I wasn’t sure where this was going. “We’re still talking about Avery Flute, right?”
“Oh, aye, aye,” Horace said, shaking his head to clear it. “I still t’aint told ya ‘bout Avery, have I?”
“You were about to,” I said, firing up a smile that I hoped would finally loosen up his tongue.
“So, couple a’ weeks back, ol’ Mr. Flute parks hisself right on the stool where’s ya sittin’ now an’—“
Then Horace looked around and then pointed at a barstool to my right. “Naw, was that one. Anyways, I’m servin’ him drinks like I usually am. Now, ya know me, Hattie. I ne’er count up a man’s drinks till it’s time ta settle his bill. But poor ol’ Avery? He’d already looked a bit down when he come in. By de time I asked him what de matter were, he was maybe half a drink from passin' out.”
“Why was he so upset?” I asked.
“Had somethin’ ta do wit’ Nebula,” Horace said. “Mind ya, I’m used ta Mainlanders moonin’ o’er her in fits a’ foolishness. Bu', actually bein’ from ‘round here cures tha' silliness right quick. But, dis was different. Cannae put it any o’er way.”
Seeing that he had my interest, he added, “He kept goin’ on and on ‘bout how beautiful Nebula were, how great dey were togedder, an' how perfick—“
“Perfectly bitchy she was,” I joked, to keep the conversation light and as un-investigation-like as possible.
Horace chuckled, but it was a bit more rueful than his earlier laugh. “De very t’ought I had. 'Specially when Avery started talkin’ on how he were unwordy a’ her an’ such a loser an’ always would be. Still remember de exact words he said ‘fore he passed out: ‘What was a mere…’—naw, that weren’t it—‘What was a lowly mortal like me thinkin’?’”
“You didn’t send him home in that condition, did you?” I asked.
“Course not,” Horace said like I had asked if you really needed alcohol in beer to get drunk. “Hauled him upstairs so’s he could sleep an’ dry out. Tol’ me he had a killer headache de next day but none de worse for wear.”
“How about Nebula?” I asked. “Has she been by recently?”
Horace’s face got sad again at the question. “If’ I’m ta be honest, as little love as I got for dat woman what broke Avery’s heart—still I wish I knew how—what happened wit’ her and her new squeeze is ano’er story that’s also perty sad.”
Noticing my Griffin Beak was empty, he took my mug and got me a refill. Coincidentally, he got himself a refill while he was at it. Another pull from his mug, and he began, “This’n happened ‘bout three night ago. Might have been four.”
With an impatient wave of his free hand, he said, “Not important…Nebula and dat Venetia fella are back in the corner, lookin’ kind a’ tense. Both a ‘em just kinda glare at me when I runs dem der drinks. I’m smellin’ trouble, so I keeps an eye on ‘em.”
I didn’t doubt that for a minute. While I had no doubt that Horace was actually from a witch bloodline himself, he did have this uncanny natural ability to pick up trouble within his bar before it broke out into something more serious; no matter how busy the place got. Anybody who was dumb enough to cross that man-mountain of a bartender got a quick education on why that was such a bad idea.
“Now, I’m e’er a perfect host,” Horace said with all due drunken modesty. “So, nobody but me really saw de trouble back dere.”
If it was as bad as he was talking about, I somehow doubted it.
“But, den I notice tha’ they’re arguin’,” Horace said, leaning in like we were in a room full of people instead of an empty bar. “Not loud at firs’, but sure got plenty loud a’ter a while.”
I credit my years of being around pungent herbs for being able to handle the stench of Horace’s breath enough to ask: “What were they saying?”
“Couldna make heads or tails a’ it,” Horace admitted. “If I was ta make a guess, I’d say it was dat Eye-talian talk that ol’ Venetia speaks when he ain't tryin’ ta charm the money and pants off a’ women who oughtta know better.”
I wonder if Grandma would have agreed with that observation, or given Horace grief for not understanding how lonely it can get to grow old without someone to love.
