The Book of Secrets

by Melissa McShane

  “Ragsdale! I insist you make her—”

  “Mrs. Daigle, the rules are simple. Abernathy’s must accept all augury requests. But it is not bound to provide answers. Good day, Miss Davies.” If he’d had a hat, he would have tipped it to me.

  “I know you’re lying,” Mrs. Daigle said. “You will provide me an augury. I swear it.”

  “Have a nice day,” I said sweetly, but as soon as they were gone, I slumped back into the stool and covered my face with my hands. So Abernathy’s could turn someone down. It was such a relief to know I wouldn’t have to be party to murder, however indirectly. That had been unexpected.

  The whispering started again, very faintly. “Thanks,” I said, then felt stupid for talking to a building. But if Abernathy’s were, if not alive, at least conscious…? “I hope I’m doing all right. I feel certain you chose me for this job, and I hope it’s not ungrateful for me to wish I had more help.”

  I got down off the stool and walked into the stacks, which were filled with a normal kind of quiet and not the timelessness of the oracle. “If I’m wrong,” I said, “I hope you’d tell me. I mean, I’d hate giving Judy the satisfaction, but if she’s the one you want, I’d abdicate in her favor.”

  It was getting to be late in the afternoon, and the light was turning golden, making the room feel warmer than it actually was. I watched dust motes float through the air on beams of sunlight and pulled a book off the shelf, idly brushing off its surface. It was old, with a pebbly brown leather cover on which the title was impressed in gold lettering. Phantoms and Nightmares, it read. It was too much to hope for that this was also by Silas, and it wasn’t. No using the oracle for personal reasons. I slid the book back into its place and returned to the office. The whispering had stopped. I hoped someday I’d understand it.

  I sat behind the melamine desk and pondered the file cabinet. Then I looked at the door to the stairs. I’d locked it, feeling an obscure need to protect the apartment even though it was unlikely anyone but me would be in here. Now I wished I hadn’t asked Viv to lock the apartment door. I contemplated the door for a few more seconds, then took out my phone and did a search for local locksmiths.

  The man who showed up at the door half an hour later let me watch him mark the blank for cutting the new key. “It doesn’t take long, no more than ten or fifteen minutes,” he said.

  “It’s fascinating that you can make a key without taking the lock apart.”

  “It’s not that hard.” He showed me the brass blank and tilted it to catch the light. “You probably can’t see the marks, but they’re there.”

  I waited as he used a variety of files to cut down the blank, then tried it in the door. It didn’t open. “Just missed some,” he said, and in a few minutes the lock ground open. “I’ll cut you a couple of keys, if you’re sure about not replacing the lock. Not a great idea for security, not knowing who’s got the keys.”

  “I think those keys are long lost. But I’ll call you if I change my mind.”

  The locksmith had a cutting machine in his van, and in less than an hour after calling him I had two shiny brass keys in my hand and was waving goodbye to him. Then I ran up the stairs and into the apartment.

  It was as quiet and peaceful as I remembered. I wandered the rooms for a bit, marveling at how new the place felt. After a while, I pulled the sheet off the sofa and folded it in squares, setting it on the floor in one corner. The velvet upholstery reminded me of my grandmother’s house, back before she’d gone to the assisted living home. Her couch had been gold instead of maroon, but it had that same wonderful texture, smooth in one direction, rough and resistant to the touch in the other. I leaned back and stretched my arms out along its back, closed my eyes, and pretended I could hear the street noises of seventy years ago.

  In the distance, the front door slammed. I groaned and pushed myself off the sofa. That failed augury, or whatever it was called, had sapped my will to deal with more customers. Customers who came in at thirty-five minutes to closing were my second least favorite kind, right after the ones who came in five minutes to closing. I locked the apartment behind me and trotted down the stairs.

  “Can I help you?” I called out when I was within the stacks. No one answered. I reached the front counter and found the door hanging slightly ajar. That was strange—usually it took any opportunity it could to slam shut. I closed it as quietly as I could manage. “Hello?”

