by Erin Johnson
I groaned, then frowned again at the decor. The mounted heads and sheer amount of leather seemed a bit of an odd choice for a place that purported to keep animals alive, but hey, who was I to judge? My own place’s interior design consisted of furniture I’d found on the street and piles of laundry.
Which was probably why I’d been enjoying spending so much time over at Peter’s. My cheeks grew a little hot as I relived some of our recent evening activities—well, it was one of the reasons.
Peter checked in with a couple of the cops collecting evidence while I hung back beside Russo, who’d brought in Quincy Rutherford in case we had any questions for him. I frowned as I took that in. Malorie had married Richard Rutherford as her first husband, which meant...
I spun to face Quincy. “You took Malorie’s name when you got married?”
His cheeks turned a little pink, but he lifted his large nose in the air, his jowls wobbling a bit. “Yes. And?”
I pressed my lips together and nodded. “Very progressive of you.” I turned away. And odd. Quincy and Malorie had no doubt kept the Rutherford name because of the clout it carried among the elite, but neither of them had been born Rutherfords.
A middle-aged cop with her blond hair tucked into a low bun under her cap rummaged around the papers stacked in piles on the huge wooden desk in the back of the room. She tossed some over her left shoulder, others over her right. They magically floated into various evidence bags. Peter sidled up beside her.
“Hey, Rochester, were you among the first in here?”
She barely spared him a glance, then nodded and went back to sorting evidence. “Yep.”
Peter nodded. “Was the door locked?”
She shook her head, eyes on her work. “Nope. Door was ajar, in fact.”
Peter and I exchanged looks. If someone needed a key to get into the office and grab the blow gun, that limited our suspects considerably. But Quincy had mentioned he was forgetful and often forgot to lock the office up, which would open our pool of suspects up to basically all the hundreds of party guests, plus staff.
The blond looked up. “Speaking of which, we checked the door to the second-story viewing platform in the phoenix’s cage. Also unlocked.”
I turned to face the widower. “Hey, Quincy, did you go into the office today?”
His throat bobbed. “Yes.”
Daisy stood in the middle of the room under the antler chandelier, looking between Peter and me. Her dark eyes locked onto Quincy, and she wagged her tail. True.
I nodded and turned back to him. “And the last time you were in here, do you remember if you locked it up behind you?”
He wrung his long hands. “I—I’m not sure, but I don’t think I did.” He hung his head.
I sighed. So just about anyone might’ve had access to the keys.
Peter watched him. “Where was the blow gun kept?”
Quincy looked up and gestured at the wall behind Peter. It was covered in peacock feather wallpaper with several wood racks supporting a row of blow guns, all carved and painted intricately. “Right there at the top.” His deep voice cracked.
Peter looked it over and muttered something to the cop beside him. She stopped her sorting of the desk and turned to bag up the other blow guns. Beside them, a rack held an assortment of feathered darts—one in the middle conspicuously missing.
Peter turned back to us. “The last time you were in here—do you remember seeing the blow gun on the wall?”
Quincy moved closer, eyes on the wall. “Yes—yes, I do.” He seemed almost entranced by the spot that would’ve held the missing feathered dart.
Daisy let out a whine that slid into a growl. Mixed read.
I narrowed my eyes as the back of my neck prickled, feeling suddenly suspicious. “Quincy—”
He snapped out of it and whipped his head around to stare at me, wide-eyed.
I stepped toward him. “Did you use the blow gun on your wife, Malorie?”
12
Darts
Russo’s thick brows jumped up, and he hastily shoved the bridge of his glasses up his nose. The other cops all looked up from their work to hear Quincy’s answer.
He glanced at Daisy, who held very still, then squared his thin shoulders. “No. No, I didn’t use a blow gun on my wife or on anyone else, for that matter!”
Everyone’s eyes turned to Daisy. The German shepherd whined. True.
I cocked my head. “And you didn’t ask someone else to use it on her?”
Quincy’s cheeks reddened. “No!”
I nodded. “Right. Thanks.” Guess I’d been on the wrong track there.
