So, that happened.
I threw a guy way bigger than me up into a tree.
* * *
When I get back home, I pull out my digital camera and take a photo of myself. I would have thought my nose or my eye would be swollen from taking the hits from Shad, but my face is smooth and free of evidence of fighting. My nose doesn't even feel sore now.
I pull the new digital image up on my computer screen and compare it to some pictures from a month ago. My face does look changed, but it's odd.
My face is not wider, or longer, or different in shape, but it does seem bigger, as though it has more volume. I look down at my clothes. My jeans and shirts do seem tighter, and my shoes were uncomfortable today.
I don't look any different in the photos, but I'm bigger, just a little bit bigger, in every direction. I wouldn't see that in any of my photos, because I'm not too careful about measuring my distance from the camera, choosing instead to resize the images on-screen.
This size change could be something magical, or it could just be a growth spurt. I should check my height and weight and write them down for future reference. Why wasn't I doing that along with taking the photos? Seems like that information would be handy right about now.
Well, I'll worry about that later. After I solve this case.
I have a quick peek at my other recent photos. I've got hundreds of shots from the Halloween party. Man, it was just over a week ago, but it feels like forever. The best photo is the one of Raye-Anne in her coconut-bra top posing with her arm around Julie. Julie's dark hair is so cute in little swirly kiss curls pressed to her forehead and cheeks. In the background is a disgusting zombie, James pretending to sneak up on them from behind.
Taken the same evening, the photos of the sculpture made out of appliances are incredible. Even with the low light, I got some good shots, even including Mr. Crow on the shoulder. What a jerk that crow is. If I see him again, I will punch him in the beak.
These pictures aren't helping me with the task at hand, and I'm down to one day to solve Newt's murder, before the dire consequences take effect.
As much as I wish that vague threat didn't mean anything to me, I feel a shiver and get goosebumps when I think about those words.
Okay, Newt and Heidi, I'll try my best.
I shut down my own photos and open the case files again, paying close attention to the gun found at the crime scene. It was indeed a Glock—thanks, video games, for the gun knowledge!—but the police found no fingerprints on the gun. Crystal was wearing gloves with her Cinderella costume, which was probably a lucky break for her, and because she incinerated the costume, there'd be no gunshot residue. Unless an eyewitness comes forward, I think Crystal's safe from prosecution. Then again, Rosemary did take some photos of Crystal with her phone. Damn.
I close my eyes and pull up the memory I got from Rosemary. There's Crystal, looking cute in the Cinderella wig, with a shiny gold ring on her hand, over top of the glove. My ring. Am I making up that detail, or did I see it in Rosemary's vision?
At school, Ms. Mikado is always talking about memory playing tricks on us. No story, no first-person account, and no diary entry represents the truth, because it's always filtered through a human mind. The images become more watery with time. For happy people, time is kind and erases the pain, but for those who suffer, their pain is compounded by clear memories of the things they least need be reminded of.
My phone buzzes with an incoming text: Austin, confirming she'll meet me at the wedding tomorrow. At least that's some good news in my otherwise crappy day. I wish she would have phoned me, so I could hear her voice, but at least I'll see her tomorrow. Weddings are romantic settings, so she'll have to forgive me.
My real dilemma is how to bring up the topic of what I saw in my brief vision of her. While I'm relieved she was not the person who shot Newt, I saw her holding a gun. Two things: if she's about to do something criminal I need to stop her, and if she's simply joining some sort of gun club to do target practice, there's no way I'm not getting in on that.
I close the gun file on my screen and pull up some other documents and photos.
Two hours of staring at the case files later, my enthusiasm for investigative work is flagging.
The house is quiet, and Gran's still at the rehearsal dinner. I haven't heard any white cats or other creatures stalking up on me, but that doesn't prevent me from getting up and making another quick check through the house.
I return to my desk and slap my cheeks to stay alert.
