The Infiniti Investigates: Hattie Jenkins & the Infiniti Chronicles Books 1 to 5

by Pearl Goodfellow

  “Waiting in the back on the table,” Millie said, tilting her head in that direction. “Figured you’d want to fill them yourself rather than have me do it.”

  “Knew I could count on you, Millie,” I said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

  Millie sighed. “This business has me so upset…and so annoyed with David.”

  “Don’t let it get the better of you,” I advised her. “You can still run a cash register without any issues, right?”

  “As long as Jet is behaving himself,” Millie said with a smirk. “Nobody’s seen him since last night.”

  “Probably still recovering from being outside all day long,” I speculated. “Never mind…I’d better get cracking on those deliveries.”

  “Mind if I tag along, Hattie?” Eclipse asked. “I could really stand to stretch my legs.” He spoke from his place on the floor, still lying on his back, fluffy belly exposed.

  “And kill some brain cells?” I teased.

  “Only if they deserve it,” Eclipse protested.

  I shook my head. Eclipse, unfortunately, had rather a broad definition of the kinds of people who deserved to get hit with his brand of mojo.

  “Broomstick’s up in twenty,” I said. “Be out back or be left behind.”

  Eclipse gave me a weird little cat-bark that sounded like a laugh before launching into action.

  For the most part, the deliveries were strictly routine. I apologized to my clients for being so late getting to them, citing some “unforeseen difficulties” at the shop which ate up a good chunk of my time. As most of my customers were regulars, they understood that and had no problems with it. One or two, on the other hand, had heard about what had really happened and roughly ten seconds later, they were wondering why they suddenly couldn’t remember the last two days, who I was, and why I was standing on their doorstep. Obliviscatur is not that discriminating when it comes to memory wiping.

  Maybe it was just my frame of mind upon getting back to the shop. Maybe it was being distracted by Eclipse’s heartfelt but misguided attempts to protect my honor, but I didn’t realize that one of my deliveries was, in fact, to Bradford Obonyo until I happened to see it was next on my list. Of course, when I fill orders, I tend to focus more on the recipe, ingredients, and locations they need to be delivered to and less on the names on the orders. Still, the site of the Scroll of Thoth should have given me a clue.

  Whatever…it was the reason I found myself at the back entrance of Bradford Obonyo’s shop in the mid-afternoon. I knocked on the door and Bradford greeted me with a welcoming smile.

  “Hello, Hattie,” he said. “It’s good to see you again. I take it you have my delivery?”

  “Right here,” I said, pulling out the envelope of goods he had ordered from the picnic basket on my back.

  “You know, I’m a little unclear on how to use this,” Bradford said, unobtrusively scanning the back alley. “Mind coming in for a minute so you can give me a demonstration?”

  From the ground, Eclipse fixed him with a stare. “Be advised, sir, that your memory’s continued pristine condition will depend on you being on your best behavior…am I clear?”

  “I swear by the Scales of Ma’at that I mean your mistress absolutely no harm,” Bradford said, holding up his hand with his oath.

  “Amend that to say ‘your human,’ and that will be good enough...for now,” Eclipse said. I nudged my furry companion with my foot, but Bradford, in good humor, obliged my cat, and we followed him in.

  Once we got to the front of the Scroll, I asked, “So, are you ready to drop the pretense and tell me why I’m really here?”

  Holding up the envelope, Bradford asked, “Who is to say that I didn’t actually need what I ordered? A good many of my customers swear by the Angel Apothecary’s quality, I’ve now met you personally so it follows that I might want to give your goods a try eventually.”

  “The very day that I'm pulled in for questioning for the murder of Druida Stone?” I countered. “Plus, inviting me inside tells me that whatever you want to say, you didn’t want to be heard out in the street.”

  “And there is soundproofing magic within these walls that prevents scrying and other forms of mystical observation,” Eclipse added, jumping on the counter. “Care to revise your statement, sir?”

  Bradford smiled with a bit of chagrin. “Believe it or not, the order I placed to your shop yesterday was just an unfortunate coincidence. I was hoping to use that opportunity to enlist your help in continuing our lending program sideline.”

