Cold Cases and Haunted Places

by Trixie Silvertale

  I could practically hear the collective gulp.

  Officer Flint headed toward Bethusa and Walter, the older couple, with Jolene and Daisy in tow. “Hello—we’d like to ask you a few questions…”

  “Phew.” I flashed my eyes at Maple, who sighed through her nose.

  “That was close.”

  I kept the book open in my hand and pretended to be reading, but bent my head close to Maple, Wiley, Hank, Sam, and Kenta.

  “Do you guys think Tim was branching out on his own?” I glanced over my shoulder at the long-haired Bryan, who had busied himself by sorting through receipts.

  I dropped my voice. “Bryan wrote the scripts and did the research but is clearly not the most personable. Tim was so charismatic. Maybe he thought he could make more money on his own and was training Sid to be another tour guide.”

  Hank shrugged, hands in the pockets of his slacks. “Then again, Sid said Tim was a kind guy—that everyone thought so. If that’s true, would he really be going solo right under Bryan’s nose when they’ve been friends and business partners for decades?”

  I bit my lip. It was a fair point.

  Wiley pressed his lips together. “If he was, it’d give Bryan motive.”

  Kenta frowned. “Yeah, but Bryan was up here. He would’ve had to get down into the tunnels, murder Tim, and leave again without any of us or the sewer rats seeing him.”

  Maple pulled her lips to the side. “Plus he would’ve run into the old couple on their way out. But he was here helping them when we got back, remember?”

  True. We all glanced back at Bryan. I jumped when he looked up and glared at us. As one, we all moved down the center aisle of the store, away from the display case.

  Wiley raised his brows. “Yeesh.”

  Alright, if it wasn’t Bryan, and the older couple had left before Tim was murdered, that left Sid the actor, Yolanda and her husband Christopher, and Brenda, the necromancer-in-training.

  I glanced down at the book in my hands and took a closer look. I flipped it over to the front cover and realized it was written by none other than Bryan Moreau. It was a collection of the stories and legends mentioned on the tour, but with more detail and old black-and-white photographs.

  As my friends quietly swapped theories, I flipped through the book, curious, and stopped at a familiar sounding chapter. “The Horror of Harlow Manor.” I frowned and suddenly realized it had been the story Tim told about the gardener who’d killed the three Harlow children twenty or thirty years ago and then escaped into the sewers.

  I looked up and found Yolanda and Christopher still huddled together at the front window. Yolanda had interrupted Tim during that story, challenging him and defending the gardener. Why?

  I flipped through the next few pages, scanning the text. Several photographs on the next page showed the large manor house and the gravestones of the children, and then there was a photograph of the family and another of the staff. The gardener, identified as Richard Bisset, was circled. He stood beside a woman who looked to be his wife, his hands resting on the shoulders of a little girl, maybe three or four years old, with curly black hair. My breath caught—she had a star-shaped birthmark on her cheek.

  I quickly filled my friends in, and we headed to the front of the store. Christopher and Yolanda looked up, eyes wide in surprise.

  I swallowed. “Yolanda Bisset?”

  She froze. “How do you know that name?”

  I flipped the book around and pointed at the black-and-white photograph. “Is that you?”

  She glanced at her husband, then turned to me and sighed. “Yes, that’s me. And Richard Bisset, the gardener, was my father.” Her expression darkened. “A friend took this underground tour last week and told me that they’d talked about my father—made it sound like he’d definitely murdered those children.” She shook her head. “How would you like it if they talked about your dad like that?”

  Hank raised his brows and slid his gaze to the side. His father, the old king, had not been the most popular of monarchs, to put it lightly, so he was used to people talking smack about his dad.

  Yolanda scoffed and patted her chest. “The day he disappeared was the day my life got ruined, and Tim’s down there talking about it like it’s a fun campfire story.” She jutted her chin out and shook her head.

  Iggy peeked out of his lantern. “Case closed!”

  Yolanda’s brows drew together. “What?”

  I had to agree with my little flame—Yolanda seemed pretty upset. She had motive, opportunity on the tour, and could’ve stolen the dagger from the display case when she bought her ticket.

  “So, because you were angry about the way Tim was talking about your dad, you killed him?”

  Yolanda’s eyes grew huge. She looked at Christopher, then back at me and my friends. “Are you nuts? I was angry and challenged Tim’s version of things, but no, I didn’t stab him.”

  I sighed. If she was lying, Daisy the truth-sniffing dog would know. But she seemed genuine to me. I nodded. “Alright—sorry for accusing you.”

  She shook her head. “Some people.”

  Hank squeezed my shoulder. “It was a good theory.”

  I nodded as we all moved away. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d accused the wrong person of murder, but I’d hoped my amateur sleuth skills had been better honed by now. And while Daisy still had to confirm whether Yolanda was telling the truth, my gut told me I had the wrong person. I’d have to try harder…

  I continued to flip through the book, looking for the story Tim had told of the pirate dagger that had been used by Mrs. Havillard to kill her husband. I frowned when I couldn’t find the story and flipped through the book again, more carefully this time. Still, it wasn’t there.

