I turn, searching for Detective Wrong's face. Surely she's brought handcuffs to arrest the girls after the service.
James slinks down further on the wooden bench, trying to make himself invisible, but his attempts are having the opposite effect. By the looks on their faces, both of the girls have seen us.
James is now wheezing while crouching on the floor next to me.
“Serves you right,” Julie hisses at him.
One thing's bothering me: when I saw visions of their secrets, I didn't see either of the girls killing an old man. Maybe their fates have shifted in the months since I met them, but I would think something like murder would pop up ahead of things such as snooping in someone else's diary.
Unless, of course, my visions aren't that helpful or useful after all.
* * *
After the service, everyone convenes in a room next door, away from the coffin and Newt's body. I don't know about Julie, but I'm relieved to put some space between me and the corpse. I kept expecting him to sit up and say something to me, like why haven't you solved my murder yet?
James is so distracted by the presence of the girl who punched him, he doesn't even realize he's eating regular meat sandwiches.
I put my hands in my pockets, gleefully awaiting the girls' arrest by Detective Wrong. I visit the buffet spread, but before I finish my egg salad sandwich, the police presence is completely gone. Detective Wrong walked out the door without even questioning a single suspect.
Facepuncher appears in front of me. “Zan!” she says, hugging me as though we're old pals.
“Hey,” says Missy, munching on some tiny dessert squares.
“Missy,” I reply, pointing at her. I have no problem remembering Missy's name, because she has a short nose and yellow curly hair, not unlike famous superstar muppet, Miss Piggy. “And, uh ...” I hold my hand out cautiously to Facepuncher.
“Fionnula,” she says.
“Fionnula,” I repeat, though there's no way that name is sticking. “Hey, can you do me a solid and not punch my friend James? Long story, but it messes up his weird dietary regiment.”
Fionnula-Facepuncher looks hungrily at James, as though her eyes are a hundred hands, pulling off his formal attire. “Funerals make you want to appreciate life while you're alive, don't they?” she says to him.
“Yes.” He nods quickly.
She grabs a handful of grapes off his plate and stuffs them in her mouth. Unlike her sister, Facepuncher has dark hair, probably dyed by the looks of her light roots. Her face is all angles, not unappealing, but attractive in an unconventional way. With the right lighting, she'd photograph well. She's tall, taller than I remember, and the longer I look at her, admiring her angles, I think she could probably be a model.
Beside me, Missy introduces herself to Julie, and I turn and apologize for not doing the job myself, then when I turn back, James and Facepuncher are gone. Just like that, gone.
“Deja vu,” Missy says. “Do funerals make you guys horny too?”
Julie and I nod, then make eye contact and switch to shaking our heads, no.
I stuff two more squares of egg salad sandwich in my mouth.
Julie says to Missy, “I'm so sorry your grandfather passed away. James and I lost one of our grandparents recently and it was a sad time.”
Missy looks right at Julie and asks her, “How exactly did you know my grandfather? Was he paying you for services?”
Julie takes a step back. “GOD NO!” The conversation in the room stops for a moment as everyone turns to stare. “We shopped at the pawn shop a few times,” she says. The white-haired people go back to their conversations.
“I hear some kids found the body,” Missy says. “What kind of sick shit is that? Those poor kids are probably screwed in the head for life. Trauma like that scars you. Makes you a serial killer or something.”
“Do you have an interest in … serial killers?” I ask.
“No more than anyone else,” she says.
Julie says, “Hey, do you want Zan to tell your fortune again?”
I start to give Julie a stern look, but then again, maybe the direct approach isn't the worst idea.
“I'm in college like you suggested,” Missy says. “You don't have to worry about me, I'm on a good path, I swear.”
“What about your sister?” I ask. “Do you think she'd want her fortune told again?”
Missy says, “Your do-good work is done. She stopped honking the car horn all the time, okay?”
“Zan hates that,” Julie says, shaking her head. “Car honking in non-emergency situations. Terrible.”
