. “Seems more than just circumstantial to me.”

  “The owner, Pinky Robinette, used to work for me. Lots of paisanos, and now the Mexican gang, like to eat and drink there. Pinky don’t allow no violent behavior, and he makes all the boys check their guns at the door. Anybody there could have taken it and used it to kill Contrado.”

  “What else they got?” Tony asked.

  “Bruno got a phone call and went outside to take it. It was about the same time Contrado was shot.”

  “Was it just a coincidence that Bruno happened to be at the restaurant the same time as Contrado?” Eddie asked.

  “It was Friday. Bruno’s a creature of habit. He eats at Pinky’s every Friday night.”

  “Pardon me for saying so,” Tony said. “Seems to me your boy is in a heap of trouble.”

  “Yeah, well you’re gonna find out because I want you to talk to him and get his story.”

  “Instead of looking for the horse?”

  “Why hell no! In addition to finding Jojo’s horse. Can you handle it?”

  Eddie answered for him. “Tony’s the best criminal investigator I know. I’m pretty good myself, and I’m helping him. We can handle it.”

  Frankie took a sip of his coffee, stared at Eddie and smiled. “Maybe you got more moxie than I give you credit for.”

  “Thanks,” Eddie said.

  “That ain’t all. Some of Delgado’s men caused a stir at my nightclub over in Fat City last night.”

  “What did they do?” Tony asked.

  “Pistol whipped one of my boys on his way out to the parking lot.”

  “How do you know they were Delgado’s men?” Eddie asked.

  “They was speaking Spanish,” Frankie said.

  “And?”

  Frankie slammed his coffee cup on the table. “And nothing. They was Delgado’s men. I don’t need an affidavit to prove it.”

  “Eddie don’t mean no harm,” Tony said. “We’re both on your side. He’s just being a good investigator and asking lots of questions.”

  Frankie’s frown disappeared as he pushed away from the table. “Sorry, I’m in a foul mood and there ain’t a whole lot I can do about it.”

  “You got a reason to be upset,” Tony said. “Stop worrying about Bruno and Jojo’s horse. Eddie and me are on the job. We’ll take care of things for you.”

  “Thanks, Tony. I feel better already. Now, I got work to do. Give me a report when you get back to the farm.”

  Tony and Eddie watched him disappear down the hallway.

  When he was gone, Eddie said, “Now what?”

  Frankie had left his bottle of scotch on the dining room table. Tony grabbed it and poured a liberal dose into his own coffee.

  “Just my luck,” he said.

  Eddie took the bottle and laced his own coffee. “What?”

  “A partner with a big mouth.”

  “We can handle this,” Eddie said.

  “Hope you’re right about that,” Tony said. “Let’s get dressed and hit the road. We got lots of ground to cover and not much time to do it.”

  ***

  The quarter horse campaign had ended the previous day. When Tony and Eddie reached the track, all they found were a few trainers and lots of roustabouts loading trucks and trailers. Frankie had supplied them with stable passes which they wore around their necks on lanyards. They needn’t have bothered.

  Lil had made sure that Tony’s khakis were tightly pressed. He wore no tee shirt beneath the magnificent palms swaying in a gentle breeze on his green Hawaiian shirt. He didn’t miss the perennial tie he’d always had to wear as a homicide detective, though he liked the dark brown corduroy sports coat his kids had given him for his birthday.

  Eddie’s black and gold Saints parka was open enough to reveal his L.S.U. T-shirt. He liked to think his penny loafers with no socks and designer blue jeans made a fashion statement. The truth was, his job required the wearing of an expensive suit every day. Maybe why he enjoyed looking like a tourist from the west coast on his days off.

  “Think you can find the stable Lightning Bolt was in?” Tony asked.

  “I’m not senile.”

  Eddie didn’t laugh when Tony said, “Yet, at least.”

  The stable where Lightning Bolt had been was empty, the door ajar.

  “Not much here,” Eddie said.

  Tony poked his nose out the back door. “There’s a dumpster back here. The trash hasn’t been picked up yet. Go out front and watch the door.”

  “Why?” Eddie said.

  “You be surprised what winds up in the trash. I’m going to dig through it and see what I find.”

  “Knock yourself out,” Eddie said.

  Twenty minutes passed when a man with a bottle of red energy drink in his hand pushed open the stable door to see who was there. Tony had finished his dumpster diving and was sticking something into his jacket as he reentered the stall area.

  “You boys look lost,” the man said. “Looking for something?”

  The man’s aviator sunglasses perched atop his red hair that was rapidly growing gray. He seemed to have a permanent grin beneath his untrimmed handlebar mustache.

  “A friend of ours had a horse in that stall a few days ago,” Eddie said. “We didn’t realize the meet was over.”

  “Frankie Castellano.”

  “Yes, how did you know?” Tony asked.

  “He don’t usually run quarter horses. Caught everyone in the paddock by surprise when he entered a race with one.”

  “Bet he did,” Eddie said, extending his hand. “I’m Eddie, and this is Tony. You work around here?”

  “Jake Kratchit. I’m the stable superintendent.”

  “Sounds impressive,” Tony said. “What exactly does your job entail, Jake?”

  “Not much of nothing, at least between meets. When the thoroughbreds or quarter horses are running, seems like I’m busy twenty-four seven.”

  “Are you the person that assigns the stalls during the meets?” Tony asked.

  “That and a whole lot more,” Jake said.

  Eddie pointed to the stall where Josie had shown him Lightning Bolt.

  “Is that stall permanently assigned to Mr. Castellano when his horses run here?”

  “Nope, I had to do some shuffling when the horse was added to the race.”

  “You didn’t alr
eady know about it?” Tony asked.

  “It was a last minute addition.”

  “Is that normal?” Eddie asked.

  “Weren’t nothing normal about it. Had everyone in the paddock wondering how this no-name horse managed to all of a sudden have a favorable lane coming out of the gate.”

  “How did that happen?” Tony asked.

  “Frankie Castellano. When he says frog, people jump. Ain’t right, maybe. It’s still as simple as that.”

  “People in the paddock were mad?” Tony said.

  “Pissed off is more like it. You boys don’t look like cops.”

  “Because we’re not,” Eddie said. “Insurance investigators. Trying to get a lead on what happened to Mr. Castellano’s horse. Know anything about it.”

  “Not much around here I don’t know.”

  “Then will you discuss it with us?”

  “Why not?” Jake said. “I ain’t got a dog in the fight. Buy me a cold beer, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

  “You got it,” Tony said. “I could use a cold one myself. Where to?”

  “I’m pretty much done for the day. There’s a neighborhood bar just outside the main gate called Big Sam’s Firehorse Lounge.”

  “Yeah,” Tony said. “Saw it when we came in the gate. Want to ride with us?”

  “Got to lock up a few stalls first. Meet you there in about twenty minutes.”

  Chapter 18

  Despite its grandiose name, Big Sam’s Firehorse Lounge was little more than a ramshackle hole-in-the-wall bar frequented by track workers, visiting jockeys, and trainers. The quarter horse meet having ended, the place was empty of customers. Tony and Eddie sat at the bar and ordered cold mugs of Abita.

  Big Sam was anything but. A former jockey, he stood nowhere near six feet tall, though his expanding waistline indicated he liked sampling his own wares. He was busy puttering in back when they came in. After pouring their beer, he returned to what he’d been doing and left them alone.

  “What’d you find in the dumpster?” Eddie asked.

  “Bottle of shoe polish. Probably the one used to dye the horse’s blaze.”