Peter looked around as the other officers returned to their work. He moved to the painted leopard print wood cabinet and paused with his hands on the pulls.
Quincy pointed. “We keep some of the meds chilled in there.” He gulped.
Peter pulled the double doors open, and cold air poured out. Goose bumps prickled my arms, and I rubbed them. It felt downright nippy in the humid air.
Peter bent to look over the shelves, all lined with tiny glass vials full of glowing potions. Quincy, frowning, rushed closer. “Why—so many are missing. This doesn’t make sense!”
I joined them, as did Daisy and Russo. Shivering, I looked over the shelves. Big gaps in the vials indicated that a lot of them were gone.
Peter frowned. “Could this be related to your wife’s murder? Were these vials valuable?”
Quincy craned his skinny neck forward, blinking at the empty spots. “I—I don’t know, to be honest.”
I pointed at a bare bit of middle shelf. “What was kept here?”
He shrugged. “No idea.”
The tip of Daisy’s tail wagged as she lifted her nose, sniffing the air. True.
I shot Peter a look. What did this guy know? He was clearly not very involved in the running of the sanctuary; he’d admitted so himself. Maybe the vials weren’t even missing—maybe they’d just been used up and the sanctuary was waiting on a shipment of more meds.
Peter seemed to be thinking something along the same lines. He nodded and stepped back. “Alright, no worries, we’ll look into it.” He scanned the office, frowning. “As far as the office being unlocked, does it appear anything else is missing or could have been stolen?”
Quincy turned from the cabinet, wringing his hands, and looked around. “I—I don’t immediately see anything else that was stolen.” He let out a whimper. “Though, Malorie handled most of everything related to the sanctuary. I didn’t spend much time in here, typically.”
Something glinted in the candlelight cast by the antler chandelier overhead, and I pointed at the item in Quincy’s hands. “Souvenir?”
He blinked at me, then down at his hands and jumped, nearly dropping the little glass vial. He ducked and fumbled with it, catching it before it smashed on the ground. “I, uh, no.” He turned and replaced it on the shelf in the chilled cabinet.
He adjusted the bow tie at his throat. “Just a—just a nervous habit of mine. I tend to pick little things up and fidget with them. I’m not even aware I’m doing it most of the time.” He paled, his gaze far away.
I drummed my fingers on my crossed arms. Right… I looked around. The furnishings, though tacky and over-the-top for my taste, were clearly expensive. I cocked a brow at Quincy. “Were you not worried about money being stolen from the office?”
He shook his head, jowls wobbling slightly. “Again, it’s not like I made a point of leaving the door unlocked. It’s just—I’m a bit absentminded, as Malorie put it.” He dipped his chin and let out a wistful sigh.
I glanced at Daisy, wondering if his recently deceased wife might have put it a little stronger, but Daisy continued to sniff the man’s shiny shoes and didn’t call him on any falsehood.
He looked up suddenly. “Oh, plus there’s a hidden safe where we keep the valuables and the day’s cash.”
Peter raised his brows, and Quincy jumped. “Oh. Right.” He led the way to the back wall. To the left of the
huge wooden desk hung an oil painting in a gilded frame of an enormous spider fighting a tiger. Quincy lifted it off its nail and set it on the desk behind him, revealing a silver safe set into the wall.
I grinned. Hidden safe behind a painting—nice. I curled my lip at the giant spider with its dripping fangs. Not my choice in artwork though. I typically liked to decorate with fewer spiders.
Quincy withdrew his wand from his pocket and pointed it at the dial of the safe. It spun to the right and stopped, then spun left and stopped.
Peter, leaning against the peacock wallpaper, watched Quincy. “Besides you, was anyone else in the office today?”
Quincy’s brow furrowed in concentration as he worked the safe’s lock. I grinned to myself—part of me was surprised Malorie had given him the combination.
“Malorie was. The sanctuary wasn’t open today, in preparation for the party, but Mark, our veterinarian, was still working, so he likely was in here, as well.” The combination clicked into place for the final time, a bolt slid inside the safe with a thunk, and the door swung open.
Russo, Peter, Quincy, and I leaned our heads in to peek inside. Daisy stood at our feet and whined, tapping her feet impatiently. What’s in there?