  A loud crack, like something hard hitting the linoleum, echoed in the stillness. Then another. I heard a rushing, thumping sound, the sound of several books falling atop each other in a pile. “Who’s there?” I shouted, and followed the sound into the stacks. More thumping. Someone was muttering, a deeper sound than the familiar whispering. I rounded a corner to find Mrs. Daigle yanking books off a shelf and tossing them in a heap on the floor.

  “Stop that!” I dove forward and grabbed her arm. She turned and slapped me hard, making my head rock back. I didn’t think; I grabbed her other arm and pulled her away from the bookcase, slinging her into the one opposite. It rocked slightly, jostling a few books that teetered atop a huge unbalanced pile.

  “If you won’t give me an augury, I’ll do it myself,” Mrs. Daigle snarled, wrenching free of my grasp and raising her hand to slap me again. I threw up my arms to defend myself, and Mrs. Daigle ran, snatching books off shelves as she went. I chased her, though I had no idea what I would do if I caught her.

  “Where is it? I need it!” she panted, shoving a whole shelf of books into my path. I stumbled and went to one knee, banging it hard against the floor. Mrs. Daigle took advantage of the moment to stop and pull more books off the shelves, flipping quickly through them and tossing them aside. At least she’s increasing the randomness. I got to my feet and staggered after her. She ran. In desperation, I leaped and tackled her around the knees, bringing her down.

  I crawled to where I could sit on her back, pressing her face-first into the floor. “Get off me,” she shouted. “You have no right—”

  “You’re the one with no right, Mrs. Daigle,” I said, reaching for my phone. It wasn’t there. I’d left it in the office when the locksmith came. Great. Now what? I couldn’t sit on her indefinitely, waiting for someone to arrive who could deal with her.

  “I need that augury,” Mrs. Daigle said, and burst into tears.

  It was unexpected enough I almost let her go. But she was a murderer, or wanted to be, and I couldn’t let that happen. “Abernathy’s turned you down, probably because it doesn’t want to be party to murder. I ought to tell someone what you have in mind, except it sounds like I’m under some kind of seal of the confessional and I’d be breaking my oath. So why don’t you give up on murder?”

  “Because he won’t stop hitting me.” The sobs were coming faster now, and I could barely make out her words. “I’m so tired. He won’t stop. I need him to stop.”

  It was enough at odds with her cocky demeanor, her absolute surety that she was in the right, that I didn’t believe her. “If you’re making a play for my sympathy, it’s not working.”

  “I don’t give a damn what you think. I’m done being a victim. I’ll kill him with or without the oracle’s help. Get off me.”

  I hesitated. She sounded weary now, the drawl in her voice stronger. Maybe she was telling the truth, in which case I ought to help her, not judge her. I rolled off and stood, then helped her up. “You don’t have to be a victim. And the oracle can help you in other ways. Maybe you shouldn’t approach it with a solution already in mind.”

  Mrs. Daigle brushed off the front of her parka, which had bits of gray dust clinging to it. Apparently, I needed to sweep. “I’ll never be free so long as he’s alive.”

  “You don’t know that’s true. But I bet Abernathy’s does. You just have to come up with a different question.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe ‘How can I stop being a victim?’ Or ‘How can I be free of my abuser?’ That way you’re not telling the oracle
its business.”

  Mrs. Daigle wiped her streaming eyes, smearing mascara down the side of her face. “How can I escape my husband?” she said—

  and the room shuddered, Mrs. Daigle disappeared, and the silence of the oracle welled up around me. I took an involuntary step back, into one of the bookcases. It was reassuringly solid. “Mrs. Daigle?” I said, but the silence swallowed my words. I hoped she was safe, wherever she was.

  I walked past the mess Mrs. Daigle had made and around a few corners before I saw the familiar blue glow. The book was slim, with pliant leatherette covers, and the title impressed on the cover was Love and Friendship. I flipped it open. By Jane Austen. I’d never heard of it. Scrawled on the title page in silver ink was Stephanie Daigle, No Charge. I closed it carefully. It had never occurred to me that the oracle might perform certain auguries for free—and yet if it was capable of charging ten thousand dollars, or more, why not? It was like the flip side of its refusal to tell Mrs. Daigle how to kill her husband.

