Any lingering doubts that she might have chosen the wrong flat were dispelled once she stepped inside. It was deserted. There was no furniture, and the pungent smell of fresh paint and new carpet almost, but not quite, masked a different, unpleasant smell. Maggie could guess what that was, recalling the news story that it had taken several days for the body to be found.
A part of her was glad for the clean up job. She wasn’t particularly interested in exploring a gory death scene. On the other hand, she was disheartened somewhat because she knew her chances of discovering something useful had been greatly diminished by the landlord’s attempts to scrub the space clean of the tragedy that had occurred there.
She extracted a flashlight from her backpack and swept its beam across the flat. The news report said Sarah had hanged herself over a closet door. There was a front hall closet, but she decided to check the bedroom. There was something eerily intimate about taking one’s own life. It seemed like the sort of thing one would do in private—more bedroom than foyer. It was just a feeling, but she had learned to trust her feelings.
She pointed the flashlight downward and walked silently across the new carpet to the larger of two bedrooms. It was Sarah’s bedroom. Maggie just knew it somehow. She’d never been there, but she knew it. There was a feeling in the room. Almost a presence. And for the first time it occurred to her that, although it was unlikely that Sarah’s ghost had sent her the email, it was not at all unlikely that Sarah’s ghost was still around, and specifically, still in the very apartment where Maggie found herself.
A chill ran up her spine. She wondered whether it was just the thought of the ghost or maybe the ghost itself. She’d heard that people who reported seeing ghosts often described a sudden drop in temperature or a cool spot in the room.
Maggie stood up straight and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath. Calm down, Devereaux, she told herself. Don’t freak yourself out.
When she opened her eyes, everything seemed normal and distinctly un-ghostlike again. Dark, empty, maybe even sad, but not obviously haunted. Nevertheless, she began to feel an urgency to get done and get out. The neighbors may not have called the police over a single piece of glass breaking, but that didn’t mean she had to dawdle. She knew ghosts could be benign, but she didn’t know if Sarah’s would be, given how they’d last parted ways. She hurried to the bedroom’s closet door and opened it.
It was solid wood, not the hollow-core kind, and on sturdy hinges. A good choice, she had to admit. She inspected the door knob, guessing Sarah had likely tied one end of the rope to the inside knob before stretching it over the top and around her neck.
Maggie shook her head at the thought. She hadn’t known Sarah that well, but she never thought she’d harm herself like that. She seemed too strong, too determined. But then, isn’t that what people always said about the person who committed suicide? They never saw it coming.
Maggie noticed the outside of the door had a fresh coat of still shiny paint, but the interior seemed to have missed the make over. A swing of the flashlight beam confirmed an older, duller, yellower paint inside the closet, with years’ worth of smudges and stains still visible. There was a single bar for coat hangers beneath a single shelf that was a little too tall to be comfortably used. More for storage, it seemed, than everyday items like scarves and hats.
She glanced around for something, anything that might have remained from before the paint brushes arrived. But she spied nothing on the floor of the closet or the bedroom. Just clean, new, wall-to-wall carpet.
Her intent had been to find some object Sarah had touched and cast the divining spell. She hoped that would give her a clue about the suicide and how it related to the disappearance of her Dark Book. The only thing she could think of trying was the doorknob, but she doubted that would work. How many people had touched that doorknob since Sarah’s body was found? How many cops and paramedics? How many landlords and painters and carpet installers? No, she needed something personal. Something all those people had overlooked.
She glanced up again at the too-high closet shelf. She couldn’t see what was up on it. And she realized neither could the cops and paramedics and landlords.
With no furniture to stand on, Maggie uttered the levitation spell a third time and lifted herself off the carpet. She knew she was going to pay a price for directing the magic on herself so much—the nightmares were always worse when she performed the magic on herself—but she wasn’t sure what choice she had. The feeling in her stomach telling her to hurry up was getting stronger. She needed to find something before the feeling became overwhelming and she fled empty-handed, a burglar without her loot.