“Finally, I’s had enough a’ dat nonsense,” Horace admitted, mercifully drawing back to the relief of my stunned nostrils. “But, as I’m walkin’ o’er, Venetia storms right past me. Comes a couple a’ inches close ta givin’ me a hard shove ‘fore realizin’ what a bad idea that’d be. I stop carin’ as soon as he’s out the front door. So I goes to check on Nebula. I tell ya, luv, I ain’t ne’er seen her look dat vulnerable. Tears was pourin’ out them too pretty eyes an’ she looked like she’d jus’ been told her last friend’d jes’ died.”
“Sounds bad,” I opined, not realizing that the Griffin’s Beak had gotten a little warm while I had been listening to Horace.
“I’m askin’ her if everythin’s alright,” Horace finished. “She bit me head off: ‘Who asked ya, simpleton?’ Exact quote, I swear to Bran the Blessed. So’s I leave her ‘lone, she leaves a stack a’ money on de table what settles her bill an’ out she goes. No tip, min' ya.” He shakes his head with regret.
I winced a little as I took a pull from the Griffin’s Beak. It tasted like rotten eggs once it had warmed up slightly. I grimaced inwardly, so as not to be rude. But, the drink came close to what I came up with in my own attempts at the shop.
“Ah, sorry, Hattie,” Horace apologized. “I made ya miss yer moment wit’ yer drink.”
“It’s okay,” I said while my taste buds screamed that it was anything but.
I made a move to finish it off, but Horace grabbed the mug. “I can always getcha a—“
“No,” I said, that one word ending the proposal. “You made this; I’m going to drink it.”
I had to fight my gag reflex to get the rest of it down. But, down it went and down it (thankfully) stayed.
Horace just shook his head. “You’s a brave woman, Hattie Jenkins. Don’t know many men, ne’er mind women, dat’d drink de stuff once it lost its optimum temperature.”
“It’s like I always tell my customers,” I said. “Things don’t need to taste good to do what they need to do.”
Horace harrumphed. “Tell dat one to Venetia. I gots a tab from him what’s run up to its limit an’ no sign a’ payin’ it back in sight.”
“That’s why Nebula paid for the drinks the other night,” I deduced.
“In one,” Horace confirmed, pointing his finger at me. “Dat lout ain’t shown his face since. Doubt I’ll e’er see that money now that the mistress of de Gorthlands is dead.”
I had a thought. “What if I collected the tab for you?”
“Are ya bleedin’ cracked, girl?” Horace asked, horrified at my suggestion. “If anythin’ were ta happen ta ya—“
“Venetia’s looking for his next meal ticket,” I interrupted, my tiny hand stroking one of his big forearms. “He could flee Glessie, maybe the Coven Isles altogether, for better pickings. But if I came along and gave him the incentive to stay…”
“Still waitin’ on de part where ya’s get him ta settle his tab,” Horace said.
“He’s got to have gotten some money out of Nebula,” I went on. “I’m betting if I bat my eyelashes enough, he’ll gladly empty his pockets on my behalf. All I’ve got to do is convince him that I’ve got enough money to make that emptying worth it.”
Horace tried engaging his few unsoaked brain cells towards my proposition. Finally, he nodded. “Alright, Hattie…give it a shot. But de second it looks like ya t’aint gonna be safe, bail. I’d rather lose me money den lose a fine friend.”
I patted his monster arm one more time. “So, what’s the address?”
Every thread of the notion about collecting Venetia’s tab was BS from start to finish. I felt a little bad that I had conned Horace for what I wanted. But I needed it, and if David’s suspicions were on point, Venetia was guilty of a lot worse than running c
on games on the emotionally vulnerable.
I left my broom at the Fingernail Moon, hauling my basket on my back instead. Venetia’s current home residence was just a couple of blocks down the way, easy enough to get to on foot. It occurred to me that, with the exception of the Gorthlands, just about everywhere else I’d been to on this case was within easy walking distance of the Angel. I guess that I just never realized how small the world I actually lived in was.