  He then sighed and added, “Not that it will likely continue, what with Druida’s unfortunate exit.”

  “You honestly think that the next librarian will be better than Druida?” I asked.

  “I practically guarantee it,” Bradford said without irony. “The endgame for this program was always the same: when the library comes under new management, we were to return the books that Druida had thrown out as an anonymous donation or—and this is strictly Reg’s idea—as a stack of misfiled books that suddenly reappeared.”

  “Which would have the side effect of making Druida look incompetent,” I added with a nod.

  “That’s a bit of slander that I’d rather not get involved in,” Bradford admitted. “But then, I haven’t been attached to the Mason in quite a while.”

  “You used to work at the library?” Eclipse asked, fixing Bradford with one of his most penetrating stares.

  “I was actually Druida’s first assistant when she came here a few years ago,” Bradford admitted as he leaned against the counter. “As shocking as it may sound, we did not get along.”

  “So how did you go from library assistant to owner of a thriving bookstore?” I asked.

  “Well, ‘thriving’ is a little too generous a word,” Bradford admitted. “Even with the lending sideline, I do good to make my bills every month. But it’s not really about the Sols and Lunes I can rake in. I love books…always have. This shop just gives me a chance to do something practical with that love.”

  “C’mon, level with me, Bradford,” I said. “I run a shop too, remember? Between buying the building, paying the taxes, getting the stock and doing your best to let customers know you’re there, it can’t be as easy as you’re making it out to be.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t,” Bradford said. “After Druida fired me for insubordination, I barely had a Lune to my name. But I got an unexpected bequest from a distant relative who had died that gave me JUST enough to set all this up.”

  I did a quick scan of the crowded shelves. “So this bequest paid for most of the books on these shelves?”

  “Most of them,” Bradford answered. “Just wish I could sell more of them than I do.”

  “Is that why you came up with the lending sideline?” I asked.

  “Actually, that was Reg’s idea,” Bradford countered, holding up his finger for emphasis. “He was saving books that Druida was openly throwing into the dumpster behind the Mason. He knew about me, my store, and what kind of books I stocked, and how I was no friend of Druida’s and…things went from there.”

  “Has Mayor Fog or his office ever given you undue harassment over this matter?” Eclipse asked, his eyes looking into Bradford’s.

  “I’ve had a few run-ins with His Honor’s people, sure,” Bradford said with a shrug. “Never went past vague threats because they didn’t have a legal leg to stand on. By their logic, a Book-of-the-Month Club is just as illegal. Still, I never saw any good reason to provoke Druida over all this, so I’ve done my best to keep this sideline low-key and strictly word of mouth.”

  “Are you sorry that Druida is dead?” I asked.

  Bradford took a deep breath as he hung his head a little. “Honestly, yes, I am. However unlikely it is for someone to change, they always have that chance as long as they’re alive. But Druida’s time ran out…which is just sad to me.”

  Either Bradford was genuinely speaking from the heart or he was the best actor on Glessie Isle.

  “Jus
t one more thing,” I asked. “Did anyone from the mayor’s office do anything strange, or ‘out there,' or in any way memorable when they were harassing you about the lending?”

  “No,” Bradford said with a shake of his head. “Nothing I haven’t seen a hundred times from other such politicians. But one of my customers did mention something.”

  “And that thing is…?” Eclipse asked, his eyes still fixed on Bradford’s.

  “There was some kind of altercation at the Fingernail Moon Inn about a year ago,” Bradford said. “According to my source, the warring parties were Mayor Fog and Druida. It was told as idle gossip and nothing more, so I never really bothered getting the rest of the details. Those kind of domestic rumors just don’t interest me.”

  Bradford might not know the details, but I knew who would. Horace Mangler, the Moon’s inn-keeper. That the big, bear of a landlord drank his way through a significant portion of his stock daily was of no consequence. Horace had a laser-like memory when it came to recalling any incidents in his pub.

  “And that’s really all I know, Hattie,” Bradford concluded. “If I knew anything else that might help you, I would surely let you know.”

  I looked at Eclipse. He frowned but nodded. The information was on the level as far as it went. ‘Clipsy was something of an empath, so he could detect lies and human discomfort a mile off.