Her tenacity paid off. Up on the shelf, shoved into a back corner, just out of reach of the swipes in the dust from a half-hearted cleaning attempt, was a very small and very broken picture frame. She plucked it from the shelf and allowed herself to drop again to the carpet.
She turned the frame over in her hands. It was only big enough for a wallet-sized photo, and the photo was long gone. One corner had been completely smashed, leaving it hanging open like an incomplete rectangle, and the glass that had once covered whatever photo was inside was missing save a few broken shards jutting out from where they were trapped in the wooden edges. It looked like it had been punched or thrown against the wall during an argument or fit—just the sort of thing that might have left strong emotional information behind. Maybe the subject of the missing photo was the cause of Sarah’s grief. Maybe she smashed it to pieces shortly before deciding to end it all. She’d thrown the glass and photo in the trash can and tossed the frame out of the way, up on the storage shelf. It was worth a try. Maggie set the frame down on the carpet and prepared to cast the divining spell.
Then she heard something.
She was focused enough on the picture frame, that she wasn’t exactly sure what she heard. A footstep? A door latch? A floorboard squeaking? A neighbor? The police? Sarah’s ghost?
She wasn’t going to wait around to find out.
She stuffed the frame into her backpack and crept quickly out of the bedroom—flashlight extinguished, back to the wall, eyes darting in the dark. There was no one in the living room.
Or at least, she couldn’t see anyone in the living room.
She faced a Hobson’s choice. If it was the police or a neighbor, they were likely coming in through the front door, unless they knew the levitation spell too. So if she went out that way, she’d walk right into their grasp. On the other hand, if she went out the balcony, the only way down—safely—was with the magic. As difficult as it might be to explain to the police what she was doing walking out of the late Sarah MacKenzie’s flat, it would be infinitely more difficult to explain what she was doing floating down from it.
She decided to take her chances with the front door. She’d talked her way out of a lot in her life. The trick was limiting what she had to explain. She crossed over to the front door and peered through the peephole. There didn’t appear to be anyone in the hallway. Good. She turned the knob and opened the door ever so slightly. No one grabbed the door and yanked it open. Also good. She pushed it all the way open. There was, in fact, no one there. All good.
Then she thought she heard the same noise again, from inside the flat. She bolted down the hallway and straight for the stairs, not even caring that she’d left the apartment door to slam shut behind her. She hit the stairwell at a full run and dashed down the stairs two at a time. The stairwell ended at a door to the lobby. She darted through the small foyer and out the front door as fast as she could, looking back over her shoulder as she broke the plane of the exit to see if anyone was following her.
She ran right into the person standing on the sidewalk in front of the apartment building.
Maggie tumbled to the ground, landing on the wet grass next to the walkway between the building and the street. She straightened her glasses and looked up, completely stunned to see the person whose presence had sent her sprawling to the ground.
&
nbsp; “What are you doing here?” she gasped.
17. Fancy Meeting You Here
“Hello, Maggie,” Elizabeth Warwick greeted the dumbstruck American student sprawled at her feet.
Maggie didn’t reply immediately. She was still trying to figure out what the hell she had just gotten herself into. And how the hell to get herself out of it.
“Maggie?” asked another woman towering over her. “Maggie Despereuax?”
“Devereaux,” Maggie corrected as she finally pulled herself to her feet. The grass was wet. Now her butt was too, which was both irritating and distracting. “Do I know you?” she asked the second woman.
Benson didn’t reply to the question. Instead, she confirmed, “The American niece. The one with the missing—”
“Yes,” Warwick interrupted sharply. “The American niece.”
“Missing what?” Maggie asked. She didn’t like that they knew things about her. She liked it even less that Sgt. Warwick was trying to hide what they knew.
“The missing piece of the puzzle,” Warwick asserted, rather lamely, Maggie thought. “Maybe.” Then Warwick changed the subject. “What are you doing here, Maggie?”
