Deputy Daniels led Bluebell to the cellar, which housed three jail cells. Barry was sitting with his hands covering his face on the lower side of a bunk bed.
“Barry.” Bluebell moved to the cell, “Are you all right?”
“What do you think?” he asked, his voice hollow.
“I bought you a sandwich, in case you’re hungry,” Bluebell said, taking out a foil wrapped pack from her purse. “It’s turkey and cheese, from Jamie’s.”
“Whoa, whoa whoa,” Deputy Daniels interjected. “You can’t just hand prisoners stuff. Give it here. I need to check it first.”
Bluebell sighed and handed it to him. “I promise I haven’t smuggled a file in there, Deputy.”
The deputy opened it, poked suspiciously at the lone pickle and tomato, removed the foil completely, and handed the sandwich to Barry. “There you go,” he said.
“I’m not hungry.” Barry kept the sandwich on the bed. “I’m not… anything. I’m just numb. Bluebell, can you take care of Colby? Give him to Martine, she’ll treat him right.”
“You’ll be out again in no time,” Bluebell reassured him. “I believe you, Barry. I know you loved Rebecca.”
“I wish I’d been there,” he said. “I wish I could be wherever she is now. She’s alive. I feel it.”
“I’ll find her,” Bluebell promised. “But you have to help me. Did anything weird happen to Rebecca lately? Something inconsequential, that you haven’t thought of? Or is there a place that Rebecca could have gone to? Someplace others wouldn’t guess?”
“Well, there’s the secret cellar,” Barry mused.
“What secret cellar?” Bluebell asked.
“The museum has one, you know. Ask Martine. She helped in the construction, she’ll remember it. Rebecca wanted a secret cellar to keep things mysterious. She had planned an exhibit down there, but then she never ended up using it. I think she hadn’t visited it in ages, actually. I’d forgotten all about it till you asked me right now.”
“The cellar.” Bluebell nodded. “Do you have the key?”
“There’s no need for a key.” Barry laughed. “Martine will know. Ask her.”
“KD checked the cellar already,” Deputy Daniels said. “He was part of the construction too, right? He knew all about it. It’s empty as King Tut’s Tomb, Barry. Rebecca isn’t there.”
*****
Chapter 9
A Clue Or Two
As they walked back to Martine’s house, with Colby dejectedly trailing along behind them, Bluebell couldn’t help thinking about everything that had happened so far. With an uttered yell, she realized suddenly how foolish she had been. Magic! She’d completely forgotten to use magic! The K9 unit may not have been able to trace Rebecca, but perhaps there was still enough of her energy left over for Bluebell to find her. She had to go to the museum as fast as possible.
“What is it?” Martine gave her a confused look.
“Er… I just realized I have no clothes,” Bluebell said. “Mine are back at the museum. Maybe I can go get them and meet you at your house?”
“That’s okay, don’t go poking about in there,” Martine said. “I’ll give you a sweatshirt and some pajamas.”
“Right.” Bluebell sighed. “Thanks.”
“No problem. You’ve been a real comfort, Bluebell. I mean, I know we barely met, but you almost feel like a lifelong friend to me already.” Martine smiled. “I suppose you and Rebecca are alike that way. She gave that feeling to people she liked too.”
Bluebell smiled. It was painful to think of Rebecca. Who knew where she might be? But before she could find out about Rebecca, there was one question she needed answered: Who was Greg Sanders? Why had he given a fake emergency contact to Rebecca? KD might know, or there might be clues in the office of the museum. Either way, Bluebell was determined to visit it tonight.
“What are you thinking about?” Martine asked.
“Er… the secret cellar. Barry told me the museum has one?”
“That thing? Oh, it was a silly idea Rebecca had. She wanted to make a dungeon exhibit. She decided against it later on. I suppose the cellar’s still down there in the basement, probably used as storage.”
“Rebecca hardly went down there, right?”
“Well, she was the curator of the museum, so her job was more focused on meeting people, tracking down artifacts, marketing the museum, that sort of thing. Greg was responsible for documenting the artifacts, and for, well, dragging useless stuff, odds and ends, down to the basement.”
