The Case of the Love Spell

by Amorette Anderson

  Flustered, I reach into my purse. I’m distracted as I open up the message, but my focus become laser sharp as soon as I begin reading.

  It’s from Gunther! ‘Penny—I know who killed her. I know who killed Claudine. Meet me at your office. Don’t bring the police. I don’t want to be involved in this. I’ll give you the evidence you need, and you can bring it to the police.’

  I feel my eyes widen.

  “What is it?” Asks Chris.

  “Uhhh...” I say. That’s me, quick with a cover-up!

  I shove my phone back into my purse and jump up off of my barstool. “I gotta go!” I say. “Something just came up!”

  “What?” Asks Chris.

  I can’t tell him, so I say nothing.

  “Does this have something to do with Max?” Chris asks. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have leaned in like that. Are you with him, Penny? Are you dating him now?”

  Is that jealousy I hear in his voice?

  “I just had coffee with him,” I say. I’m backing away. Chris cares who I have coffee with. Chris cares!

  I feel myself blushing. He’s holding my gaze, and I can’t look away.

  “Be careful, Penny,” Chris says. “There might be a murderer out there. And you don’t even know Max.”

  I give a faint smile.

  Without answering him, I turn and hustle out of the bar. I stand on my pedals as I ride as fast as I can to my office.

  The Nugget Building is unlocked, as usual, and I take the stairs two at a time, narrowly avoiding a trip-and-fall on the last two.

  Due to a graceful save, I arrive at my office door with one banged shin and a racing heart.

  I push the door open and snap on the lights.

  As light floods the little closet—I mean office—I blink a few times. No, I’m not batting my eyelashes this time. I’m really adjusting to the bright, buzzing fluorescent lights.

  At first, it seems that the office is empty.

  My desk is empty.

  The one folding metal chair is empty.

  Then I see it.

  There, sprawled out on the floor, is Gunther’s lifeless body.

  Chapter Nine

  Gunther’s eyes are open, staring into nowhere.

  His face is blotchy and red.

  Around his neck, I see a red imprint that looks like it’s from a chord or rope of some kind. His limbs are all crooked and splayed out, as if he was already unconscious when he fell... and I’m going to be sick to my stomach.

  I begin retching, and run, bent over, towards the little trash can that is still packed with my belongings in the corner of the room.

  I have never seen a dead body. Some PI I am! I dry heave for a few minutes, and then spring into action. First, I call Chris. He picks up right away.

  “Chris! There’s a—eeeugh—” My dry heaves are back. “A dead body here. In my office. Gunther Larson.” I get the words out before my gut can rebel again.

  “I’m just outside,” Chris says. “I’ll be right there.”

  Just outside! Did he follow me here? I hang up the phone and press my fingers into Gunther’s neck. I’m ninety-nine percent sure that the man is dead, but some of my medical training from babysitter CPR is coming back to me and I’m realizing that I should check for a pulse.

  Gunther is—was —a lean man, comprised of mostly muscle and very little fat. My fingers sink into his neck and it’s easy to tell that there’s no pulse there. The guy is stone-cold dead and gone.

  But shouldn’t I listen for breathing? That was another thing we learned in CPR training. I lower my ear to his bluish lips and tilt my head so that I can look over his chest. A little plastic bag is poking out of his pocket.

  Carefully, I pull it out and examine it. Inside of the bag, there’s a blue plastic glove. Wrapped in the glove, I spot something I recognize.

  It’s a small, brown, glass vial.

  I’ve seen vials like this before—in Buttercup’s vet bag. I tilt the bag so that the blue fingers of the glove fall away from the vial label.

  I don’t recognize the word printed there, but I commit it to memory by repeating it several times to myself in a low whisper: “Phenobarbital, phenobarbital, phenobarbital.”

  Then I stuff the bag, still closed, back into Gunther’s front chest pocket, just as Chris bursts into the room, his gun drawn.

  “Police!” He shouts.

  I look up from my squatting position at Gunther’s side. “It’s just me,” I say.

  Chris is looking around the room, whipping his head right and then left.