  Sid, the tour guide in training, had never heard Tim tell the story before. It couldn’t be a coincidence that Tim had been stabbed right after telling it by what appeared to be the cursed dagger.

  I looked up, past the taxidermy and dusty shelves, and found Bryan still perched on his stool behind the display case. If Bryan was the one who researched the spooky stories and wrote the scripts for the tour, maybe he could tell me more about the dagger and Mr. Havillard’s murder.

  7

  The Dagger

  I rounded up my friends, and we headed back to the display case.

  Bryan looked up from a dusty leather book he was reading as we approached. He frowned. “Can I help you?”

  Iggy huffed in his lantern. “I dunno—can you?”

  I ignored my little flame and plastered on a bright smile. “I was wondering if you could tell me more about the Havillard stabbing?”

  Bryan sniffed and pulled his lips to the side. “What are you talking about?” He shot me a condescending look.

  I gulped. Goddess give me strength.

  Hank cleared his throat and tried. “Tim told us a story about an antique dagger from a pirate treasure right before he was stabbed by a similar-looking weapon.”

  Maple nodded. “He said the wife stabbed the husband.”

  “It’sss ssso sssad.” Sam shook his head, looking up at the ceiling instead of down. Kenta grinned at him and squeezed his shoulder.

  I held up the paperback. “I couldn’t find it in your book.”

  Bryan shot a thick arm out and snatched the book from me. “Did you pay for this?”

  “Uhhh… no. I was just looking through it.”

  Bryan rolled his eyes and let out a heavy sigh. “I’ve never heard of that story. Tim must’ve added it without telling me.” He turned away from us, muttering to himself. “Typical.”

  Did Tim keep a lot of secrets from Bryan? With as brusque as Bryan was, I wouldn’t blame him.

  I flashed my eyes. “Alright… thanks.”

  My friends and I moved away again and spoke in quiet voices.

  “That was weird.”

  Maple nodded, her eyes wide. “And rude.”

  I shrugged. “What do you guys think? I’d like to pin the murder on
Bryan just because of how annoying he is, but he couldn’t have done it—he was up here in the shop the whole time.”

  Hank shrugged. “Yolanda had motive and opportunity—she seemed upset and eager to defend her father’s name. Maybe she thought she was honoring her father’s memory by killing Tim.”

  Kenta raised his dark, straight brows. “That Brenda lady me and Sam talked to, the one with the headscarf? She seemed pretty obsessed with that dagger if you ask me—described it in detail.”

  Sam sniffed. “And ssshe wantsss to be a necromancccer. Ssshe likesss dealing with dead people.”

  Fair point.

  Wiley paled. “I’ve got to state the obvious—we can’t totally rule out a ghost. We were on a haunted tour, after all.”

  We all grew quiet, and I shivered at the creepiness of it. Hank put his arm around me, and I instantly felt better. Our conversation ceased as we each grew lost in thought.

  I thought of all the pieces of the puzzle—the ones that didn’t fit. Why had there been blood on the ground for the old lady, Bethusa, to slip on before Tim cried out? Why had the dagger from the display case been used? What was up with those vials of potion Tim had been drinking all night? And why would Tim have ad-libbed the stabbing story right before he got stabbed? If he weren’t actually dead, I’d have thought it was an act to make the tour seem scarier.

  I frowned—an act. Tim put on a show with that tour… maybe it had all been an act. I jerked my head up as a theory took form.

  “Imogen?” Hank’s eyes scanned my face.

  “What is it, girl?” Iggy’s eyes grew round. “Speak! Speak!”

  I shot him a flat look, and he cackled.

  I turned back to Hank and my other friends. “I think I’ve got it—I think I know who killed Tim.” I quickly explained my theory.

  When I finished, Hank’s eyes were filled with admiration. “Well done, Imogen. I think you’ve figured it out.”

  My cheeks grew warm.

  We rushed over to Jolene, Officer Flint, and Daisy, who were interviewing the woman in the head scarf. They excused themselves.

  “Is everything alright?” Officer Flint’s eyes grew wide.

  I nodded. “I think I’ve solved the murder. Can I take a stab at it?”

  Jolene lifted a brow. “Is that a joke?”

  I sucked on my lips. “Uh—bad choice of words. Sorry.”

  She grinned.

  I turned to Officer Flint. “Can you get a hold of the mail on top of the counter? I think it’ll prove my theory.”

  He and Jolene exchanged looks, then the officer nodded at me. “Alright.”

  Jolene winked. “You’re up, Princess.”

