But he crossed a line when Barry taught him to say “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!” As far as Frank was concerned, this was war.
Chapter Three
My first customer for the evening wasn’t due for an hour, so I allowed myself some time to dust and tidy up. It sounds boring, but it’s my favorite part of the evening.
Lissa’s mother Penelope Silver has destroyed my shop twice; each time I told my clients that I was closed for remodeling. Putting it all back together again has been an ugly, expensive process, but I’m pleased with the results.
Bronwyn’s retail store the front of the building is very Scottsdale, with upscale shelving, marble floors, and a cash register sophisticated enough to launch the space shuttle with. The New Orleans operation, run by my cousin Aaron under the supervision of my mother Hazel, reflects the design sensibilities of the French Quarter. The Paris shop, run by my cousin Adele, is very Left Bank.
The last time Penelope trashed the alley shop, I felt the need to reclaim it by making the design truly my own. I love mid-century modern furniture, so I scoured the country for authentic pieces. I was lucky: desert resort cities such as Palm Springs and Scottsdale are a treasure trove of postwar luxury homes, and there’s a brisk trade in period furnishings. Mid-century modern is hot right now, and talented designers are cranking out new pieces, too, so I got out my checkbook.
I put down a warm oak plank floor and covered it with a big wool area rug to offset the cool plastic, metal, and vinyl pieces I found at estate sales and auctions. My new desk has a glass top and sleek walnut legs. The Eames chair looks right at home in front of it, but I indulged my back and went with the modern desk chair behind it that fits right in.
I spend a lot of time with customers at the oval walnut dining room table in the middle of the room, writing out pawn documents and examining their objects. The aqua brocade seats on the matching walnut chairs give the place a pop of color.
I turned to a local designer to create my sales counter, a massive polished plywood block on low wire legs. The shelving at the back of the counter was built to my specifications so that Frank would have his own cubby.
♦
Mark had pilfered my snack, so I nibbled some crackers from the break room while I waited for my first appointment to arrive. The door opened, but it wasn’t my client. Edgar soared across the room to his perch. He chuckled to himself in Barry’s voice as he cracked into the peanuts. Frank gave him a dirty look and skulked off to his bed under the counter.
The first time that I ever heard of Asia – the woman, not the continent – was a year ago from my cousin Adele, who’d met Asia during Paris fashion week. Adele is a fashionista and Asia was walking the runway for one of the most trendy designers in the world.
They’d known each other for more than a month before Asia revealed her other special talents. It was quite literally an accident. They were jaywalking, of course, when a drunk college kid busted into a traffic circle and aimed his red sports car right at them. There was no escape – except that Asia stepped forward, placed her hand on the hood of the car, and stopped it dead: no forward momentum, no swerve, no skidding. The car stopped, right where it was. Everybody walked away.
Asia was embarrassed; Adele was delighted. Adele manages the Paris branch of Pentacle Pawn and immediately recognized a kindred spirit. They’ve been fast friends ever since.
For the past couple of years, Asia has been working for big New York and Toronto design houses. When Asia crossed the pond, Adele assured her that the New Orleans and Scottsdale branches would welcome her with open arms. It didn’t exactly work out that way.
A month ago, Asia needed someone to broker a delicate transaction. She was buying an exotic beer culture, and she needed someone to hold her purchase in escrow while she set up brewery facilities. She called my mother in New Orleans. Hazel refused.
I got the story secondhand from Daisy, but I gather that my mother gave Asia an earful about the low profession of running a tavern. My mother, a genteel snob, doesn’t socialize with people who drink beer, let alone make it.
Asia called Adele in a purple fury. Adele called me. I promised to make it right.
I’d already Googled Asia, but I was still stunned when she walked in the door. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever met. I didn’t feel threatened; it was as if she was a different, superior species. I was fascinated.
Everybody in Scottsdale – well, almost everybody – is from someplace else, and all of them are playing a role: the sweet debutante, the self-made man, the old-money billionaire, the trophy wife, the master of industry, the drugstore cowboy, the exotic man of mystery.
Asia is a total fraud. She portrayed the Egyptian queen Nefertiti in a cosmetics ad, and most of her social media fans think she’s from some obscure village in north Africa or the Middle East.
She’s from Cleveland.
Even her name is new. Asia, she told me, means “brings the sunrise.” She found it on Google when she started modeling teen fashions for catalogs in junior high school. Her birth certificate says Martha Jean.
Only a few people understand that Asia’s international supermodel persona is just part of her gig. The Asia we know is the real deal. She understands evil– not just intellectually, but in the heart and, if there is indeed such a thing, in the soul.
Asia is a warrior with mad skills, but her biggest value to us is that she unifies us. We know that Asia will never be part of us; she will never join us in the Circle. She is a loner, a self-contained paladin who will take up our crusade and defend us to the death. She works all over the world but she always happens to be in town when we need her. Otherwise, she’s simply not around. We don’t expect her to hang out, and we don’t take offense when she’s not available. We follow her willingly into battle because we know she will never steer us wrong.