“Tell me again,” Missy says, her mouth full of cream-colored globs of lemon square. “Why exactly are you here at my grandfather's funeral?”
“Just paying our respects,” I say, backing away. My nerves about being here uninvited swell up in my body, tensing my legs.
Julie's must have the same party's-over feeling because she's already a few steps ahead of me, and we have a walking-race to see who can get out the door sooner.
Outside, we both gasp and laugh, then stop. “It's not funny,” Julie says, shaking her head.
“I know.”
We circle around the funeral home to the Jeep. James has the keys, but the doors are unlocked. We usually leave the doors unlocked so would-be thieves don't damage the soft top trying to get in. Julie and I climb in to wait for James.
“Now what?” Julie asks me. “Do you call that cop lady and see if she'll help you or if you can help her? Did Newt say something bad would happen if you didn't figure out who killed him?”
“He didn't threaten me, no. You saw the note. It was pretty straight-forward.”
“Do you think there'll be a reward?” she asks.
“If there is, I'll share it with you guys.”
“You don't have to, but that's nice of you to offer. I feel good doing this detective stuff, don't you?”
“I guess.”
“It's like charity,” she says. “It feels right. I wish I had some superpowers so I could really kick ass, though.”
“No, you don't.”
“If you put some of your blood on me, would it give me a power?”
“What? Julie, don't be twisted.”
She crosses her arms and looks out the window. “I was just kidding. Whatever.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes. I reach in my pocket again, thumbing the round metal thing, so warm and comforting. What is that, a button? I was touching it earlier, during the service, too. I pull the object out to discover it's a ring, albeit very tiny. The only finger it fits is my baby finger. I look closely at the design—a swirly shape, kind of abstract, possibly a tiny little bee.
This ring was at the crime scene, but it's my ring now. Mine.
I don't want Julie to know, so I put the little gold ring back in my pocket. Touching it makes me feel better. The ring is my secret. They don't have to know all my secrets. My precious. I snicker quietly to myself. My precious, indeed. Something tells me this ring is not the legendary Isildur's Bane, and it doesn't control the armies of the Middle Earth, but it's still precious to me.
Serial killers take souvenirs from their victims, not unlike me, taking one from a crime scene. I should feel guilty about the theft, but I don't. I'll have that memory of Newt's bloodied body in my head forever, so a little ring is the least I should get in exchange.
Julie's breathing changes as she drifts off to sleep. The early November weather is cool but sunny, and the inside of the Jeep is toasty.
I'm watching the side of the building for James when Heidi comes walking out to the parking lot alone. Her dress seemed black when we were inside, but now I see it's dark green. She looks old and frail, standing on the steps by herself.
I jump out of the Jeep and run up to her. “Could I be your apprentice or something?” I ask. “You could help me master my powers. I could pay you, like for lessons.”
“I'd sooner teach you piano,” she says.
&nb
sp; “Do you teach piano?”
“No.”
“How am I supposed to learn about my magic? I tried something with the bees and I almost killed myself.”
“There you go, then. You're learning. You don't need me.”
“Come on, Heidi, you're the only witch I know.”
She quickly looks both ways, then grabs me by the lapels of my suit jacket and whips me in close to her. “Zzzzan,” she hisses. “If you speak my name or that word again, to anyone, I'll have your eyes removed along with your tongue.”
Her cold, white face is close to mine, her eyes piercing me, freezing me with hate. I'm slipping under the water. So cold. I put my hand into my pocket.
Behind me, the wind rises up as though being whipped by a thousand wings.
I slip the ring on my finger, and a heat blazes through me. “Back off!” I yell.
The old woman releases me with force, and I fly backward through the air, landing on the hood of a car. Birds fly overhead, but they do not swoop down or involve themselves.
As I ease myself off the hood of the car, my elbows ache from the impact, but I'm electric with my own power.
“Oh, you want some?” I say.
Heidi's no longer in front of me, but behind me, and she grabs me by the neck and the top of my head. All my imagined fury and power drains away.