Maggie assessed the situation. She still didn’t know who the other woman was, although it was pretty obvious she was a cop too. They knew something about her. They knew something was missing.
Did they know about the Dark Book?!
She thought no one knew about the book. Except Sinclair. And Iain. Oh, and Sarah. But Sarah was dead.
And Maggie had just been caught right outside the dead woman’s flat by two police officers. Yep. That pretty much summed up the situation.
Deflectors to full force, Commander Devereaux.
She crossed her arms and looked at Warwick. “I could ask you the same question.”
Warwick grinned and shook her head, seemingly amused by the response.
Benson not so much. “We’re the police.”
“Exactly.” Maggie pointed at her. “And I pay your salary.”
Benson hesitated for a moment, taken aback. “No, you don’t. You’re not British. You don’t pay taxes here. And certainly not in Edinburgh.”
Edinburgh? Maggie tried not to panic. This cop was from Edinburgh? As in, dead-man-in-the-bathtub Edinburgh? Oh, bad, bad, bad.
Warwick pointed to the flats. “Did you know Sarah MacKenzie?”
Maggie froze. She considered her options. If she said no, she might get caught in the lie later. Maybe. If she said yes, they would know it was no accident she was standing outside her dead ex-professor’s flat. She decided to go with later and maybe.
“No.”
Warwick frowned and crossed her arms. “You know we can check the records, right, Maggie?”
Not right now, you can’t, thought Maggie.
“Yeah, well,” Maggie stammered, “it’s a big university. I might be mistaken.”
Maggie smiled inside. That would give her just enough wiggle room for the later and the maybe. ‘Oh, that Sarah MacKenzie. My faculty advisor. Right. Okay. Sure. I knew her.’
“She’s dead, Maggie,” Warwick announced evenly. “Do you know anything about that?”
Maggie stood up straight. “I can honestly say, I don’t know anything about her death.”
Despite my best efforts just now.
“What about a murder in Edinburgh last month?” Benson asked. “Where a witness saw a Canadian—or perhaps American—woman fleeing the scene?”
Maggie didn’t have a reply ready for that question. “Ehh…” she started, wishing she hadn’t.
“I think,” Warwick said, “we’re going to have to ask you to come with us down to the—”
“Maggie!”
Everyone turned toward the male voice that had just called out. It was Philip. He was rushing over from the main road.
“There you are,” he said as he reached their gathering. “I’m so sorry. I guess I took a wrong turn. You must have been looking everywhere for me.”
Maggie couldn’t help but smile. She appreciated his skill at prevarication. It was good to be with someone like her. “Uh, yeah. I was looking everywhere. For you.”
“Well, here I am.” Philip threw his arms wide. “Let’s get back to our evening, shall we?”
Maggie looked at the police officers to see if they might block her departure. They didn’t.
“Enjoy your evening,” Warwick said with a curt nod. “We’ll talk again.”
Benson said nothing, apparently deferring to her host.
Maggie didn’t waste the opportunity. She stuck her arm through Philip’s and they hurried away from Sarah MacKenzie’s flat, and the cops.
“Thanks, Philip,” Maggie whispered even though they had made it out of earshot. “You’re a life saver.”
Philip shrugged. “Glad to help. Now you owe me one.”
She looked up at him, unsure what he meant by that, but he smiled.
“Fancy a pint, me lass?” he said in a terrible attempt at a Scottish accent. “I’ve a wee bit of a business proposition for ye, I do.”
Maggie returned his smile. “Aye, me laddy. Lead the way. I’m all ears.”
18. Yes, Mama
The nightmare started the same way the evening had ended: Maggie walking arm-in-arm with Philip down a bright, vibrant street. Kicking through the low fog, and gliding from pool to pool of light cast by the streetlamps. The night felt weightless.
