Pet Psychic Mysteries Boxset Books 5-8 (Magic Market Mysteries Book 2)

by Erin Johnson

  I thought of ol’ Marcy Harrington and her bottles of wine and curled my lip. Yeah, he certainly was up against a lot there.

  Peter let out a heavy sigh. “Alright, well, all the same, we’ll need you to send a writing sample to the station by tomorrow.”

  He frowned and sat up. “A writing sample?”

  Peter nodded, and we took our leave. Once outside in the cool night air, Daisy sniffed around the stone gutters. Dry leaves blew by, scratching along the ground.

  Peter shoved his hands in his pockets and waited for a small group of laughing young people to pass. “Look—I know it’s taken me a bit to get over your, uh, you know, your news. And I know that some people might be more, er, understanding.”

  I shot him a flat look. “Uh-huh.”

  He glanced up at the top floor windows of the inn—Chaz’s windows. “But that guy’s reaction doesn’t ring true to me.” He glanced over at Daisy, and his lips pulled to the side and brows pinched together. “Wish we could know for sure if he was telling the truth.”

  I folded my arms. “Look, just because you don’t trust us shifters doesn’t mean everyone’s got a grudge against us.”

  He flipped a palm. “Hey, it’s not a grudge, it’s just—” He shook his head and looked off. “Look, if it’s alright with you, I don’t want to get into this right now.”

  I shrugged, my chest tight with annoyance. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.” We could be out here debating all night, and my stomach was rumbling and my toes cold.

  He nodded, his eyes troubled as he looked me over. “I want to figure this out, Jolene—this stuff between us, I mean. I’m just not sure how.”

  I nodded again, my throat tight.

  “I’ll come by your place tomorrow night once we analyze the handwriting samples and compare them to the letter Joe Santos received. Plus, I’ll keep reading through Letty’s diary—see if we learn anything else.”

  I raised a hand. “’Night, Peter.” I let out a couple of low woofs. Goodnight, Daisy. Don’t let the fleas bite.

  She jerked her head up from sniffing a food wrapper and glared at me. “Woof! Woof!” Don’t let the—the cockroaches—scuttle over your face and into your drooling mouth, Jolene!

  With the street empty, except for the three of us, I felt safe letting out a couple more barks. Wow—mine was just an expression, but good taunt, Daisy. Gross and very specific.

  With one last wave at Peter, I headed back to my place to hopefully not be scuttled on by roaches.

  21

  Writing's on the wall

  The next night, Peter and Daisy swung by my place, an extra coffee in hand for me. I grinned at Peter, grateful not only for the steaming hot caffeine, but for what it meant—that our friendship was on the mend. My stomach tightened—for now, at least, until I dropped my latest bombshell about Ludolf and my predicament as a human lab rat.

  “So…?” Our shoes scuffed along the wet cobblestones as we climbed upward. “Did you learn anything more from Letty’s diary? And did the handwriting samples match anyone?”

  Peter gave me a tight grin. “Not much from the diary that we didn’t already know. But, as suspected, Rachel Whitmore wrote the note to Joe Santos, bribing him to sneak strawberries into Letty’s food.”

  I shook my head and took another swig of coffee. “Wow. Got to hand it to her—she’s nothing if not determined.” It didn’t matter, apparently, that Chaz didn’t want to marry her—that wasn’t going to stop Rachel from taking out her competition.

  When we showed up at her townhouse, her butler let us know that again, she could be found at the country club.

  We headed over to the swanky place, and this time when the little man behind the desk tried to wrangle me and Daisy into sports coats, we breezed past him. Peter flashed the arrest warrant and Daisy bared her teeth in a snarl.

  I thumbed at the two of them on either side of me. “I’m with them.”

  We found Rachel holding court, once again, at a table beside the windows in the dining room. Half a dozen women sat with her and appeared to be hanging on her every word. I smirked. Good—all the more embarrassing for her when we arrested her.

  We stalked up to the table, and several sets of wide eyes turned our way. Rachel smirked, though her eyes were tight. She’d submitted her handwriting sample—she had to know what this was about.