“Right.” Bluebell nodded. “So Greg could have been doing something down there that Rebecca knew nothing about.”
“Well… maybe.” Martine looked confused. “But why would he want to?”
“I don’t know.” Bluebell sighed. “Forgeries, maybe? It’s possible, isn’t it?”
“Bluebell, you have to understand, the witches museum is hardly the Louvre. I doubt that anything in there has a value higher than a few hundred dollars.”
“Some of the artifacts looked old to me,” Bluebell said. “Anyway, did you know much about Greg?”
“Greg? Only that he was a sneaky sort of guy. Always poking about. Every time I left Rebecca’s office, he’d be hanging by the door nonchalant, trying to pretend he hadn’t been eavesdropping.”
“Eavesdropping?” Bluebell was astonished. “Why would he do that?”
“Curiosity, I suppose,” Martine said.
“He wasn’t local, was he? Greg, that is.”
“No. He came here about two months ago.”
“Who was Rebecca’s assistant before that?” Bluebell asked.
“I and KD would help her out part time,” Martine said. “But that wasn’t very sustainable. She was actually attracting lots of crowd and needed permanent help. I had to stop helping because my job became too time consuming.”
“Why did KD stop helping?”
“Same reason, I guess. Deputies have it easy in our town, but he still had work to do.”
Bluebell nodded. “But doesn’t it seem strange to you, an assistant who was always underfoot? An assistant who gave a false contact?”
Martine looked excited. “Maybe if Greg was involved in something, KD can prove that Barry was innocent.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Bluebell said, not wanting her to get too hopeful. “But it’s a possibility.”
They’d reached Martine’s house, and with a yawn, Bluebell realized it was almost 11pm. They’d been on their feet most of the day, and only now had fatigue begun to creep up on them.
“I’m actually glad I’m not alone tonight,” Martine said with a shudder as she unlocked the door. She threw a glance behind her shoulder. Down the street, the statue of the old witch pointed up to the sky, and behind the statue stood the dark house that held the witch museum. The house was now garlanded with yellow tape announcing Police Line: Do Not Cross.
Yet crossing it was exactly what Bluebell intended to do.
As soon as she was sure Martine had gone to sleep, Bluebell slipped out of the house and crept up the road. She was probably being very foolish, yet she had to find out what was happening. Tracing Rebecca using magic was hopefully still possible. Bluebell cursed herself yet again - if she’d only thought of it sooner! Yet with other people around, it would have been impossible to use magic even if she’d wanted to. Perhaps it was best this way, under the cover of darkness.
The museum’s windows were pitch black, reminding Bluebell of a sleeping animal. Any minute now, its eyes would open and its fangs would come out. With a shiver, she put fanciful thoughts out of her mind.
She clicked her fingers and put a fuzzy layer around her feet and hands. This would ensure she left no fingerprints, and didn’t damage any evidence. The doors were locked, but she had no problem using a bit of magnetism and magic to turn the lock from the inside. Slowly, she pushed the door open and slipped in.
Inside, the dark hall seemed to breathe silently as she moved along it. A thin cone of l
ight emanated from the small flashlight in her hand, throwing the tiled floor into sharp relief against the shadows beside it. The artifacts that had seemed so benign in the morning now took on a malignant feel on either side of her. Bluebell had visions of twisted jaws and sharp teeth hidden behind glass cases. Steeling herself, she ignored the terror she felt and climbed up the stairs.
If houses retain the atmosphere of those who have lived within them, the atmosphere of this particular house felt badly tainted. It was funny, because the previous night, she’d slept peacefully, and yet in that moment, it was as if a darkness had descended on this house.
“No time for flights of fancy,” Bluebell muttered to herself. “Focus, Bluebell. Find out where Rebecca is.”
Reaching the attic, Bluebell entered the office area. She was relieved to note that the body had been removed, though an unpleasant stain was still on the carpet. The bedsheets and pillows were still in a tidy pile on the couch she’d slept on last night. The normality of it seemed oddly out of place.
