by Susan Laine
As I walked out the door, the hairs on my nape stood up. I glanced over my shoulder, and I saw a figure standing by a window, the curtain pulled aside. Even though the curtain quickly fell back in place and clouded my view, I had already recognized the impressive form of Luther Lovell.
Journal Entry 12, the Chance Case: Back at the Manor
I RETURNED to Mo’s mansion since it was close, and I had business there.
I stayed parked in the driveway for a moment and did some googling. I had a hunch about what was going on, but I wasn’t sure. There were inconsistencies between what people were saying to me and who they were. Incongruities always annoyed me, and I had to learn more while the thoughts in my head were fresh. And after mere minutes of web and Wikipedia searches, I do believe I hit the jackpot.
Parkinson let me into the manor, and he even offered me a hint of a smile. We may not have been or ever would be friends, but we shared a sort of kinship. We both worked for higher powers, so to speak: I for the police, back in the day, and for influential clients these days, and he for a child genius for a particularly long stretch of time. We were servants, and yet privy to the best life had to offer. There was reward in service itself, it was true.
“Good morning, Mr. Garrett. How may I help you?”
“Is Cecil around?”
“Mr. Chance is in his study. Please, follow me.”
Parkinson led me down a familiar hallway to Cecil’s study. I knocked, and once asked to enter, I did.
Cecil sat behind his desk full of stacks of papers and ledgers. His brow was furrowed in deep concentration as he used his calculator to check numbers. “You can put it down on the desk, Parkinson.”
“I’m afraid I don’t come with servings of tea.”
Startled, Cecil all but jumped in his chair, staring at me wide-eyed. “Mr. Garrett. God, you scared me. I didn’t realize we were supposed to meet today.”
“I apologize for disturbing you in the middle of your work, Mr. Chance, but I have a few follow-up questions. And the sooner we’re done….”
Cecil didn’t even bother to hide his displeased look. Sighing, he shoved his work aside and asked with feigned politeness, “What is it you wish to know?”
I sat down in the chair opposite him. “Why did your business arrangement with Luther Lovell end?”
If Cecil had been chagrined before, he was downright vexed now. “And why is that any of your business? That working relationship ended long before Mo’s death, so I do not see how the two topics could be related.”
Cecil’s snobbery was beginning to irk me, but rich folk often thought they were better than everyone else, especially those who had come into money through their families, so I didn’t let it show. “Whether they are or aren’t remains to be seen. Though I’m not obligated to go to the police if I learn of any criminal activities while on the job, it is not a breach of PI-client privilege to do so, especially since you are not my client.”
Cecil’s face paled, and he gritted his teeth. I could hear the gears of his brain working from a distance, and I waited for him to reach the inevitable conclusion that he had to speak to me. And predictably, I prevailed. “We had a monetary disagreement. It had nothing to do with Mo.” He lifted his chin in defiance, expecting me to attack him verbally. I waited, while he steamed. “To be frank, I took some of Mr. Lovell’s money, purely to invest, you understand. The investments didn’t pan out, and I was left with a shortage I couldn’t repay.”
“You’re an accountant, not an investment banker.”
He harrumphed loudly, scornful. “One has to be multitalented these days. However, and I mean to emphasize this point, I did not embezzle from Mr. Lovell’s business.”
It was possible there was a simple misunderstanding here, but I had other notions in mind. “You’re telling me this was nothing more than a potato, potahto enunciation mistake?”
“Yes.” Cecil seemed relieved I had understood, and he leaned back in his chair, at ease again. Well, I was going to shake that tree of calm for all it was worth.
“That’s your version of events. Now let me tell you another. You did, in fact, embezzle money from Mr. Lovell’s business accounts for whatever reason, investing or no. He caught you. When he threatened to go to the police, you blackmailed him into silence.”