On my left-hand computer monitor, my icon tray flashes with incoming emails from James and Julie. They're inside the movie theater right now, and say the movie's really boring. I know they're completely separate people, but often they will both send me identical text messages at the same time. At first I thought they did it to mess with my head, but they've always denied cooperation, so who knows.
At least they've sent the photos I requested.
I put the pictures side-by-side and compare the construction site where the herbalist was formerly located and the renovation at the murder scene, the former pawn shop. I see a pattern, a connection: two logos in orange and green.
I click the magnifying glass icon, saying, “Enhance, enhance,” out loud to myself, as I often do.
Upon closer examination, the two logos are not the same, after all. So the construction contractors are different, and there goes that theory.
Detective Wrong doesn't have any notes in her files about the Chinatown site at all, because she wouldn't be considering it as part of the big picture. I'm only comparing them because they're both linked in my mind, because of their involvement with magic. To be fair, I should have the book store on here too.
I wonder how Moira's doing. I should bring her in some brownies or something, as thanks for helping me.
Back to the case, Zan, think!
In the photo of the Chinatown project, there's a pink blob at the side. I zoom in. The picture is pixelated at this resolution, so I enlarge the image and run an enhance filter. The enhance filter mainly finds edges and increases contrast. Unlike what you see on the crime shows, filters are not great at revealing information that isn't there, though they can give your image a boost.
I'm definitely looking at a nostril shape. Yes, this pink blob is a nose, probably the guy I spoke to about the herbalist. What did he say? Something about a death in the family.
A death.
I pull up the other really big file Detective Wrong sent and look for the other homicide that happened earlier this year.
According to the report, a pair of backpackers from out of town had an argument at the home they were staying, and one stabbed the other to death. That information is not triggering anything in my brain.
Except the age is wrong.
The taxi driver who drove me to Rudy's place last week said something about seniors being killed. The backpacker in the story was in his 20s.
Was another senior killed in Spiritdell recently?
No, there have only been two homicides this year.
I check other deaths and find a suicide that looks suspicious. A woman named Ming Lee took the bad kind of nose dive off Hotel Doccione. She had no history of depression, but the case was closed and marked as suicide. Her occupation is listed as housekeeper, and I don't see any connection to the herbalist location, except her being Chinese-American. I google her, but the name is so common I get a million search results. I send Detective Wrong an email requesting a photo of Ming Lee and asking if she thinks the suicide is suspicious.
This whole thing is so confusing, but if I keep looking, I might see something. Still mulling over the suicide, I go back to the two construction photographs. There are birds visible in both, but when I zoom in, they're only sparrows, not crows.
Next, I pull up the photographs from the murder scene again. Something is bugging me. What? What is it? I close my eyes and make my mind go blank, then I open them, trying to keep my mind open and still.
The back room of the pawn shop is very neatly organized.
That's it? That's my big insight? And that's unusual because ...
My ring.
The ring I found on the ground wasn't just some random thing lying out with a jumble of mess. These crime scene photos show the back of the pawn shop was Martha-Stewart-level organized, with things like bolts and screws separated into their own glass jars, arranged neatly on shelves.
Of course I didn't notice at the time, because I was staring at a dead body while trying to keep Julie calm. This means my ring wasn't there by accident, but is a key part of the investigation. Evidence. Could someone have made Crystal shoot Newt to get the ring? Then why would they leave it behind? Besides, if my memory of Rosemary's vision is accurate, Crystal had the ring on when she went in there.
My ring.
My ring must have been on Crystal's hand. After the bee stung her, when she was wiping at her hands in the vision I saw of her, she must have knocked the ring off. Was it simply part of her costume, the engagement ring from a make-believe Prince Charming, or is the ring part of everything?
I don't want to turn it in as evidence. What good would my ring do sitting in an evidence box?
I pull up the condo development photo again, from Chinatown. The slogan reads C-Town will restore your vim.