With a whispered spell, Bluebell cast around the room for energy patterns. She found several - the forensics team and the policemen had all been here. Yet the pattern she was interested in most was a yellow and green striped one. Rather reminiscent of a candy, the energy pattern was deeper than the rest, indicating someone who had been in this room often. Rebecca hopefully. Yes. The energy pattern was particularly dense around the office chair.
Bluebell puffed out a frustrated breath of air. So far, she’d only found out from the energy pattern what she already knew, that Rebecca had used this room as an office. With energy pattern, the solidity of the color indicated a continuous presence, while the brightness indicated recency. Rebecca’s colors were solid, but not very bright. The others, especially the forensics team had bright but near transparent energy patterns present.
Figures, Bluebell thought, they’ve been here recently, but only been here once.
By the next day, their traces would be gone.
But what about Rebecca? There was no bright strand. Which meant Rebecca hadn’t been in this office that day. So where was she? Bluebell had to find the secret cellar. She had a feeling Rebecca would be there.
But as she moved through the museum, she realized that there was no trace of Rebecca. Especially in the basement. Rebecca hardly ever came down there, clearly. Even when she found the secret cellar, its entrance hidden behind a small bookcase, Bluebell felt no joy. She was convinced she’d find nothing. The cellar was accessed by a small sliding door that seemed to melt into the basement wall. Opening the door, Bluebell walked in. It wasn’t very impressive, just a small square room with odds and ends lying about. Not very different from the basement, with its cardboard boxes and piles of wood and fabric.
And yet… Bluebell gave a small gasp, and moved to observe the cellar. Yes! Along one wall, there were jar after jar of dried herbs. Bluebell took a deep breath. She’d smelt this before. She’d smelt it when she’d found Greg’s body. What did that mean?
There were absolutely no traces of Rebecca in this room, Bluebell realized. But she had an idea now. Snapping her fingers, she tried to find all the energy traces in this room.
There were two.
The first was a black energy wave with silver triangles interspersed within it. The second, light grey with blue sparkles.
The light grey belonged to Greg. She was sure of it. She’d seen it upstairs.
She’d seen the black energy upstairs too. So what did that mean? The murderer had been in both rooms with Greg. The black energy was solid and also bright. Someone who came here often, and had been here recently. Now that was a clue.
But who could it be?
She had to piece it together in her mind. But Bluebell simply couldn’t unravel it.
What did she know for sure? Greg was dead, that much was clear. Rebecca was missing - but was she dead, or alive but kidnapped, or alive and escaping from her sins? Who could tell?
All right, Bluebell told herself. Let’s put Rebecca aside for a moment. Greg is dead. What do we know about him? We know that he gave a fake contact to Rebecca, and that he was only with her two months, and that he often came to this cellar. We also know that he liked to eavesdrop. So what does that mean?
Who could Greg be? Why would anybody want to get rid of him?
As she pondered these questions, a shadow moved behind her. A hand crept out from the darkness, and before she realized it, it had shut over her mouth. With a scream, she twisted this way and that, looking for an escape. But the hands that gripped her were far stronger than she.
*****
Chapter 10
Greg Sanders, Detective
“Bluebell, relax, it’s only me,” a voice said in her ear. “Don’t scream, for goodness’ sake.”
“Oliver?” Bluebell gaped. “What are you doing here?”
Oliver James, Detective with the Magical Ministry’s Department of Law, glared at her. “Me? What are you doing here? Don’t you know witches are forbidden to hobnob with those who have given up their powers?”
“Well, I only wanted to ask Rebecca a few questions. You know. About the prophecy,” Bluebell said.
“Did Mathilda bring you here?” Oliver said with a sigh. “I told her not to.”
“Well, never mind who brought me here. Are you going to punish me for meeting Rebecca?”
“I should, but I’ve got more important things on my mind,” Oliver said. “Like why one of my detectives is missing.”
“Greg Sanders was a detective?” Bluebell asked.
“That’s right.” Oliver nodded. “He was supposed to stay with Rebecca Brentwood for half a year to satisfy the council that she was not practicing magic again. When he failed to report in, I came down to see what was happening.”