Speaking of small, there wasn’t a lot of time before another one of my suspects suddenly appeared out of thin air. His materializing next to me as I walked through the usual afternoon crowd was enough to send a chill up my spine. But a look at his face was more than sufficient to make the cold from my spine go straight to my belly. It was the man from the sketch, right down to the beard. He wore a white t-shirt and jeans that showed off a slight potbelly. He wore a pair of hippyish flip-flops, and his toes were in desperate need of a pedi.
“I must apologize, mein Fraulein, for my abrupt appearance,” the man said, offering a courteous bow at the same time. He had a deeply cultured voice with a distinct and clipped Germanic sound. “But I believe the time has come for you and me to talk.”
“The police currently have an APB out for you,” I said, looking around nervously for other people on the street that might have noticed us. To my chagrin, nobody was paying that much attention.
“That is just too bad, liebschen,” the man said with a shrug. “I will not be found by them until I allow them to.”
“So why did you want to find me?” I asked, ready to make a break for it if things got ugly.
“Fraulein Jenkins, is it not?” the man said, raising his right hand. “I can assure you that you are in no danger at the moment. I merely wish to ask after the former cook of Nebula Dreddock, whom I understand is staying with you? Is she well?”
I still hadn’t stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop. But since he was interested in talking for right now, I decided to go along with it. “She’s fine; if a little nosy.”
“Much like yourself, ja?” the man opined with a twinkle in his eye and a warm, friendly smile that seemed genuine.
My hackles started going down. If he had wanted me hurt or worse, he’d have likely already done it by now. Stopping in the middle of the street, I said, “Look, you obviously know about me. But the only thing I know about you is your face.”
“Jawohl, Mein Fraulein,” the man admitted. “It is past time to remedy that imbalance.”
He then extended a hand. “Isaac Goldsmith, itinerant rabbi.”
“And, why exactly are you itinerant?” I asked as I shook, raising an eyebrow and tapping my shoe at the same time.
The rabbi laughed as we broke the handshake. “Let us say that I have a vested interest in mein golem and leave it at that for now.”
“Enough interest to kill her owner?”
He just shook his head at my question. “Now, that is just disappointing. A saying I once heard as a boy continues to ring true: murder is for the unimaginative.”
As he started walking away, he added, “Let us talk again when you are more imaginative and less suspicious. Auf wiedershen.”
I started after him only to realize that he had vanished all over again the moment I tried.
Well, I thought. Not the way I would have liked to have met the only suspect I didn’t have a lead on, but you take what you can get. Then suddenly an even better idea than the recovery of Venetia’s s bar bill emerged.
I was sweaty and panting by the time I knocked on Vincent Venetia’s door. I should have been; I’d just spent the last several minutes running around in a circle in a blind alley to get the right look. I made a point of making my knocks frantic, channeling all those Mainland slasher flicks I snuck a glimpse at behind Grandma’s back when I was a teen. I wondered briefly how Nebula would have played this desperate character. Would she have kept it restrained, or would she have chewed up the scene with overly dramatic moves?
The door opened and out stepped Venetia. Just looking at his mug shots, I hadn’t seen what the big deal was about this mildly attractive Italian schemer. But, being in his presence…well, I’m not proud to say that I felt a little charge from the charisma that no photograph could convey.
“Madonna, what is the trouble?” he asked in a deep voice that seemed to go right past a girl’s good sense and straight to her erogenous zones.
“I-I-I just saw a man on the street,” I said, using that unwelcome feeling I was getting from Venetia as booster fuel for my performance. “The police are looking for him! They say he’s wanted for murder.”
That made my mark widen his eyes in what looked like genuine shock. “Is that so, Madonna? Then I must insist you come in. Casa mia e casa tua.”
“I-I n-need a phone,” I said as I walked through the doorway, hoping my voice would distract him from noticing that I was giving his house a good look over. “My cell is out of juice and—“
“Say no more,” Venetia said, holding up a hand delicate enough to tickle a woman’s sensitive parts or crack a safe. “The Polizia must, of course, be informed straight away. My telephone is just over here.”