  “So…care to show me the proper usage of this mixture before you go?” Bradford asked again, holding up the envelope

  The tankard of Griffin’s Beak landed in front of me with a slight thump on the wood of the counter. While I sat on the bar stool, Eclipse curled around the leg of the stool next to me. After securing a promise from me to wake him if I needed him, he decided to take a cat nap. After all, nobody in their right mind made too much trouble at the Fingernail Moon Inn, not with the man-mountain behind the bar.

  “Aye, Hattie, girl,” Horace Mangler said. “I sure’y do remember both His Honor an’ Druida goin’ at each other.”

  As usual, there was enough alcohol vapor on the big Irish barkeep’s breath to defoliate a medium-sized forest. I kept my head at a respectable distance from him, just in case he fried my hair. Well, couldn’t’ do much worse, girl. Horace opened his mouth to talk again and then he closed it as though he had remembered something.

  “What is it, Horace?” I asked, picking up my tankard.

  “Jes’ thought a’ somethin’ what might flesh tha’ spat out a wee bit,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said with a shrug. “Let’s hear it.”

  “Well,” Horace said, leaning on his bar and looking around to make sure we didn’t have an audience. “’Bout a year ‘fore His Honor became His Honor…he were sitting…”

  Horace’s voice trailed off as he looked around to figure where Fog had been sitting.

  “Well, reckon it don’t matter,” Horace said after a minute with a shrug. “Point is, he were at da bar and gettin’ hisself fairly sloshed. Now…when a man gets hisself that dee’ in his cups, he’s likely to say anythin’, aye?”

  “You’d know better than me,” I said with a smile before taking another pull from my now-half-full mug.

  “Reckon I would,” Horace admitted. “Anyways, there’s little Marty Fog, blitzed out a’ his skull; cryin' O'er his great love, Druida Stone.”

  While this little description seemed to lend weight to Gloom’s and Millie’s observations, I asked Horace, “What exactly was he saying?”

  “Nothin’ tha’ I hain’t heard before when a man’s tha’ low ‘bout a woman,” Horace answered, polishing the counter in front of us as we spoke. “On an’ on he goes ‘bout how he wished that ‘dear, dear Druida’—‘bout the only person I e’er heard call tha’ vicious tart somethin’ tha’ complimentary, I tell ya. Anyway, library-lady wouldna look at him kindly or agree ta go on a date wit’ him or e’en acknowledge tha’ the old boy moonin’ o’er her were even alive.”

  “You know, this is starting to sound suspiciously like Avery Flute’s story,” I noted as I sat down my now empty tankard. Flute had been Nebula Dreddock’s jilted lover. He too had spent a night crying into his beer at the Moon. It had also turned out that Avery was, in fact, the famous actress’ murderer. Take a pew, déjà vu. But, then again, the Moon did see its fair share of domestic kerfuffles over the centuries, so it wasn’t drastically surprising that Marty Fog had come here to console himself.

  “I can see why’d ya think that, me dear lass,” Horace said, taking my mug off the counter while continuing to wipe the bar in thoughtful reflection. “But there were a couple a’ differences. Fer one, he got dee’ in his cups, sure, but no’ the kind a’ blind drunk what requires ya ta sleep it off upstairs. Ya ‘member Avery ha’ ta use me guest room?”

  I nodded at his question, and he continued. “Fer another, next time he shows up…when were it, a week, month a’ter that drinking spree?”

  “Never mind the when, Horace,” I said, rubbing his forearm in encouragement “Just tell me the what.”

  Horace grinned and nodded, bringing his bar polishing to an end. “Well, tha’s when Marty shows up wit’ a bunch a’ swells for purposes a’ runnin’ fer Mayor, which he eventually got.”

  “No thanks to my vote,” I scoffed. “I didn’t trust that little weasel, and I sure don’t trust him now.”

  Horace cackled at my venom. “Close ta half a’ me regulars feel the same, I promise. But, uh…”

  The smile faded as Horace asked, “Sorry fer goin’ daft, lass, but what were ye tryin’ ta find out about again?”

  I couldn’t take that lapse too personal. Go off on even the smallest of tangents and Horace would lose the plot of a conversation. “The fight between His Dishonor and Druida?” I offered.