  “Hello, Officer. Can I help you?” She turned to her friends and rolled her eyes. A few of them gave nervous smiles, but others continued to gawk at Peter, horrified.

  “What are the police doing here?”

  “What’s going on?”

  Rachel waved a hand and rose from her chair. “No doubt just a few more questions about that girl’s murder.” She lifted her small nose. “I’m very close with the Harringtons, you know, and sort of a key witness in the case.”

  “Actually.” I gave an exaggerated wince. “You’re more of a key suspect than witness.”

  Peter held out the warrant. “Rachel Whitmore, you’re under arrest for the murder of Letty Jones.”

  She paled, and the women at the table gasped. The background noise of the dining hall grew quiet, though a few chairs scraped across the marble as people angled around to get a better look.

  Bright red spots appeared on Rachel’s throat and face, and she set her jaw. “This is outrageous. I demand to speak with my lawyer. We’ll have you—”

  Peter calmly cut her off. “You’ll be allowed your lawyer once you’ve been processed up at the station.”

  A woman at the table leaned over, hand in front of her mouth, and whispered in her friend’s ear. Rachel’s chest heaved as her gaze darted around the enormous room and found all eyes on her. “I didn’t kill her!”

  I raised a brow. “No? Then why did your handwriting match a note delivered to Joe Santos, the caterer, bribing him to put strawberries in Letty’s wedding food?”

  Her expression darkened, and I was grateful that Peter stood between us—looked like I was next on her hit list. But not one to back down, I lifted my chin and smirked. “I’m guessing you picked those strawberries on your picnic with Chaz, right? The one where you tried to get him to pick you over Letty, a shifter from the Darkmoon District, and got shut down hard?” I clicked my tongue. “Must’ve been tough to stomach—pun not intended. Guess that’s why you resorted to murder. Though, I’m not sure it’s going to make Chaz want to marry you more now that he knows you killed his wife….”

  She balled her hands into fists and lunged closer, hissing between her bared teeth. “Fine, yeah, I sent the letter and the strawberries, but not to murder her!” Her eyes darted side to side and she went on, even quieter so that Peter and I had to lean in to hear. “I knew about her stupid anti-allergy potion—she was supposed to have some in her stupid wedding dress’s pockets. I just wanted her to look all blotchy and gross and ruin her wedding day.” She flashed her eyes at me. “Is that a crime?!”

  Peter frowned. “Yes, it definitely is.”

  I grinned, but Rachel paled, and her eyes fluttered, like she might faint. Murmurs went up amongst the well-heeled members of the country club.

  Peter took Rachel’s elbow and escorted her away from the table, toward the door.

  “Guess we’ll be arresting Joe Santos next?”

  Peter nodded, then frowned as a buzzing noise sounded. He stopped beside the fireplace and reached into his pocket, then popped his communication device in his ear.

  “Flint, here.” He nodded, then frowned deeper and nodded again. “I see. You’re sure you tested all of it?” His throat bobbed as he listened. “Okay, thank you.”

  He lowered his eyes and pulled the device from his ear. He glanced at me, expression heavy, then slowly turned to Rachel. “Some, uh, new evidence has come to light.”

  Her chest heaved. “What are you talking about?”

  He ran a tongue over his teeth. “No strawberries were found in any of the food or drink—we even tested the champagne and the glass found in the bri
dal suite where Letty died.”

  I frowned. “So… she didn’t die of an allergic reaction?”

  Peter shook his head. “No, she did. The autopsy revealed that she died of an allergic reaction, but no berries were found in her stomach contents or in any of the food.” He sighed and glanced at Rachel. “It appears that despite your best efforts, Joe Santos didn’t go through with it and you did not kill Letty.”

  Rachel’s nostrils flared. “You arrested me without all the information?” She yanked her arm free from Peter. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer!”

  She stalked off, and Peter glanced in her direction. “She still bribed Joe Santos to harm Letty, so she’ll be facing charges.”

  I crossed my arms, the heat of the fire warming my back. “But not murder charges.”

  Peter shook his head.