Who says vim? Rudy. The guy my grandmother is marrying tomorrow.
I hear keys in the front door, and I quickly close down everything on my computer. Rudy and Gran enter the house, laughing about some corny jokes from their rehearsal dinner.
Standing at my door, I listen as Gran tells Rudy to head on back to his house, as it'll be bad luck for him to see any more of her before the wedding. The front door closes, and I hear Rudy's footfalls on the front steps.
I charge out of my room, past Gran, muttering something about talking to Rudy about guy stuff, and I catch up with him before he gets to his car.
“What can I do for you, son?” he asks, his gaze on my pinkie finger, on the ring I forgot to take off.
Chapter Twenty
Rudy twirls his car keys around his finger and asks me again what I'd like from him.
“It's silly,” I say, losing my nerve.
“Girl problems?”
“Always, but this is about something else.” I look around the dark neighborhood, desperately wishing I'd thought this out a little more. I could have phoned him at his house. Maybe I'll go back inside and do just that. “Never mind.”
He puts his hands on my shoulders, looking me straight in the eyes. “I want you to know, I'm prepared to take good care of you and your grandmother. Very good care. Not just a cruise once a year, but much better.”
“That's cool. How's the real estate going? Selling a lot of houses?”
He grins. “Yes, and I have a few little business deals that are ongoing. Nothing flashy of course. Most folks don't realize this, but the money is where you least expect it, in simple things like a low-key family restaurant, or a laundromat, things like that.”
“Or condo developments? Do you know anything about a new building going up in Chinatown?”
“C-town? I'll be doing the presales for them. Good guys. I've done a few deals with the developers.”
“Are they also involved in a project on Chesapeake Avenue? A renovation on a building for some chain place, Williams-Sonoma?”
“Why the sudden interest in my business deals?”
“Your deals?”
He stretches his arms over his head and yawns, then rubs his stomach and tucks his pearl-buttoned shirt back in over his big belt buckle. This movement is similar to what cats do when they're pretending to be sleepy but ready to attack. If I moved suddenly toward Rudy, I have a feeling he'd punch me, so I stand very still and wait for his response.
After another fake-looking yawn, he says, “Things are going well with my little investment property on Chesapeake. You should have seen the lease on that place made by the former owners—the pawn shop fellow must have signed a deal with the devil himself to get such terms. Because the rent was so far under market value, the property was nearly worthless and I picked it up for a song. I'm sorry to say the poor fellow's bad fortune then became our good fortune, when he passed away. I thought I'd have to wait another twenty years for him to go of natural causes, but we got lucky.”
“You own that building? The pawn shop?”
Rudy squeezes me on the shoulder, making my guts recoil inside me. “It's not a pawn shop, it's a high-end building. And I don't own it. We own that building. My good fortune is all yours someday.”
“Wow, uh, cool.” While I struggle to remain cool on the surface, a tide of dread is pulling up within me. I've found a connection, and I didn't have to look far after all.
“Once the pre-sales for this little C-town deal come in, I'll fly us all somewhere tropical. What do you think? Maui?”
“Sure. Yes. I mean, this is a lot to digest.” I back away slowly. “And tomorrow's the big day. I should let you get your rest.”
“That's an unusual ring you have on,” he says. “Can I see it?”
I'm half-way to the front door. “Got a lot of homework to do,” I call out as I stumble up the first step.
He turns his hands into the shape of guns and goes, “Pow, pow. Catch you on the flip side, kiddo.”
I open the door, get inside the house, and lock the door behind me. Gran's already down the hall, getting ready for bed.
My heart's pounding. Rudy. Stupid cowboy-clothes-wearing Rudy.
I tap on the bathroom door and ask through it, “Hey, is Rudy in some sort of bridge club?”
Gran opens the door, still brushing her teeth. “Uh-huh,” she says, meaning yes.
“He's definitely in a bridge club?”