  I returned to the front of the store, yawning against the feeling that my ears needed to pop. “Mrs. Daigle?”

  Seconds later, the woman emerged from the bookcases. Her hair was disordered and her mascara-streaked cheeks were pale. “You vanished,” she said. “Where did you go?”

  I extended the book to her. “No charge.”

  She looked at it. “Is this some kind of joke? I don’t want love or friendship!”

  “Trust me, Mrs. Daigle, Abernathy’s doesn’t play jokes. I doubt it’s telling you that you need to stay with your abusive husband. But—I don’t know much about relationships, because the only serious one I’ve had ended badly, but I think you deserve better than to be with someone who beats you. And maybe that augury will tell you how you can get real love. It’s just a guess. You’ll have to study it and find out what the augury is. In the meantime… why don’t you call a shelter? Or women’s services?”

  Mrs. Daigle shook her head. “It’s not that simple.”

  “And it’s none of my business. I hope things work out for you. I hope the augury helps.”

  I smiled, I hoped encouragingly. She didn’t smile back, just hugged the book to her chest and left the store. I caught the door before it could slam and eased it shut. Then I locked the door and put up the CLOSED sign, and went to turn out the lights and get my things. That had been unexpected. And sad. I couldn’t stop seeing Mrs. Daigle’s face, how empty and hopeless it had been before she left. I felt bad about having doubted her. Maybe if I’d been more understanding, she would have taken the augury seriously. As it was, I had a feeling Mrs. Daigle’s desperation would only grow worse.

  ucia called me when I was on the bus to work the next morning. “Still no word on either of our suspects,” she said. “What’s your spanking new theory?”

  “I’m on the bus.”

  “That’s not much of a theory. Yes, yes, that was a stupid joke. You said you thought it might not be about blackmail. What else could it be?”

  I glanced around. Everyone was in the little bubble people create for themselves when they have to take mass transit. “What if it’s about the store?”

  “What about the store?”

  “What if someone wanted Judy to be the custodian?”

  “And killed Briggs to get him out of the way? By ‘someone,’ I take it you mean Rasmussen.”

  “Yes.”

  “I told you, Will Rasmussen is too powerful for anyone to make that accusation lightly.”

  “I’m not making it lightly. I think he’s trying to get me out of the way.” Lucia was silent. “Isn’t it worth checking?”

  “I’ll look into it. But I wouldn’t be too attached to that theory. I don’t see Rasmussen taking that kind of risk. Just because I feel Judy wouldn’t be impartial enough doesn’t mean I see her abusing the custodianship on her father’s behalf.” She hung up.

  I put my phone away and stared out the window. Snow had fallen overnight, and the city had that fresh look to it that would be grimy and depressing by evening. I wished I weren’t so helpless in this. Rasmussen had the power to do whatever he liked to me and cover it up with half a dozen illusions. I needed Lucia to take me seriously.

  The snow reduced the number of customers to a mere trickle, most of them coming in to pick up one of the remaining catalogues. Nobody was inclined to stay and chat, which was fine by me; I wanted to curl up someplace warm with a book and a mug of hot chocolate, but I had to work.

  Ross Dunlop came by around eleven, snow dusting his fedora or trilby or whatever the hat was. “Snowing again,” he said, unnecessarily. “It really is a beautiful day.”

  “You’re one of those people.”

  He laughed. “Granted, I’m going to lunch from here, and I expect it to be an excellent meal. Fidorini’s—you ever been there?”

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Give it a try sometime. The veal parmigiana is divine.” He handed me a slip of paper. “Not to rush you, but I hope this won’t take long.”

  It only took five minutes to find Dunlop’s augury. “An even thousand,” I said.

  Dunlop dipped into his coat pocket for a large vial of sanguinis sapiens. “I hope you don’t mind my saying, but you don’t look very cheerful.”

  I shrugged. “A lot’s happened. Two murders—”

  “Two murders?”