♦
Asia arrived right on time. Frank curled around her ankles and purred as we sat on the mid-century modern sofa in the showroom and sipped tea, catching up on all the exotic places she’d been, modeling for the top fashion houses. I told her I was jealous. I love my life, but every girl craves a little glamour.
“Living on airplanes and hotels gets old after a while,” she said with a sigh. “I’m getting older now...”
I laughed. “You are what – 26?”
She smiled that lovely smile. “In my business, that makes me an old lady. It takes me longer in the gym every year just to hold the line. And the food regimen –I haven’t had even a potato chip for a decade.”
She'd made some kind of decision. She sipped her tea before she said, “It’s time to go out on top. My product lines are doing great, and I put some money away. I’m done.”
I patted her hand. “Good for you! What’s next? I saw you in a magazine at some Hollywood premiere last month with that director, the guy who does those superhero movies. You going to be a movie star?”
It was her turn to laugh. “Hugh is just a pal. He needed arm candy for the red carpet, so he bought me a nice dinner. Have you ever been on a movie set?”
I shook my head.
“You’d be bored out of your mind. You get up before dawn, do hair and makeup, then wait around for hours to say a couple of lines. Doing commercials was bad enough.”
“But you have a plan.”
She looked like the cat that swallowed the canary. “I’m opening a brewery. I’ve found a secret yeast that makes the best beer in the world.”
I was intrigued. “So what’s so secret about this yeast?”
She flashed me the smile that had graced hundred magazine covers. “It has healing properties.”
“You mean like penicillin?”
She shook her head. “Nothing that noble, I’m afraid. You can get just as drunk on this as you can with any other beer – it’s actually got a higher alcohol content – but it’ll never give you a hangover.”
Barry came to mind. This was a game-changer.
She saw the look on my face and
smiled. “It’s even better than that. It has an off switch.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’ll never have to worry about somebody driving drunk to get home from my bar. If I want to cut somebody off – you know, sober them up – all it takes is a little incantation. They’re sober as a judge.”
Now Stella came to mind. Driving drunks home in the wee hours was her bread and butter. The world is all about yin and yang, I guess.
“It sounds like a fascinating project,” I said. “How can I help?”
Asia leaned forward in her chair. “You understand the brewer’s yeast is a living thing. This one is an offshoot of an ancient strain from northern Europe. I’m buying mine from a tiny craft brewery in Minnesota that’s handed this family strain down for generations, since a grandfather brought it over during colonial times. I think, somewhere along the line, it mutated.”
“Is it stable?”
Asia nodded. “As far as I can tell – at least there aren’t any family stories of things blowing up. The brewers aren’t magical, and they don’t understand what they’ve got. They’re ready to retire and I’ve offered them a fair price, but I need to store the culture someplace where it can’t be contaminated by random magic. Does that make sense?”
It did, indeed. One of the first things I do when I take an item into the pawn shop is to cleanse it of the flotsam and jetsam of everyday life, the bits and pieces of old spells placed on it by previous owners. Bad things can happen.
“I’m supposed to pick the culture up this weekend. Adele thought you might be able to hold onto it for me for a month, while I finish building out my microbrewery.”
“So, you’ve already started?”
Asia smiled again. “Oh, I thought you knew – I bought the old gas station next door to the barbecue place down the street.”
Perfect! I’d been watching the renovations on that lovely old 1930s building all spring, hoping it wasn’t going to turn into yet another white-tablecloth restaurant that I couldn’t afford.
“Excellent! Welcome to the neighborhood,” I exclaimed.
We hugged as Asia was getting ready to leave. “Oh, I forgot – there’s one more thing I need for you to take care of for me, if you’re willing.”
She pulled an object from her belt and placed it on the counter. It was a handled object sheathed in an elaborate wooden scabbard.
“It’s a tiger’s claw.” Asia was beaming.
“That’s a nasty little piece of work,” I said, frowning. I was remembering the last time we had a tiger claw on the premises; it didn’t end well. “You know we don’t accept any artifacts connected to endangered species. I’m surprised you’d even ask, Asia.”
“No,” she said, frantically shaking her head. “That’s just what it’s called.” She inserted her little finger into a ring at the end of the hilt and drew out a wicked curved blade. “See? They just call it that because of the way it’s shaped. It’s a karambit. I picked it up in Indonesia a long time ago.”
She stroked the beautiful reddish swirled wood from which the hilt and scabbard had been carved. “This is amboyna burl. This piece is supposed to be at least five hundred years old. I was told that it was taken from the grave of one of their important healers. The woman who sold it to me said that this carries the spirit of the man who owned it.”
I asked her to place it back on the counter, and I touched the wooden case lightly with my fingers. The wood was smooth, burnished from centuries of hands, but I didn’t detect anything unusual about it.
“Have you found a use for it?” Meaning: can you get it to do anything magical?
Asia looked sad. “Not so far. I was hoping you might help me investigate it. A healing tool might come in handy in my line of work.” She wasn’t talking about working in the bar. This was a warrior’s tool.
I nodded. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do. The first step is to get it authenticated. Is there any paperwork?”
She just gave me a look.