From the tiny breathless gasp Cecil uttered, and the way his eyes widened with fear, I knew my hunch had been dead on. “B-but…. D-did he tell…? I-I didn’t…,” he sputtered, and for a moment I thought he was going to have a full-fledged panic attack. White-collar criminals weren’t always good with confrontation. Then he seemed to collect himself, just a little bit. “Just what did I have over Lovell, in your opinion?” His voice quivered and nearly cracked as he spoke, trying to reassert self-confidence into his words.
“When I met Lovell earlier, he told me about the disagreement you’d had. The story he gave me about forgive and forget didn’t ring true to me, no matter how serene he seemed. That tiny discrepancy between his character and his statement led me to the truth. I imagine you, as a smart man, did the same.” Cecil swallowed hard but kept his lips tightly sealed to prevent any spillage of information, so I continued. “You found out Lovell is a mythical being.”
The way Cecil was panting now told me I was right. Out in the alley, Lovell had made a mistake, a minor slip of the tongue that had led me toward the truth. He’d spoken of a quality of humanity from the point of view of an outsider, and he surely hadn’t intended to say that amid his frustrations at the time.
“I… I….” Cecil’s shoulders slumped. “Yes, I admit it. It’s true. Lovell’s not human.”
“What is he?” From my web searches I had an inkling, but Cecil was in a position to confirm it for me.
“His true name is Kōjin. He’s an ancient Japanese deity, a kami of fire, and hearth and home are his specialties. He might seem like a kitten, but he’s a tiger on the prowl, dangerous, with a hot temper. And yes, I know how silly that sounds, but it’s true.”
A kami of fire? That explained not only the flickering candles at Lovell’s workplace, but his character and his quest for order, calm, and serenity. If his powers of fire were as destructive as Cecil implied, his need for control would be paramount. That accounted for the meditation and Zen practices the man engaged in. And, not coincidentally, this had also been my hypothesis.
“Why the secrecy? A lot of mythical beings are out to the world since the Veil lifted.”
Cecil shrugged, exasperated. “How would I know? Ask him yourself. I honestly don’t know why. But he seemed very keen to keep his true nature a secret. And since I repaid the money I emb—um, borrowed, we came to an agreement of mutual confidentiality. He and I have no more dealings, business or otherwise, and to be honest, given who he is, I prefer it that way.”
From all I had seen of Cecil, he wasn’t a man of confrontation in the slightest. What he said made sense to me, given his character. The audacity with which he had dared to extort silence from a god must have been a fluke, driven by pure self-preservation after his embezzlement came to light.
In any case, my dream last night started to feel all too real now. Recalling the image of the giant by the hearth giving me sake, his hair aflame, I had to conclude angelic-Mo had been right when he said I had all I needed.
Well, in a dream anyway. In reality, I still had a ways to go.
“You mentioned before that Mo conducted scientific experiments of all kinds here in the mansion.” Cecil, if perplexed by my change of subject, merely nodded. “He had a lab here?”
“Mo had three laboratories in the building. One on the roof, an astronomical lab. Then a chemical lab near his playroom, and a third, geological, one in the basement, although he mixed these two a lot. Oh, and he had a fourth, outside in the garden, a botanical lab.”
“May I see them?”
Obviously relieved I was dropping the matter of his misappropriating funds, Cecil rushed to say eagerly, “Yes, yes, of course. Parkinson
will help you find the right rooms. I’m afraid I have to get back to work, and….” His voice faded, and he looked uncertain, even uncomfortable. “I don’t much like going into Mo’s rooms. They are just too….” He swallowed and bowed his head, obscuring his features.
I left him alone with his glum thoughts.
I found Parkinson dusting in one of the many sitting rooms on the ground floor. This one had a grand piano and several bookcases. “How may I be of assistance, Mr. Garrett?”
“I’d like to see Mo’s chemical lab.”
Parkinson’s schooled face betrayed no emotions or surprise at my request. Quietly, he led me upstairs, past Mo’s so-called playroom, and down the hallway until we came to a green door. There, Parkinson left me with an almost imperceptible nod.