  He takes five steps, and then with a quick movement searches behind the door. Next he does a fast side-step shuffle towards my desk, and looks under it.

  “There’s no one else in here,” I say.

  Chris isn’t taking my word for it. He keeps shuffling around the perimeter of the little room until he’s checked every nook and cranny.

  “All clear!” He shouts.

  “That’s what I said.” I’m still hovering over the body as another officer, Ted McDougal, comes barreling in. He’s just taken the stairs, and he’s winded. “Wagner, how did you get here so fast?” McDougal asks. “I was at the station when the call came in. You’re off duty, aren’t you?”

  “A good cop is always on duty,” Chris says.

  But he can’t get away with this that easily. I want to know the answer too. “Yeah, how did you get here so fast?” I ask Chris.

  “I followed you,” Chris says, looking in my direction. “I was worried you were going to get hurt.”

  “Oh.” That shuts me up really quick. I look back down at the body. The dead body—in my office.

  Oh man... this time instead of my gut, it’s my head that’s rebelling. I feel like I might pass out.

  The corners of my vision are getting darker. Now I feel like I’m inside of a tunnel. Is this normal?

  Chris is talking now, but his voice sounds far away. “Penny, I’m going to need you to back away from the victim. This is a crime scene, and we don’t want to contaminate it.”

  Back away? If my legs weren’t so heavy, I would certainly try. What’s happening to my vision? And why is the floor rushing up towards me, coming closer and closer and closer...

  ****

  “I passed out,” I admit to Marley before taking a long, refreshing sip of my soy-laced iced Americano.

  Her van is parked just outside of the Death Cafe, and we both head towards it.

  “Is that why you have an egg on the side of your forehead?” She asks.

  I reach up and tentatively touch the bump that’s spouted up near my temple. “Yeah,” I say.

  “You don’t look so hot,” Marley says.

  She rounds the van, heading for the driver’s side. I lift myself up into the passenger seat.

  “I don’t feel so hot,” I say. “I was up practically all night.” I draw more of my drink up through my straw. Ah, caffeine. “Chris insisted on bringing me into the station for questioning. I was there ‘til three in the morning, and then once I got home I had to clean up cat vomit. Plus, I couldn’t sleep because every time I closed my eyes I saw Gunther Larson’s dead eyes, staring up at me.”

  Between sips of my Americano, I’m chewing on my nails.

  This probably won’t stop until I have Turkey back from Buttercup’s house, but my short, jagged nails and sense of separation anxiety are the least of my worries. I’m more concerned about the fact that Gunther Larson is dead.

  “I suppose that’s expected,” Marley says, balancing her Funky Buddha in one hand as she steers the van away from the curb with the other. The chai latte with two shots of espresso is her favorite drink, and I know she dislikes it when it gets cold. “I mean, he died in your office, after texting you.”

  “Yeah.” I slouch down in my seat and look out the window.

  She looks over at me. “It’s nothing to feel bad about,” she says.

  “I should have told the police!” I wail, reaching up with my free
hand and rubbing my forehead as I stare out the window. “I should have told Chris right away that Gunther was the one who gave me the note. What if it’s my fault that Gunther died? If the police knew he was involved with Claudine, maybe they could have done something to prevent this terrible thing from—”

  “No,” Marley says, interrupting my pity party. “Gunther’s death is not your fault, Penny. You were trying to help him by getting to the bottom of Claudine’s murder! He asked you to keep him out of it, and you were honoring that request.”

  “Thanks for saying that,” I say. I know my friend just wants to cheer me up. “But I feel terrible about it.”

  Marley steers the van up the winding road towards the Terra Mansion.

  We pass the mine, where she usually parks, and keep climbing. The road, Hillcrest Pass, is rocky and rough. The switchbacks get steeper as we climb. It’s a good thing that the mansion is situated just a mile up the pass, or we would never make it.

  Especially in this low-riding van. It’s not built for roads like this.

  Marley keeps reaching forward and patting her dashboard. “Come on, you can do it,” she coaches the vehicle.