I sighed. “I was afraid of that. As you know, there are no standardized tests in our community, but we can certainly begin with a scientific inquiry. Would you consider having it dated?”
I noticed that she protectively slid her hand over the small knife. I wasn’t even sure that it was a conscious move, but I understood. “The tests aren’t destructive. All we need to do is take a small scraping from the inside, between the lining and the wood. It would never show.”
Asia looked dubious, but she agreed. I carefully separated the lining and used my jeweler’s knife to scrape a small sample of sawdust into a glass vial to ship off to my colleague at the university.
I reattached the lining with a drop of vegetable glue and placed the scabbard back on the counter. Asia scooped it up and stroked it as if it was a wounded bird. She eased the sheath over the curved blade and tucked it back inside her belt.
“See you soon,” she said over her shoulder as the door let her out.
I heard a scrambling noise behind me and turned just in time to see Frank dash across the showroom. He stayed low to the ground, tail streaming straight out behind. A few feet above the deck, Edgar was making a strafing run.
“Hey!” I yelled, “knock it off,” but neither paid any attention to me. At the last moment, Edgar pulled straight up and glided to his perch as Frank skidded into his cubbyhole.
I poked my head behind the counter. “You okay?” I asked Frank. He didn’t answer – just shot me a look that would cut glass.
I wheeled on Edgar. “Bad bird!” I scolded. He ruffled his feathers, but he looked pretty pleased with himself.
Interspecies warfare: my life wasn’t complicated enough?
♦
I heard from Mark that evening that Lissa and Orion had postponed their honeymoon.
“She would just follow us to Greece,” Orion said. “We’d be looking over our shoulders the whole time.”
It made sense. Penelope was dangerous, and having her at-large meant none of us was safe.
Still, I felt bad for them. They’d be staying at the mansion Mark had rented for them at least until the end of the month. After that, their plans would be up in the air until…
Until.
We would all be living in limbo until the problem of Penelope was solved.
Chapter Four
My husband John and I read the paper together every morning after I get off work and before I tuck myself into bed for the day. I’ve always liked the print edition, and the doorman for our condo makes sure it’s on my doorstep.
John reads on the computer since he can’t hold a piece of paper. As I've said, John is a ghost, and he’s still working out that whole manipulating-physical-objects thing. He’s got the computer down cold. He’s also mastered the remote control for the TV, and, because John was a sportswriter in his previous life, ESPN is on in our house 24/7. But it drives him crazy that he can’t pick up a coffee cup.
I thought that the image in the paper was an excellent likeness of Emil Portiere. The story explained that he had been discovered unresponsive at the foot of the private road that leads to his estate in a gated community near the top of Pinnacle Peak.
A bit of explanation is in order. Real estate prices rise with the elevation in Scottsdale. Never mind the inconvenience of narrow private roads that become waterfalls in monsoon season. Never mind the snakes and scorpions that coexist with the millionaires in the rugged hills and sometimes show up on their patios or in their fancy garages alongside the Jaguars and Cobras. Never mind that delivery people charge you double to haul stuff up there, and sometimes the maid’s car conks out halfway up the hill. A home that high on the mountain is worth a king’s ransom.
Emil Portiere dropping dead on Pinnacle Peak merits a front-page story. The writer had tastefully hinted at Old Money, a family dynasty founded in the old country and built by Emil’s father and grandfather into a vast empire. His attorney told the paper that he had no successors; his only relative was a sister who had herse
lf passed only a few weeks earlier. Neither Emil nor Violet had married. They were classic trust fund kids, and the paper hinted that neither had any discernible accomplishments in their lives.
Memorial services would be announced later in the week, and the story included a couple of nice quotes from Emil’s business associates. But no mention was made of friends. How sad, I thought.
The cause of death was still pending, but foul play was not suspected.
Thank you, Mark.
♦
Emil Portiere’s death was on my mind. It was partly because I had found the body, and I admit to being pretty weirded out by the sight of a client dead at my door. I didn’t know Emil well, but still.
But, beyond that, there were just too many unanswered questions. Begin with the cause of death. Emil was an old man, and Occam’s razor would suggest that the simplest explanation was a heart attack or some other sudden physical collapse. There was no visible blood, and the body was not in disarray. In fact, Emil appeared to have been intentionally arranged in death to suggest sleep. But I wasn’t buying the idea that Emil just wandered down the alley, and died in his sleep of a heart attack at my door.
I’d bet dollars to dragons that there was ventral lividity that told a different story. Once Emil’s heart was no longer pumping, his blood settled to its lowest point in the body. If he’d happened to be flat on his back when he died, for example, there would be dark patches of pooled blood under the skin of his shoulders, his butt, the back of his head and the heels of his feet. Even if he had been moved soon after death, there would still be a shadowing of this first settling.
Emil had been lying on his side when I found him. I’d love to get my hands on the coroner’s report.
If the body had been moved, the killer was either really large or really clever. If an ordinary person had brought that body down the alley, they would have either had to carry Emil or drag him. There were no scuff marks on the cobblestones, so our killer was a big guy who could sling the old man over his shoulders or carry him in his arms.
Pentacle Pawn Boxed Set Page 34