I entered through a white airlock and then walked alone into a wet laboratory any science university would have been proud of. Pipes of all sizes ran about the room, and I could see the ventilation system was separate from that of the rest of the house. Stainless steel countertops dominated the large environment, and cabinets were situated between, above, and beneath them in varying sizes. Computer terminals and posters of periodic tables were accompanied by laboratory equipment like Bunsen burners, microscopes, test tubes, and various apparatuses for casting and refining metals. Safety equipment of all kinds, from simple hand wash to counteragents for poisons, littered the walls. I did notice they were all locked and secured. Nothing was out of place.
This was clearly a place of mixed scientific experiments, and yet every precaution had been taken. Mo was a professional, and he’d had an eye for detail, to be sure.
I looked around carefully but without touching anything. I found stacks of chemistry, metallurgy, and biology volumes scattered throughout the space.
I also spotted notebooks filled with neat, tiny handwriting. They were Mo’s. He outlined his projects to the tee, depicted every step he had made with detail and precision, and his conclusions were well drawn out. And on the final page of each notebook was a simple line: “I was right” or “I was wrong.” With every test proved right—and most of them were—Mo had added a smiley face, and if he was wrong, a sad face.
The picture of Mo I got from it all was someone who knew himself well and could make light of himself if needed. That didn’t seem like the personality of someone likely to commit suicide. These were the words of a survivor.
Now more than ever I wished I had met Mo when he was still alive. Having to follow in the footsteps of a ghost was daunting at best.
I did, however, witness firsthand his fascination with tea. Whole workbenches were dedicated to tea, and their scents mingled wonderfully, creating a cloud of aromas that tickled my nose. He had boxes and cans of tea, a variety of flavors from all over the world, all neatly organized and catalogued. Next to these sample pouches were mortars and pestles, microscopes and test tubes, and other lab equipment. So, Mo made his own teas. That wasn’t news to me, but I sort of wished he had coined his own tea brand, just so I could feel a connection with him since I could no longer do that for real on account of his death.
I moved on, with a smile on my face.
Then I came across another notebook stashed in a workstation where several boxes of geological samples, from stones and what looked like gems to sand and other ground particles, were placed. I read through the notebook carefully since this was what I had been looking for.
At the end, I sighed when my hypothesis was confirmed.
Mo had been refining cadmium. The silvery blue-gray metal silently mocked me from the box where a tiny piece of it lay, clearly labeled.
I looked around with a cautious eye. This was the laboratory of a scientist who would not have made the mistake of accidentally inhaling something toxic or poisonous—not with the level of precautions he had undertaken to convert this space into a laboratory. The only two possibilities were that either someone had poisoned him with cadmium vapors, or Mo himself had purposely inhaled the noxious fumes.
What did it all mean? I had several possible suspects and motives but no proof.
The only evidence of foul play I had at this point belonged to other unrelated crimes or to Mo’s apparent suicide.
And I refused to believe it was suicide. Mo had challenged me with his letter, insisting he would not have killed himself.
Was I clinging to a false hope of finding something criminal in a place where there was only tragedy, loss, and heartache from a boy haunted by the past? Were his nightmares just that, bad dreams with monsters taking the lives of those he had loved?
I rubbed my forehead, which felt a little hot and sweaty, wondering if I was coming down with something. I could hear the ventilation hissing and the computers humming low. If there was a spill here…. I checked around but there was nothing. The lab was immaculate.
I took the notebook, vowing to myself to return it in proper course.
It was time to revisit a fire god and a lovely lady.
Journal Entry 13, the Chance Case: Drinks with the Divine
AFTER a quick sandwich on the road for a late lunch, I returned to Sea Cliff and to Giulia Capello’s luxurious garden palace as the afternoon sun moved slowly across the sky.
Was I surprised to find Luther Lovell in the courtyard with Giulia as I was shown in by Eryt, the redheaded maiden? What do you think?
“Mr. Garrett,” Lovell said calmly in his deep voice as he stood up to shake my hand.
Giulia didn’t shake my hand, but lay there in her lounge chair at leisure, twirling her fingers around the stem of a cocktail glass. “Mr. Garrett.” Her voice was not welcoming, and she averted her gaze, as if bored or dismayed.