  I let her concentrate. Instead of looking out the window at the steep banks on either side of us, I pull out my phone and check my email.

  I have one new message.

  To: Knitting Circle

  From: Cora

  Re: Claudine Terra

  Hi Ladies!

  Okay, so I’ve done some digging this morning. Oh, boy... You are going to be so surprised at what I just uncovered! I looked into Claudine’s files on Ken’s computer. Penny, my guess was right on point. Claudine had a meeting with Ken scheduled for the very day that she died. I looked over their correspondence, and guess what?

  Claudine was going to restructure her will. Instead of giving her savings and her house to Lucy, she wanted to split it up. She wanted to leave the entire house and half of her savings to Gunther Larson.

  “Holy crap,” I say.

  “I know, this is steep,” Marley says. Her eyes are on the road. Her knuckles, wrapped around the steering wheel, are white.

  “No, I mean holy crap, Cora just sent me an email. She looked into Claudine’s files, like I asked her to. Guess what she found out?”

  “I’m not in the mood for a guessing game,” Marley says, while cranking the wheel to navigate yet another hairpin turn.

  “Okay. Get this. Claudine was going to leave her entire house to Gunther!”

  “That must have really upset Lucy!” Marley says. We’ve finally cleared the final turn, and we’re on a steep straight way that leads directly to the Terra Mansion.

  “Yes,” I say. “Cora discovered it. This proves that Lucy has real motive for the murder! Means too—she was alone with the body before the police arrived on scene.”

  “Means and motive!” Marley laughs. “I love it when you snap into ‘Private Investigator’ mode.”

  “Marley! This isn’t funny!” I snap. “Hang on... how does the vial of Phenobarbital fit into all of this?”

  It was such a hectic night, I didn’t even get a chance to look up the name. I punch it into my phone now. “Phenobarbital,” I read aloud. “Used as a sedative, anticonvulsant, and hypnotic. Highly addictive... lethal in large doses. Used by veterinarians to put animals to sleep. Veterinarians!”

  “What are you talking about?” Asks Marley.

  We’re now climbing the last stretch of road before arriving at the Terra Mansion. The large white house looms in the distance. It is built right into the rocky hillside.

  “Phenobarbital,” I say. “Gunther had an empty vial in his pocket when I found him last night. And in his text he said that he had evidence that proved who killed Claudine. Phenobarbital is a drug used by veterinarians, Marley!”

  “So does that point to Buttercup?” Marley asks, glancing away from the road long enough to shoot me a questioning look.

  I answer with a nod. “But it doesn’t make sense,” I say. “Yesterday, I thought that Buttercup was a suspect because she was jealous of Claudine. But Buttercup is head over heels in love with Gunther. She would never have killed him like that. The two murders have to be connected. Things like this never happen in Hillcrest, and now we have two bodies in one week. It has to be the same killer. That means Buttercup didn’t do it, because she wouldn’t kill Gunther like that.”

  “But she is a vet,” Marley says. “So she would have that drug in her supplies.”

  “Definitely,” I say. “The bottle looked exactly like the other bottles in her bag. Same size and color and everything.”

  “So Buttercup has the means, but no motive,” Marley says, as she cranks the wheel and eases the van into the mansion’s driveway.

  Wow. Now Marley sounds like a real private investigator. I’m about to tell her how impressed I am when the sight of a familiar white Volvo in the Terra Mansion driveway stops me short. Next to the car, we see a moving truck. Two movers are pulling out a big, white, suede couch.

  “Is that Lucy’s car?” Marley asks, pointing to the Volvo.

  “Sure is,” I mumble. “Looks like she’s moving in.”

  “That’s fast,” Marley says. “Claudine’s only been gone for a week. There hasn’t even been a funeral yet.”

  “I have no doubt that she’s excited about inheriting this place,” I say.

  “I don’t think she’ll be happy to see us up here, poking around,” guesses Marley.

  “And neither will he,” I say, as Ken Wilbur opens the mansion’s front door and starts marching towards us.

  Marley and I both stay frozen in our seats.

  “Ken does not look happy,” Marley says.