  I quickly explained about Brian, trying to make it sound less horrible than it had been. Dunlop whistled. “No wonder you look down. That’s quite a lot for anyone to experience. And—”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to frighten you.”

  “Now I’m frightened. You might as well continue.”

  “I was going to say, you might see more of the monsters now that you’re custodian of a Neutrality.”

  “That’s what Mr. Campbell said. That they’d be drawn to me.” The shadows seemed to come a little closer for a moment.

  “It’s true.” He began digging in his other pocket. “I might be able to do something about that.” He put a handful of odds and ends on the counter and stirred them with his forefinger. “This.”

  He held up a stone disk about the size of a quarter. It was smooth-faced and had rounded edges. “I can make you a personal stone ward, something that will deflect an invader. You wear it around your neck, over your navel. Let me show you.” He set it flat in the center of his left palm and closed his fingers around it.

  Nothing happened except the whispering starting up again, shifting position until it had circled us once, then going silent. Dunlop didn’t seem to notice. “There,” he said, opening his hand. The stone disk now had delicate curves in an abstract pattern incised over its surface.

  “It’s beautiful.” I looked at him for permission, then touched it. It felt warm from more than the heat of his hand. “How do I wear it?”

  “You—oh, I forgot. Do you have a pen handy?”

  I gave him the ballpoint I used to write in the ledger. He pressed its tip gently to the upper curve of the disk. The stone melted away like chocolate, flowing to all sides until there was a hole driven entirely through the disk. Dunlop handed me the disk, then, ruefully, the ruined pen. “Sorry about that.”

  “I have more. Thanks, Mr. Dunlop, I really appreciate this.”

  “Not a problem. Wouldn’t want you to get hurt.” He picked up his book and smiled as he let himself out.

  I found a spool of twine in one of the basement lockers and cut off enough for a very long loop. It wasn’t pretty, but then, it wouldn’t be visible. I tucked the disk under my clothes, where it made a warm spot just above my belly button. I already felt more comfortable than I had that morning.

  No one else came in. I swept the floor, put away the books Mrs. Daigle had flung everywhere, gathered up Master Your Potential! and took the remaining copies to the Dumpster out back. It was the most bored I’d ever been. I sat behind the counter after accomplishing these wondrous tasks and thought about calling Viv. She’d probably
be off work at the diner by now, and maybe she could come over and entertain me.

  The door slammed open. “Sorry,” Detective Acosta said. It was a perfunctory remark, something you said to be polite. He didn’t sound sorry.

  “Detective Acosta. Detective Green. Can I help you with something?”

  Acosta let the door close carefully behind him. He’d learned. “We thought you should know your alibi checks out,” he said. Green surveyed the shelves. “Strange, how certain the teller was that she saw you that day.”

  “I guess I have that kind of face.”

  “Apparently.” Acosta took a few steps forward and rested his hands on the counter. “You’re still working here.”

  “Someone has to.”

  “The owners don’t mind?”

  “Why would they mind?”

  “It’s a lot of responsibility for someone who was hired less than a week ago.”

  “Everybody has to start somewhere. It’s been hard, but I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

  “Interesting how easily Nathaniel Briggs was replaced.” His eyes regarded me narrowly.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I mean,” Acosta said, “Briggs didn’t leave much of a hole. No family, few real friends, and his job moves on without a hiccup. It’s as if he was the perfect target.”

  “I still don’t understand, except it sounds like you’re getting ready to accuse me of something.”

  Acosta shrugged. “I’m still not entirely convinced you’ve told us everything you know.”

  Fear welled up inside me. “I’ve answered all your questions honestly.”

  “Not the same thing.” He turned and followed Green to the door. “I’m telling you again, Miss Davies. If there’s anything you think we should know, speaking now will benefit you.”

  “There’s nothing—” I began, but the two men were already gone. I cursed and kicked the counter, which hurt, a good clean hurt that dispelled some of the fear and anxiety filling me. Acosta suspected me, and there was nothing I could do to convince him I had nothing to do with Mr. Briggs’ murder, because I did have something to do with it. I laid my arms on the glass countertop and rested my face on them. Someday Acosta would give up. Probably. Maybe.