  I bit my lip as I thought it over. “Could Letty have eaten something else that we didn’t test?”

  Peter nodded. “It’s possible, but several witnesses testified that Letty never left the bridal suite all day until it was time to walk down the aisle.”

  I nodded. The maid, May, had told me that Letty hadn’t opened the door for her when she brought her breakfast. If Letty was freaked out from what she perceived as a threat from Joe Santos the night before, I doubted she’d have eaten any food he might’ve prepared.

  And May had said that on the way from the suite to the altar, Letty had done air kisses with Mr. and Mrs. Harrington, then stumbled when Rachel tripped her. No one had mentioned Letty stopping to eat anything.

  I thought of the plate of smashed berries at the crime scene. Had she gotten ahold of those herself? “So… maybe she really did kill herself?” Maybe she’d been so alone and scared that seeing the mink stole around Rachel’s shoulders had been the last grain of sand, and she’d committed suicide? But she’d have had to already have gotten ahold of the berries if that was the case, before the vows. I sighed. “And if that’s the case, why didn’t she still have any of her anti-allergy potion on her?”

  Peter shook his head. “Who knows.” He let out a weary sigh. “I really thought we had this one.”

  I nodded.

  He pinched the space between his brows. “Let’s call it a night—regroup tomorrow.”

  I nodded, and we left the country club, dozens of elite members watching us intently. After we parted ways, I stuck my cold hands in my jacket pockets and walked back down to the Darkmoon District, deep in thought. I let my feet carry me, without much thought to my route, until I looked up, startled to find myself outside the old orphanage I’d grown up in—the one that Letty had grown up in as well.

  It was an old building, probably built in medieval times. Four crooked stories, chunks of plaster missing from the walls, and the thatched roof had bare spots where the wood beams below showed through. It’d been closed down about a decade after I left. Whatever reason Ludolf had opened it in the first place apparently no longer served his purposes.

  I looked up to the tiny attic window at the top of the peak, one of the four panes broken. I’d played with friends up there, among the trunks and crates in storage. Now all the windows were dark and the door barred. I bit my lip and continued on, nearly home. It might be helpful to know a bit more about Letty and her allergy…. I decided to track down my old headmistress, Mrs. Rankle.

  22

  Blast from the past

  It took some asking around the night market, but the ladies at the bodega on the corner were finally able to give me Mrs. Rankle’s new address… ish. I looked up from the rough map they’d sketched for me on the back of a paper napkin and eyed the fork in the sewer tunnel ahead of me. The left branch soon disappeared into darkness, an ominous rushing noise coming from it. The right branch glowed golden with torches mounted every so often on the curved, algae-covered walls.

  I looked back down at the map and with relief followed the right-hand tunnel. I trudged through the slimy sludge in my old boots—I didn’t want to ruin my new ones, but now my toes were wet with sewer water. I glanced down at my feet and curled my lip—I’d have to burn my toes off later to feel clean again. I shuddered and continued on till echoing voices and odd squeals and chirps reached my ears.

  The ladies at the bodega had said something about a main thoroughfare and a waterfall. I sighed and continued on—guess there weren’t street names and numbers in the secret underground shifter lair. Why had my old headmistress decided to retire down here?

  I passed more people, men and women, old and young, dressed in anything from suits to rags to what appeared to be homemade armor made of broken shards of glass and rusted pipes. I gave those guys a wide berth.

  Parrots winged overhead, bats hung from exposed pipes, and I even had to plaster myself to the wall to make way for a brown horse that trotted by. Finally, I entered a tall chamber. Near the top, a large round pipe poured water down into a rusted drain, little droplets forming a mist of sewer water. So pleasant.

  That had to be the waterfall, which meant I was getting close. I entered an enormous, stories-tall pipe bustling with people, animals (shifters in their other form) and businesses tucked into alcoves and side tunnels. I squinted down at the napkin and tried to make out the slanted handwriting.

  “On the left… near a cantina?” I glanced up and spotted a little alcove fitted with a round manhole cover hung sideways as a front door. It sat raised on a sort of sidewalk beside the main channel of the tunnel. Gray gravel created a sort of lawn, with a pink flamingo stuck in it.