By the time he said this, I had gotten a good sense of the place. It resembled Nebula’s place in the Gorthlands in its gaudiness. Artifacts of mostly Egyptian origin were hanging on the walls of a place that had many of the medieval stylings as the Fingernail Moon. Stone walls, wooden floor, faux medieval windows with glass in them and electric lights on the walls. Add in the Ancient Egyptian decor, and I had a strong suspicion that Nebula actually owned this place. No sign of the Khepri necklace. But it didn’t mean it wasn’t here.
The phone was sitting on a table under one of the windows facing the afternoon sun, a more recent Mainland antique with a plastic case and Slinky cord that dated it as coming from the 1980s. I made a point of dialing the number wrong once to keep the "hysterical woman" charade going. In mock frustration, I slammed the phone receiver down on its base.
“Easy, Madonna, easy,” Venetia said, wrapping his arms around me and kissing my forehead. “Take a breath and try again.”
It was all I could do not to scream at this presumptuous gigolo for grabbing me like that. But I put my best “holding it together” face on, nodded and he let me go. I dialed the number right this time, having “calmed down.” I connected to David’s direct line and was able to get him after the third ring.
“CPI Trew,” he said.
“Sergeant Tom, I want to report something a bit odd,” I said. It was a code phrase that we had used between us years before when we were growing up. It meant that I needed to tell David something important but that others were listening (in the old days, that usually meant Grandma).
“Of course, Ms. Jeanie,” David said without missing a beat. “Go ahead.”
That, by the way, was David’s coded response to my plea. It meant he was all ears.
“I just ran into a man on the street who I believe you’ve been looking for,” I said. “A real sketchy character, if you ask me.”
“Did he approach you?” David asked while the furious scratching of pen on paper was heard beside his voice.
“He did more than that,” I said. “He talked to me about our houseguest. But he didn’t say much beyond that.”
“Okay, Ms. Jeannie,” David said. “How soon can you come into the station to make an official statement?”
“I’ve one more errand to do,” I said. “But after that, my day should be free. Will that be alright, Sergeant?”
“Just please be as quick as you can. And, for the Lady’s sake, be careful, would you? We’ve no idea if the man you saw might try something more drastic against you later.”
We said our goodbyes and I made a show of breathing a sigh of relief.
“This murder that the man you ran into supposedly performed,” Venetia crooned. “Would it not be the killing of Nebula Dreddock that you are referring to?”
“That’s what I hear,” I admitte
d, still playing dumb.
“And, yet why would he approach you of all people, as your only involvement was the delivery of your baneful herbs to mi bella’s home?” Vincent asked with a raised eyebrow and a decidedly sharper tone.
My face fell. So much for my superior acting skills. “You knew from the start?”
“Si,” Venetia said with a shrug. “I have not been here terribly long. But I have certainly been here long enough to recognize the very lovely owner of the Angel Apothecary. Also, speaking from experience, I have to say that your acting skills are not quite the equal of your herbalist abilities.”
His face hardened a little, and he added: “As much as it distresses me to call you a liar, I must presume that you have come into my home for some other reason than that of requesting my assistance.”
“Don’t you mean Nebula’s home?” I asked, feeling a bit bold. Probably not a good way to be with a murder suspect. “The décor of this place is probably a lot less tasteful than you would have chosen for yourself.”
A smile suddenly softened Venetia’s face, morphing quickly into a laugh. “Si, si, it does indeed belong to her…or, rather, did. The hideous wall hangings of this place were a small price to pay when it came to giving il mi amore advice on certain matters, such as where to secure her precious Wraithsgourd, after her falling out with the Lady of the Swamp.”
“Then you already know about Portia Fearwyn?” I asked, doing my best to inconspicuously edge my way towards the door.
Venetia gave a full-body shudder at Mrs. Fearwyn’s name. “Would that I did not…that strega was downright unpleasant to be in the presence of at that best of times. After she and Nebula had their final row, it was I who suggested your fine establishment.”
That raised a red flag in my head, making me take another (hopefully) tentative backward step toward the door. “Apothecaries are to the Coven Isles what McDonald’s restaurants are to the Mainland. Why me?”
The Infiniti Investigates: Hattie Jenkins & the Infiniti Chronicles Books 1 to 5 Page 8