Russo reached in with a gloved hand and withdrew a leather bag full of gold merkles and a short stack of handwritten receipts.
Quincy pointed as the cop set them on the desk behind us. “Those are likely from this week’s revenue. Malorie must’ve been too busy with the party to deposit them.”
The only other item inside the smallish safe was a photograph. Russo drew it out and held it up for all of us to see. Quincy shrank back.
The magically moving picture showed a big group of people, hundreds of them, in glittering dresses and dapper tuxedos. They smiled at the camera from in front of a bunch of lush foliage and a banner that read The Night of the Phoenix.
I reached out and tapped a blond young woman in the front. “Is that Malorie?”
Quincy nodded.
Wow. She had to have been in her early twenties then. I peered closer. Though she had a big smile plastered on her face, her eyes looked tight, worried.
Peter spun to face Quincy, who edged away from us and the picture. “Was this taken at the last party for the phoenix’s rebirth?”
Quincy nodded again. Without looking, he snatched up a feathered quill from the desk and fiddled with it.
“So this must’ve been taken fifty years ago?” When Quincy nodded confirmation, Peter gently took the photograph from Russo and looked it over more closely.
I frowned. “Why was that in there? You said the safe was for valuables.”
Quincy backed up and tugged at the stiff collar of his shirt, his face flushed red. “I, uh—Libbie, our former head zookeeper, was going through an old box of memorabilia and noticed it.” His small eyes darted to Daisy, who watched him with her head cocked. “Libbie, uh, thought Malorie might enjoy seeing it, and, uh, apparently my wife thought it important enough to put in the safe.”
Daisy huffed. Mostly true…
I narrowed my eyes. Mostly, huh? What was Quincy hiding?
Peter handed the photo with its slightly crumpled edges back to Russo. “Add this to evidence, please?”
The rookie cop grinned. “You got it, Flint.”
The blond cop came around the side of the desk with an open planner in her hands. “You might want to see this.”
She held it up for Peter to see and pointed at the square for tomorrow’s date. I leaned closer and read over his shoulder.
10AM— 15 avenue Honore, 2nd tier
Peter beckoned Quincy closer and pointed at the calendar. “Do you know what this appointment is for?”
He paled and shook his head. “That’s my wife’s planner. I—I don’t know.”
Daisy let out a quiet growl. Partial truth.
Peter nodded and handed the planner back to the blond cop. “Bag this up and have someone check into this address.”
She nodded and moved off to bag more evidence. Peter nodded at Russo, who came around and rejoined Quincy, before pulling me aside.
“This Libbie Brown gal has come up a few times, plus we caught her stealing a wombat.”
I smirked. “And we all know you can’t trust a wombat thief.”
Peter grinned. “I think we should go have some words with her. A couple cops still have her detained near the wall on the estate’s border where we caught her.”
“Ooh. You didn’t even let her come in to the party?” I sucked in some air. “Harsh, Officer Flint.”
We headed out of the sanctuary’s office with Daisy beside us.
He leaned close so that his warm breath tickled my neck and lowered his voice. “I can be pretty tough. Don’t make me use my handcuffs.”
I let my jaw drop and sucked in a mock gasp.
His eyes widened, and he waved his hands as a deep flush spread up his neck. “Sorry. I was just kidding. I was trying to be saucy, and it just came out wrong, but I would never—”
I chuckled, and his shoulders slumped. “You were kidding.”
“Duh.” I winked. “Careful. I might enjoy it if you busted out those restraints.”
He stopped dead for a beat before catching back up with me and Daisy, his whole face red. Sands, I really enjoyed teasing this man. I slipped my hand into his and grinned up at him. He rolled his eyes but smiled back and nudged me with his shoulder. Working cases wasn’t so bad when you got to do it holding hands with your boyfriend.
13
Stolen Wombat
Peter, Daisy, and I threaded our way across the swaying drawbridge path, past enclosures with enormous ferns, suspended bubbles of water, and even what appeared to be a miniature volcano. Odd hoots and animal calls followed us, and I frowned at not being able to make out what they were saying. Were these creatures so rare my abilities didn’t extend to them, or were my powers on the fritz?