She spits in the sink and examines her teeth in the mirror. “Yes, Zan, why? Are you suddenly interested in bridge? I hear it's good for keeping the mind sharp.”
I swallow hard. “Never mind.”
She pulls out some dental floss and watches me through the mirror. “You still sick?”
“Just tired. I need some sleep.”
I return to my room and lie on my bed with the lights off but my clothes on. After a moment, I get up and look for a place to hide my ring. The sock drawer is clearly the most obvious choice, so I can't hide it there.
Calm down and think, I tell myself, taking a seat at my desk and turning my monitor back on. There's a new email from Detective Wrong, with an attachment.
She's written: FYI, Ming Lee was also known as Susan.
I scroll down to view the photo. Susan. I'm looking at the face of the woman I met one time, at the herbalist place, when she sold me the tea I used for astral projection. I later found out my encounter with her had been no accident, but an elaborate setup by Heidi and Newt.
I'd love to ask Susan about her involvement in Newt's death and Rudy's business deals, but she's dead, and the dead don't speak.
The dead don't speak, books don't walk away on their own, and I need to hide this ring.
I roll my desk chair underneath my ceiling light, climb up carefully, and tuck the ring up inside the glass of the fixture.
Gran's finished in the bathroom, and calls out that it's my turn, but I crawl into bed and pull the covers over myself. Teeth-brushing can skip a night.
Rudy. What else do I know about him?
The juice. Rudy could have been drugging me with that delicious citrus juice. Is that what's been making me stronger? I'm still strong and I'm not drinking it any more.
The juice days did coincide with the times my power wasn't working, and now that the juice is gone, everything seems normal again—as normal as things ever are for me.
Does this mean Rudy's a witch? Or a warlock or whatever they are? He was out of town with Gran the day Newt was murdered, but that doesn't mean he wasn't involved. In fact, being conveniently out of town with a great alibi makes me more sure of his involvement.
What about Newt? He was n
ot a very nice man. He did try to kill me, despite what Heidi says about him not meaning to actually chop me in two with a battle ax. Sure, Heidi, your weird brother was just playing around. I saw the lack of humanity in his eyes that night in the basement. I can't say the world's not a better place without Newt.
So, if Newt was bad, and Heidi tricked me into doing her job for her, in addition to beating the stuffing out of me in the parking lot behind the funeral home, I may have picked the wrong team.
If my pal Rudy is somehow involved with a group of powerful witches, it might be safer for to align myself with him. He may have come by some of his wealth by less-than-admirable means, but I've studied history as well as current events, and since when is capitalism ever pretty?
Detective Wrong will be disappointed if I tell her I've had no insight at all.
I double-check that my window's locked tight and the curtains are drawn all the way, then pull the covers up to my nose. Above me, the scattered stick-on stars on my ceiling glow faintly.
As a kid, you sit in school all day so they can teach you things, and you figure you'll get all the answers, in time. Yet so much in this world is unknowable. We can see the stars, but we'll never touch them. Our teachers barely know more than we do.
The Bridge.
What's that expression?
If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.
Chapter Twenty-One
Today is my grandmother's wedding day, and the sky is holding back, gray and churning. Here in the Hotel Doccione's atrium, the bleak view through the glass ceiling matches my mood, but not that of the family and guests gathered here to celebrate.
I'm sitting in the front row, on one of those metal and vinyl stacking chairs that has the wrong angle of backrest. Who do they make these chairs to fit? I suppose they're optimized for manufacturing and stacking, not for the comfort of actual humans.
Grumbling to myself about the chairs brings me some relief compared to my anxiety about everything that's about to happen.
First, we'll have the wedding ceremony. Then some tables will be brought in for the reception. Chicken Kiev is on the menu for dinner, along with some vegetarian options, but I don't know if we'll get to dinner. Things are about to diverge wildly from Gran and Rudy's carefully-laid plans.
Witches and Ghosts Supernatural Mysteries Page 144