  “Ahh, yeah, tha’ one,” Horace said, his eyes lighting up as the smile came back on his face. “See, ‘cordin’ ta me regulars, Marty’d stopped wooing Druida a’ter he went a’ter the Mayor’s office. But once he got it, well, the old boy picked up right back where he left off and some less generous souls—who, like yerself, ne’er voted for him—was sayin’ that, if anythin’, the wooing were gettin’ more intense than it were before.”

  “What about Druida? What did she think of this?” I nudged. “Was she one of the regulars?”

  “Well…kinda aye and kinda nae,” Horace said, scratching his beard. “She came by oft enough fer me to know her tipple—Bacardi from the Mainland, it were—but she didna mix wit’ the rest a’ me regulars.”

  Pointing from the bar to a corner table, he added, “Jus’ sat in tha’ back corner…I think it was tha’ back corner…and drank her ‘cardi — no mixer, mind you — by her lonesome.”

  “And that’s where she was the night the Mayor came by for their argument?” I asked.

  “Not that he were tryin’ ta start one, a’ course,” Horace said. “But it didna take long ta turn inta one gods-almighty shoutin’ match twixt the two a’ ‘em. For all the noise, couldna make out what they was sayin’. All I know is that Druida threw her glass at Marty’s head, the moonstruck fool’s got sense enough ta duck it and I’m charging Druida extra for the broken tumbler.”

  “Bet she just loved that,” I said with raised eyebrows.

  “’Bout as much as ya’d expect her too,” Horace said, giving me an insider’s grimace, along with another tankard of Griffin’s Beak.

  “How’d the regulars feel about the fuss?” I asked.

  “Kinda torn, truth be told,” Horace admitted. “Half a’ ‘em weren’t convinced that Marty had a spine ‘fore this an’ was delighted tha’ they found tha’ he did. The rest a’ ‘em still remember the right bad service tha’ Druida’s been givin’ any soul what is foolish ‘nough ta set foot in the Mason, and wanna vote Fog out in tha’ next ‘lection.”

  “But what do you think, Horace?” I asked, hoisting my tankard.

  “Ehh…I do nae get involved in politics for a reason, Hattie,” he said. “Bad fer business an’ worse fer peace a’ mind. Just ask
Marty Fog if’n ya don’t believe me.” Horace chuckled, his large belly jiggling in tandem with his laughter. “A course, this’n be all ol’ news now. It’s all talk of the Faeries an’ their wicked ways, these days. The Mag Mellian’s, they be the one’s who be causin’ all the trouble, righ’ now.”

  I ignored his last comment. Hysteria was bound to rear its ugly head when a town of this size saw three murders in as many months. The public were prone to bouts of superstition in such difficult times.

  “Now, if'n ya’re done wit’ your questions, there’s an entirely good tankard in front a’ ya.” Horace reminded me.

  I nodded and smiled. It really would have been a shame to let that good drink go to waste.

  I did my best to suppress a groan when I saw the constables right outside my back door at the Angel. Just when I thought that I might have something approaching a normal day…

  “Say the word, and they’ll be trying to figure out where the last two weeks went,” Eclipse said from his perch on my broom.

  “And are you going to do that for every constable that shows up on the door after you get rid of these two?” I asked as I set my broom down for a landing at a spot beside the Angel that the officers couldn’t see. Taking a deep breath, I walked toward them, Eclipse charging heavy-pawed ahead of me.

  It was Richards and Phillips, the constables we’d seen earlier. Neither one of them looked like they wanted to be here, judging from the fidgeting and darting glances that seemed to afflict them.

  “Terribly sorry to have come by again, ma’am,” Phillips said by way of greeting, looking almost embarrassed.

  “What is it now, constables?” I asked, trying not to sound as annoyed as I felt. “Something in my cats’ eyewitness testimony not add up?”

  “Actually, ma’am, we’re here on a different matter,” Richards said. “Mr. Bradford Obonyo was apparently, er … taken from his shop. We found a bill of sale for some herbal tea from The Angel. That was dated today.”

  “The shop itself was in quite a state,” Phillips added. “All tossed around and—“