But then they turned down a dimmer street. The fog was thicker at her feet. She was holding hands with Iain now. She looked up at him. He offered a tight smile—pained, disappointed—but didn’t say anything, and looked away. The lightness in heart tightened.
The fog was growing denser. It pushed against the weakening light of the farther spaced streetlamps. Her father walked next to her, his arm around her shoulder, but his gaze cast away. She knew something was wrong. Her father was dead, wasn’t he? No, he was still alive. It was her mother. Her mother was dead.
And her mother was walking next to her, marching briskly forward, Maggie hurrying to keep up, her hands clutched desperately to her mother’s purse straps.
It started to rain.
“Try to keep up, Maggie,” he mother scolded. “We don’t want to get caught out in the cold.”
She grabbed Maggie’s arm and yanked her into a sheltered alcove under a stone bridgeway. It was a dead end, but there were two doors in the wall, one white and one black. The wind blew a spray of icy rain against their backs.
“Which door, mama?” Maggie asked. She wished her mother would look at her. She was having trouble remembering what she looked like.
But her mother kept her back to her as she examined the doors. “The white one. The white one, or none at all.”
Maggie nodded. “Yes, mama.” Of course, mama.
Her mother grabbed ahold of the white door’s handle and pulled. It didn’t open. She tugged several more times, wrenching the handle, but the deadbolt just clanked against the stone doorframe.
“Is it locked, mama?”
“Hush, Maggie,” her mother hissed.
“Yes, mama.” Of course, mama.
Her mother grabbed the handle again with both hands. She exhaled deeply, then muttered something under her breath and yanked again, as hard as she could.
The handle broke off the door completely, cracking the wood and bringing a chuck of door with it. Maggie’s mother threw the twisted mechanism against the wet cobblestones.
“Good job, mama!” Maggie squealed.
Her mother half turned to her. A faint smile was visible, but Maggie still couldn’t see her whole face. Her mother turned again and pulled the white door open by the broken hole where the handle and lock had been.
But the entrance was walled shut. Floor to ceiling, thick red bricks with dried mortar sealed the entry. They’d never get inside.
Maggie’s mother slammed a fist against the brick wall and lowered her head against the back of her hand. There was no noise, save the howl of the
wind, but Maggie could see her mother’s shoulders shake in deep sobs.
What about the black door? Maggie thought. But she didn’t dare ask that.
“Are you all right, Mama?”
Her mother didn’t answer. Not at first. Her back heaved a few more times, then she wiped her eyes and finally turned around to face her daughter.
Maggie frowned. She didn’t recognize her face. She didn’t know what her mother even looked like.
She grabbed Maggie’s arm and jerked her deeper into the alcove. “Come with me.”
Maggie didn’t even think to resist. She watched the black door pass her by as she was pulled out of the rain and into the silence of a hitherto unnoticed corner of their stone shelter.
“I’m tired, Maggie,” her mother said. She laid down on a long stone bench, then gestured toward an identical bench next to her. It was marble, bleached white, and looked very, very cold. “Lay down next to me.”
Maggie hesitated.
“Please, Maggie. I have to lay down. Lay down too.”
Maggie stood frozen.
“Lay down!” her mother barked.
Maggie nodded quickly. She fought off the defiance growing in her heart. “Yes, mama.” Of course, mama.
Then she laid down inside the stone casket next to her mother’s sealed sarcophagus.
Maggie could still see the sky. The roof of the alcove was gone. Dark clouds rushed by in the gray firmament. The stone was cold against her back.
She wanted to cry.
She refused to let herself.
She watched, dry-eyed, as the stone lid scraped across her coffin and sealed her in. She could hear the shovelfuls of dirt hitting the lid.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
She pounded against the lid. She screamed for help. But no one came.
Not Philip.
Not Iain.
Not her father.
And certainly not her mother.
“It’s too late, Maggie,” she heard her mother’s voice. “It’s too late.”
Maggie stopped pounding and screaming.
“Yes, mama. Of course, mama.”
Last Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 3) Page 9