“Do the job you've been asked to do,” she says icily. “Find who killed my brother and avenge his death.”
I'm flying through the air again, landing on the hood of a different car, where I leave a sizable dent with my body.
“Avenge?” I sputter, still feeling the cold grip of her hand on my throat. “I was thinking I'd call in an anonymous tip on his granddaughters there. Those weird girls are the ones with something to gain.”
Heidi seems confused, momentarily looking like a regular little old lady who's lost her kitty-cat. “It wasn't them, you idiot,” she says.
“How do you know?”
“I just do.”
“Well, a little help would certainly be appreciated. You could give me a list of suspects rather than terrorizing me and doing property damage with my body.”
She slaps me across the face.
I turn to look for Julie, to figure out why she isn't coming out to help. Julie's still sitting in the Jeep, no longer asleep, but staring straight ahead. Is the music she's listening to so good she doesn't notice I'm being tossed about by a witchcraft-practicing octogenarian?
Heidi slaps me again. “That was for punching me, Zan. You cracked a filling.” She's referring to that time in the summer, when she drugged me and kidnapped me. How dare she slap me for that? The woman totally had it coming. I'd like to punch her again right now, but I'm a gentleman.
I step away from her as some people leaving the funeral home enter the parking lot.
“REAL nice seeing you again,” I say to Heidi angrily. The other white-haired people give me dirty looks for my angry tone—understandably, since we were all just at a funeral. I bow my head contritely. “I'm sorry about your brother, Ma'am,” I say for their benefit before turning on my heel and walking away.
Inside the Jeep, I say to Julie, “Why no help? Why didn't you come out and give her a swoopy ballet kick or something? If you're strong enough to give piggyback rides to James, feel free to help out any time, you know.”
She blinks. “You looked like you were having a lovely time.”
“Oh, I TOTALLY WAS Julie. I was totally enjoying getting my ass beat.”
She tsk-tsks me. “You were eating cucumber sandwiches. Don't tell me you weren't have a lovely time.”
I think for an instant about having a bee sting Julie to snap her out of her delusion, but quickly flick the thought away before anything that bad happens. I sink down in the back seat.
“Did that nice Heidi lady have any more information?” Julie asks.
“She's a bully.” I rub my sore elbows. My whole back aches, but I bet I'll feel worse tomorrow.
“Oh, Zan, don't overreact.”
I sternly tell myself, DON'T think about bees stinging Julie.
“Let's hotwire the Jeep and leave James here,” Julie says, but she pulls out her phone and calls him instead.
Something moving catches my eye and we both glance up to see James, running at full speed away from the funeral home. Julie reaches over to pop the door open for him. Puffing, he jumps in, starts the engine, and squeals the tires of the Jeep speeding out of the parking lot.
“What happened in there?” I demand.
He blows through a red light.
“Now what have you done?” Julie demands. “You better not have punched her in the face. That is so not cool, whatsoever.”
James starts to laugh. “Nothing, I didn't do anything. You guys looked kinda down, sitting in here like slugs, so I wanted to give you a thrill.”
We both punch him on the arm.
“Hey, go easy,” he cries. “I was doing some serious James Bond work in there. Some Sherlocking. On your behalf.”
“Is that what you're calling it?” Julie asks.
“The sisters weren't even in town last week,” James says. “They were in Arizona. They only got here today for the funeral.”
I punch the back of Julie's seat in frustration. There go my prime suspects.
“On top of that, there was no inheritance to be had,” James says. “The guy had about nine grand in the bank, and he owed fifty on the business. I'm no estate lawyer, but nine minus fifty does not equal bang bang bang in the chest.”
“You did good work,” I admit to James. “But you shouldn't have given us that scare. Don't be the boy who cried wolf.”
“But it's fun.”
“Promise you'll never do it again,” I say. Inside my pocket, I slip the ring on my finger. A power that's not unfamiliar flows through me, like white-hot rage, but sharp, focused.