“Well, I have bad news for you,” Bluebell said. “Greg’s been murdered.”
“I gathered, from the police tape outside.” Oliver hocked a thumb towards the door. “Why is it that every time I see a murder, you’re mixed up in it, Bluebell?”
“You haven’t heard the prophecy about me, have you?” Bluebell asked.
“I don’t place much value on prophecies,” Oliver said. “They’re vague and useless things.”
“Not this one.” Bluebell sighed. “Anyway, the thing is, Greg’s been murdered and Rebecca’s vanished.”
“Ah.” Oliver nodded. “So she was practicing magic and he found evidence of it? She must have murdered him and made her escape. But we’ll catch her, sooner or later.”
Bluebell frowned. “I mean… that’s one theory. Another is that Rebecca’s husband killed Greg in a fit of jealousy.”
Oliver nodded. “That’s a possibility too. But then where’s Rebecca?”
“That’s what I was trying to find out before you crept up on me like a ghost,” Bluebell said.
“You should be glad it was just me and not the murderer,” Oliver replied.
“You smell herbs in here, right?” Bluebell asked. “What are those?”
Oliver sniffed, and nodded. “Greg was obviously using them to communicate with us. To create a basic wormhole for travel purposes.”
“So Greg was secretly practicing magic here without Rebecca finding out.” Bluebell sighed. “I’m so confused, Oliver. Nothing makes sense. Who killed Greg and why?”
“I’ll find out soon enough,” Oliver said. “You’re going to help me.”
“I am?”
“You are. Since you’re so fond of poking around wherever murders go, I now deputize you to the Magical Ministry.” He tapped a wand on each of her shoulders, and then snapped his fingers. A burst of light appeared and winked out above her head. “There,” he said, handing her a small badge. “That’s for you. Now our job is to track down Rebecca.”
“I don’t think she did it, Oliver,” Bluebell said meekly.
“Of course you’d say that. You love making complicated answers to simple situations,” Oliver said. “From what you’ve told me, it’s eit
her the husband, and the fingerprints seem like pretty damning evidence, or it’s Rebecca herself. Now which do you think it is?”
“I wish I could see KD’s files.” Bluebell sighed. “Then I’d know.”
“Who’s KD?”
“The human officer in charge of this case,” Bluebell said.
“Easy enough.” Oliver smiled. “Let’s go to the police station, then.”
“This late?” Bluebell looked alarmed. “Oliver, we’ll get into trouble if someone catches us.”
“Oh it’s hardly any trouble.” Oliver grinned. “I’ll put a nice distorting spell on us, so if someone sees us they’ll just think they’re dreaming. It’s 3am, Bluebell. Nobody’s going to be awake.”
“Okay,” Bluebell said, taking a deep breath. “Let’s go.”
*****
Chapter 11
An Attempt
Oliver, with far more experience than Bluebell, broke into the police station as easily as if he’d strolled into his own home. He cast quite a few charms on his way in, to make sure nobody would disturb them. Bluebell found herself wondering what, if any, clues they would find.
KD’s desk had a mess of papers and files on it. Bluebell sighed and wondered where to start. “This feels like a breach of privacy,” she said.
“Never mind that,” Oliver said. “Start reading fast. We’ve only got maybe an hour or two before someone wakes up. Detectives often start their work early in the morning when a case is active. I’m actually surprised KD isn’t asleep at the table.”
The first file was a report from the morgue. Greg had died due to being stabbed between 8 and 9am earlier that day. The cause of death was a knife wound straight through the heart. There were no signs of struggle, and the only other injury was a week old injury to the head, a blunt trauma of some kind.
“I already knew some of this,” Bluebell muttered. “But the time… that’s new. So Greg was killed between 8 and 9. My god. He was killed while I was in the diner eating breakfast.”
“Maybe so,” Oliver said. “But I find it interesting that he didn’t struggle. Greg was a hard headed guy and not one to back down from a fight. What do you think that means?”
Murder At The Museum: A Witch Cozy Mystery (A Bluebell Knopps Witch Cozy Mystery Book 4) Page 5