  Lucy has now stepped out of the house too. She’s calling out to her husband, who ignores her as he storms in our direction.

  He reaches the driver’s side door. Marley rolls down the window an inch.

  “This is private property,” Ken says. His voice is snooty and condescending.

  He’s always spoken in that tone to me. I don’t appreciate it.

  I crane my neck forward, towards the driver’s side, to get Kens attention. “We’re here on official business,” I say.

  “Official?” Ken scoffs. “You’re not an official anything, Penny Banks. Now, please get off of my property before I call the police.”

  Lucy has joined her husband at the side of the van.

  She greets us curtly. “Hello, Marley. Hello, Penny. What’s this about calling the police?” She turns to Ken.

  “Your husband here is threatening to call the cops,” I say. “Good luck with getting them up here today. They’re a little bit preoccupied.”

  I study Lucy’s face as I say this, watching for clues that she knows what I’m talking about. No such luck.

  With a blank expression of mild curiosity, she asks, “What are they preoccupied with?”

  “Gunther Larson was found murdered last night,” I say. “In my office.”

  I watching her face with intent focus.

  Her eyebrows shoot upwards. Her lips form a circle. Her hands fly up to her mouth.

  “Oh my goodness!” She exclaims. Her eyes are as round as saucers as she looks between Marley and I, and then to her husband.

  “How can this be?” She says. “What’s happening to our little town? First, Aunt Claudine... and the police are saying that was murder too... and now, Gunther Larson!” Her hands are trembling badly. “There really is a murderer on the loose.”

  Either Lucy Wilbur should be next up in line for an Academy Award for acting, or she’s genuinely surprised by the news of Gunther’s death.

  “Sorry to shock you like this,” I say. “You seem much more upset about Gunther than you were over your aunt. Why were you so annoyed when I talked to you about your aunt’s death?”

  “Lucy, you don’t have to answer that,” Ken says, placing his arms around his wife’s shoulders, as if he wants to steer her away from Marley’s van. Lucy stays rooted in th
e spot.

  “I’m sorry about that, Penny,” she says. “When we chatted at the Death Cafe opening, I thought you were just being a nosy busy-body. I had no idea that you were actually investigating a murder. And now there’s been a second murder! In your office, no less! You poor thing! How are you holding up?”

  “I’m not sleeping so well, but that’s what happens when you’re a PI involved in a murder case,” I say.

  “I’ll get you my muffin recipe, like I promised,” Lucy says. “Baking will help you calm your nerves. If I could just find it... I haven’t been able to put my hands on it for two weeks now.” She looks puzzled by this.

  Now, Ken is really trying to steer her away from us.

  “Lucy, honey, let me handle this.”

  “It’s so odd. I keep my recipes so organized,” she mutters while he guides her away from our window.

  With a look over his shoulder, Ken says, “I mean it, girls! This is private property and it belongs to us now. We want you out of here! Go bother someone else!”

  I’m about to protest, but at that moment my phone beeps. I open it and see that it’s a message from Buttercup.

  That’s weird. We’ve never texted with each other before. Ours is a stop-by-uninvited kind of relationship.

  I open the message while Ken continues to shoo us away.

  As soon as I read it, my heart jumps up into my throat. “Marley!” I shout, causing my friend to jump in her seat.

  “Will you chill?” She says, turning to me. “I’m right here. A foot away from you. You seriously don’t have to yell.”

  “Sorry,” I say, sheepishly. “But this is an emergency!”

  “What, you really think Ken is going to call the cops—or that the police are going to care that we’re up here?”

  “No. It’s Turkey! He’s really sick and Buttercup is about to do emergency surgery on him!”

  Chapter Ten

  “Shoot,” says Marley. “Really?”

  “Yes, really,” I say.

  “What kind of surgery?” She’s already backing out of the Terra Mansion driveway.

  “He’s been throwing up lately, like I told you. I brought him over to Buttercup’s place last night so that she could keep an eye on him. She just texted to say that he’s taken a turn for the worse. She thinks he has an obstruction in his intestines, and that if she doesn’t operate right away, he might die!”