  I grinned at the old woman who lounged in a white metal lawn chair and watched the parade of shifters go by—Mrs. Rankle. She lifted a hand in greeting at a gray wolf, who turned and gave a nod. I waited for a break in the foot (and paw and hoof) traffic, then darted across the wide tunnel and climbed up the stone bank.

  “Mrs. Rankle?”

  She looked up, her white curls bouncing around her face, and peered at me for a long moment before her face split in a wide grin. “Well, if it isn’t Jolene Hartgrave.” She pushed herself up out of her chair and waved me toward her, then embraced me in a tight hug. I felt a tinge of alarm at how thin she was under her pale blue tee and open button-up.

  “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” She winked and grabbed her wand. “What can I get you?” She looked me up and down. “You old enough to drink now?”

  I nodded, and she winked.

  “I know, doll, just teasin’.” She waved her wand, and two yellow drinks magically appeared in our hands, topped with paper umbrellas and skewers of fresh pineapple.

  I blinked at the elaborate cocktail. “Wow.”

  She thumbed at the crumbling cement wall beside her, string lights magically hovering in front of it. “I’ve got an arrangement with the cantina next door.” She clinked her glass against mine. “It’ll go on my tab.”

  I nodded, impressed.

  “Have a seat.”

  She motioned at the white metal chair beside her own, and we settled in. We sat in silence for a few moments, watching the steady stream of shifters going by or stopping in at the little mart across the sewer tunnel.

  I took a sip of the fresh cocktail, sweet pineapple flooding my mouth, and nodded. “This is pretty nice.”

  She scoffed. “Shocker, right? It’s not bad—especially for what you’d expect down in this dump of a sewer.” She shrugged her thin shoulders. “But it’s all I could afford. Being headmistress of an orphanage doesn’t pay as well as you’d think.”

  I took another sip of my drink, unsure what to say to that.

  She swept an age-spotted hand at the flow of people and animals in front of us. “Tunnel floods sometimes, but up here on higher ground, it’s only reached the flamingo once. Plus, when it does, I’ve got a riverfront view.”

  I grinned.

  “Except the river’s made of raw sewage, but you take what you can get.” She barked out a laugh, then sipped from her drink. “So, Miss Hartgrave, what brings you down to my bend of the tunnels?�
�

  I angled myself toward her. “I wanted to ask you a few questions, actually, about a girl named Letty Jones.”

  Her expression grew pinched. “Aw. I heard about her.” She shook her head. “Poor thing—that’s a real tragedy. She was a good girl.”

  I nodded, then looked around to make sure no one was listening. “I’m actually working with the police to help solve her murder.” I doubted anyone down here would be too friendly toward me if they knew I had police connections. “Can you tell me anything about her? I’m not sure what I’m looking for exactly, but anything might help.”

  Mrs. Rankle watched the tunnel for a bit, gaze far away. “It was a long time ago.” She glanced over at me and closed one eye. “The old thinker’s not what it used to be.”

  “I doubt that. You’ve always been sharp.” I snorted. “Too sharp, in fact. We couldn’t get away with anything under your watch.”

  She grinned. “I’ve got eyes in the back of my head.”

  I paled and lowered the drink’s straw from my lips.

  She chuckled and patted my arm. “Just kidding.” Her throat bobbed as her smile faded. “Letty was a sweet girl. Shy.”

  I nodded. “A lot of people we’ve spoken to recently say she stayed that way—that she was pretty private and reserved.” I licked my lips. “Do you think she’d have killed herself?”

  “Letty?” Mrs. Rankle jerked her head in my direction. “No way.”

  I frowned. “You’re that confident? If she wasn’t a big talker, no one might have known if she were going through private struggles.”

  She snorted. “Fat chance.” She shook a finger at me. “That girl might have been quiet, but she was a hard worker who never gave up, never complained.” She gave me a hard look before taking a swig of her drink. “Letty was a fighter.”

  I thought this over as I watched the parade of shifters go by. “Is it hard getting used to living underground?”