We soon exited the enclosed part of the sanctuary and headed outside. We left the giant stone mansion behind us and trekked through thrashing grasses down a narrow gravel path. Wispy clouds blew quickly across the half moon, and bats squeaked as they dove overhead.
I wrapped my arms around myself and rubbed. Peter glanced over and noticed my shivers. He withdrew his wand, murmured a spell, and a moment later a warm blanket of magic enveloped me, dissolving my goose bumps. I glanced up and shot him a grateful smile.
“Handsome and good with the magic." I slid closer to him and waggled my brows.
"Yeah." He shrugged, hands in his pockets. "I'm a keeper."
Peter slid an arm around my shoulders, and we walked on together, Daisy bounding ahead. I could just make out the shimmer of magic enclosing some of the outdoor cages. Every now and then a hot huff of breath or a heavy footstep reminded me that the dark grounds were teeming with magical animals and monsters.
We cleared a small hill and spotted Daisy, bushy tail wagging excitedly. She tapped her paws in front of a couple of silhouetted cops who stood against a tall wall. Peter squeezed my shoulder, then let his arm drop to his side, and we picked up the pace until we joined them.
A tall, thin young officer bent forward and scratched Daisy behind her ears, while the other cop leaned against the vine-covered stone wall, his eyes glued to the middle-aged woman sitting on the ground.
I arched a brow as the young cop cooed over Daisy, scratching her head and telling her what a good girl she was. So this guy could get away with it, but Daisy would barely deign to let me bring her a treat? I saw how it was.
Peter greeted the other cops, then nodded at the woman on the ground. "Miss Brown."
"Ah, so this is the Libbie Brown I've been hearing so much about." I lifted my hand in a little wave, and the woman glanced up and shot me a quizzical look, her knees hugged to her chest. The grasses blew all around her, the wind tossing her long dark curls across her face. She glanced behind her toward the cop leaning against the wall. A zipped leather backpack sat beside his feet.<
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"You here to take my Cassie away from me?" She glared up at me.
I held up my palms in surrender. "Nope. Just your run-of-the-mill, everyday pet psychic. I leave the Cassie stealing to the pros." I thumbed at the officer playing with Daisy, then frowned. “Who’s Cassie?”
The cop against the wall lowered the booted foot he’d been pressing against the stones and scoffed. "More like what is Cassie."
I threw my head back to the sky. "Ah." I tipped my chin back down and leveled Libby with a grin. "The wombat."
As if on cue, the backpack rustled and squeaked.
“See?” Libby let out a growl of frustration and lifted a dark, tattooed palm that told me she was from the Fire Kingdom. "She's hungry, and she misses me."
I squeezed an eye shut and raised a finger. "Actually, her leg’s falling asleep." I remembered a moment later, as four sets of wide eyes landed on me, that I was supposed to be a pet psychic, not a pet translator. I pressed my fingers to my temples and squeezed my eyes shut, as if concentrating. "At least that's what the ether is telling me." I peeled them open and glanced at Peter to see if I'd covered adequately. He was biting back a grin.
"No way!" Libbie’s face lit up, her white teeth bright against her dark skin. "You really are a pet psychic?" She threw an arm toward the backpack. "That's great! You can just ask Cassie who she’d rather live with, and we’ll get this whole thing sorted out."
I squeezed an eye shut and tipped my head side to side. "Not sure that's quite how the law works…."
"Actually, we're here to ask you a few questions." Peter stepped closer.
Libby let out an exaggerated groan and rolled her eyes. "You lot have already asked me a thousand questions! Ugh.”
I arched a brow and leaned into one hip. "Maybe you'd rather answer the questions up at the station?" It was hard not to grin. I’d been dying to use that line since I’d become a consultant for the police. I caught Peter's lips twitching toward a smile out of the corner of my eye.
Libbie sighed through her nose, but sobered and shoved to her feet. She dusted off her jeans, then stuffed her hands in the front pocket of her black hoodie. "Fine. What do you want to know?"