“Screw you, nozzle,” he says.
I cough, once, and James yowls. “What did you do? Was that a Zan-bee?” He rubs his arm.
Julie turns, her mouth open in awe. “Did you do magic? You made a Zan-bee?”
“Your window's down, it must have flown in,” I say. “Serves you right, boy-who-cried-wolf.”
James rubs his arm. “That actually hurt.”
My hand jerks up, seemingly of its own free will, pointing to something. My eyes follow, finding something extremely interesting on the street we're driving down. “Stop the CAR!” I yell.
James slams on the brakes. “It's not a CAR it's a JEEP.”
I open the door and jump out, despite the fact that we're in the midst of traffic, and I bound across the street, holding a hand up for people to stop their cars for me.
We're about ten blocks from Chesapeake Avenue, in a part of town I've been to many times because of the dollar-slice pizza place. I can't believe I've never seen this interesting store before. Of all the times we've driven up and down this street, I never noticed.
I look up in awe at the faded awning.
Spiritdell Books. Specializing in Out-of-Print and the Occult.
This is exactly where I need to be. I slip the ring off and into my pocket before reaching for the door.
Chapter Eleven
When I step inside the book store, a white cat stretches on its folded red blanket, pointing all of its toes to me and presenting a tempting white belly. A computer-printed sign next to the cat reads: I BITE. Consider yourself warned.
The cat tilts its head upside-down, beckoning me to take a chance, but I pass by. Normally, I'd take my chances to pet a kitty, but today I am on a mission. Several people are browsing the shelves and swaying to the music of flutes, ocean waves, and whale calls. All of the other customers, men and women, have long hair and long skirts—or flowing pants—it's hard to tell.
A person with a light mustache and gold, tinkling earrings asks if she can help me. I think she's a woman. Yes, her name tag says Greetings, fellow sentient being. My name is Moira.
“I don't
need any help. Just direct me to your occult books,” I say.
She bows down, takes my hand, and rests it on the nearest book. “The books don't believe in any sort of order. We don't impose our human ideas of rigid containment in here. Let your spirit be your guide.”
My mouth opens as I gawk around at my surroundings. The walls must be twelve feet high, and they're covered in books. I count three rolling library ladders from where I stand.
“Maybe I do need some help,” I say.
She bows down again and takes my other hand, this time holding it to her cheek, which is a little furry for my liking. There's a mole with a wiry black hair. I will myself not to shudder.
Her eyes roll up, showing only whites, and she makes a noise, “Loo-loo-loo-loo-loo.”
“Perhaps I'll browse on my own for a bit,” I say, pulling away.
“I've got it!” she says.
Something scratches at my leg—the white cat, now systematically climbing me as though I'm a carpeted kitty-cat jungle gym. I don't want to be rude, so I hold very still and let him or her climb. The cat stops at my hip and transitions to the table piled with books next to me, and from its perch, the white cat reaches a paw into my suit pocket. I whip my hand in along with the paw and quickly palm the ring.
The cat's sharp claws pull something out, and fluffy bits of deceased bee body scatter to the ground. The cat jumps to the floor, pouncing on the bits of bee and gobbling them down.
Moira says, “You want something on ...” She points to the cat on the ground, then to me, then to the stacks of books. “Love potions.”
“I'll look around on my own for a bit.”
She puts her hands over her chest and tells me to follow my heart.
“Organization by general subject might be a good long-term plan,” I say, which garners me some dirty looks and one shush from the other long-haired shoppers.
I head for the back corner, figuring they must keep the weird occult stuff back there, and probably up high, where younger kids can't grab them. The ladder squeaks as I roll it over and climb up.
The air is hot and stale up here on the topmost shelves, with that musky paper smell that only exists in used book stores. I find some 1970s-era sex manuals and other art books with naked people, including one with women wearing animal masks. The lady in the raccoon mask is not unappealing. I make a mental note of the location of these books, for future reference.
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