I sat down opposite the two of them. “This may or may not be relevant to Mo’s death, but I thought it best to clear the air between us. Do I think or know either of you killed Mo? No, I do not. However, you have not been forthright with me.”
“I have not lied to you, Mr. Garrett,” Lovell said, cool as a cucumber.
“Omissions of truth could be construed as lies,” I countered, and he nodded his head in acceptance of my interpretation. “Mr. Lovell, you being Kōjin makes little difference to me, unless you murdered Mo. Did you?”
“No, Mr. Garrett. I did not kill Mo. He was like a son to me.” I noticed Lovell didn’t deny being a Japanese fire god, which was a positive development in my book.
“And Mo was like a son to you as well, Ms. Capello.” She looked at me then, and I saw sorrow in her eyes. “The mythical being you had a relationship with was Mr. Lovell here, isn’t that so?”
Giulia nodded, slightly prickly still. “Yes, it was.” She had told me she would never disclose the identity of her mythical lover, but I was glad she did nonetheless.
“I wish to tell you two about a dream I had last night.” Lovell and Giulia exchanged weird glances before turning their full attentions back on me. “I dreamt of a giant with fiery hair and three faces forging a cloak of night to give to Mo’s mother.”
No sooner had my words rung out when I saw both members of my audience rear back in shock. They looked at each other, conveying with gazes and expressions what words lacked. I let them carry on in their silent communion while the gears in my head turned, faster and faster.
Finally, Lovell turned back to me, frowning, and licked his lips, concerned. “And what meaning did you take from your dream?”
“The mere fact you take me so seriously is revealing,” I said, feeling more like myself than ever before. It was indeed a strange experience to be so in tune with one’s own subconscious, to give rationality a voice amid images that should not have made any sense, since they were only synapses firing randomly. Or were they?
“You mean to keep us in suspense much longer?” Giulia asked, her tone reserved.
“I know you’re not Mo’s mother, Ms. Capello. That would be ridiculous. You’re not old enough for that. And I know you didn’t sleep with Haydn.” I had my doubts about all that had gone down with the family, but the
time to hash them out wasn’t now. “Myths have been obscured by time. If there was ever any truth in them to begin with, what is real today in a post-Veiled world doesn’t really compare.” I looked straight into Giulia’s eyes. “You and Kōjin having an affair is one thing. The fact that you both are mythical beings is another.”
Giulia’s eyes flashed midnight blue, intently, but she said nothing, her lips a thin white line.
I turned to Lovell, who was watching me with rapt attention, waiting silently. “When I figured out that what happened between you and Cecil was embezzlement versus a secret kept, I started thinking about your character, Mr. Lovell. Your Japanese style, your meditation practices, the candle flames flickering. I did some googling, and combined with my dream, I knew who you were even before Cecil confirmed it for me.”
Lovell bowed his head slightly, a small serene smile gracing his lips. “It seems you have us pegged, Mr. Garrett.”
“As a fire god, a kami, you have a great deal of power. When I thought about that, and what Cecil did, I was forced to reach the conclusion that you were shielding someone else, someone who wasn’t out to the world as a mythical being. And when Ms. Capello here confirmed the rumor she had indeed had an affair with a mythical being, well, it wasn’t hard connecting the dots.” I gave him a smile of my own in return. “It was brave of you to let Cecil blackmail you into silence. It must not have been easy to bury all those instincts to purge his impurities with fire.”
“Violence begets violence, Mr. Garrett,” Lovell replied peacefully. “It is not my way. Never was. I am fire controlled, for a productive purpose, for home and hearth. Never to destroy.”
“Yes, I know. I’m glad to hear that.” I faced Giulia, whose expression had not softened to me in the slightest. “Your fascination with all things Japanese gave away who your lover is. But it was the dream and this lush garden palace, the golden apple tree of Bliss, and all the young ladies here—the Hesperides, if I’m not mistaken—that told me who you are.”