  8

  An Accusation

  Bryan hesitated at first, but finally lifted the rock paperweight and handed Tim’s letters over to Officer Flint and Jolene. After I explained my theory, Officer Flint made some calls to the lawyer, the doctor, and even the bank. Thank the waves that most of Bijou Mer’s businesses kept night hours for the magical folk.

  After half an hour of conversations, Officer Flint nodded at me. “They all confirm what you thought—in fact, it looks like Tim Mulaney was an even better guy than you suspected.”

  I sighed up at Hank. He pressed his lips together and squeezed my hand. That made Tim’s death all the more tragic.

  Jolene nudged me with her elbow. “You ready?”

  I gulped. It’d been a bit since I’d made a murder accusation, but I was hardly a newbie to it. Jolene and Officer Flint corralled everyone to the center of the store. A heavy silence fell, many sets of expectant eyes resting on me.

  I stepped forward and cleared my throat. “I know who killed Tim, and it’s one of us in this room.”

  “Gasp!” I glanced down at Iggy. “You wanted a dramatic reaction, right?”

  Wiley fought a smile.

  “Don’t encourage him.”

  I stood with my back to the display case and my friends gathered around me. Bryan still sat on his stool behind, but the older couple, Yolanda and Christopher, Sid with his tattoos, and Brenda, in her headscarf, edged closer. They all wore curious, though wary, expressions as they crowded together between the tall shelves littered with curios.

  Jolene, Flint, and Daisy stood near the shelves to my left. Daisy sat with dark eyes wide, ears pricked. The cop drew his wand—ready for action—and Jolene leaned against the shelf, arms and ankles crossed.

  I cleared my throat and spoke quietly to myself. “Alright, Imogen, time to break it down.”

  Iggy peeked out of his lantern with a flat expression. “You need me to lay down a beat or…?”

  I flashed my eyes at him, then addressed the rest of our tour group. I held up the letter from the doctor. “Tim was ill. This letter, plus a conversation with his doctor, confirms that Tim was dying of a terminal illness and had known about it for several weeks.”

  “What?”

  I spun around. Bryan dragged a hand down his goatee, eyes wide.

  Hank lifted a brow. “He didn’t tell you?”

  Pale, Bryan slowly shook his head.

  Sid ran a tattooed hand through his dark curls. “So whoever stabbed Tim—”

  “Killed him completely unnecessarily.” I shook my head—if there was such a thing as a necessary murder. “Tim was dying anyway. Those little vials he was drinking? They were full of medicine—though he was only supposed to take two a day.”

  Bethusa, the older woman, scoffed. “Why, he downed at least a dozen in the short span of the tour. Maybe that’s what killed him!” She nodded at her husband as though they’d just broken the case wide open.

  Jolene shot her a arch look. “Good thought, though it doesn’t explain the stab wound and the bloody dagger.”

  “Hmph.” Bethusa crossed her arms and looked unconvinced.

  Right. “The medicine was keeping Tim going during that tour—it gave him energy.” I gestured toward Sid. “You told us that Tim was a great guy.”

  “He was!” Sid glanced around at the other tour participants, then looked down at his shoes and shook his head. “I’m going to miss him.”

  I nodded. “Since Tim knew he was dying, he wanted to set up his longtime friend and business partner for success.” I glanced back at Bryan, who pinched his brows together. “That’s why he was training you, Sid, and keeping it from Bryan. Not because he was opening a new venture, as we originally thought, but because he was training his replacement.”

  Bryan choked and coughed. This was clearly news to him.

  I went on, feeling more confident. “Tim knew that while Bryan was great at research, he wasn’t a people person and wouldn’t make it on his own. He used his way with words and personal skills to secure a loan to expand the tours of the sewers.”

  I half turned so that I could see Bryan. “But you didn’t know any of this, did you? You saw the letters and suspected, like we originally thought, that Tim was securing a loan and training Sid so that he could branch out on his own.”

  Bryan’s eyes were glazed, but his chest heaved, and sweat beaded at his brow. He used his forearm to hastily wipe it away.

  “It’s why you killed him”—I whirled on the long haired guy—“isn’t it, Bryan?”

  “Gotcha!” Iggy chimed in.

  “What?!” Bryan’s dark eyes darted from me to Officer Flint to the rest of the gawking tour participants. “No! I couldn’t have—I was up here!”

  Daisy barked, then whined.

  I raised a brow at Jolene, who translated. She flipped her hand. “Some truth, some lie.”

  I nodded. “I think I can make sense of that. Bryan was up here the whole time—he never went down into the sewer, that part is true.”

  Brenda, the gal in the headscarf, started forward. “So how could Bryan have killed him? Tim cried out in the tunnels—we all heard it and saw him collapse. The dagger fell to the ground!”

  I nodded. “Tim was training Sid to replace him—a theater student. And as a tour guide, Tim was an
imated and engaging—there’s a fair amount of acting that went into his work.” I bit my lip. “Tim gave his final performance very convincingly.”

  Iggy huffed. “He was almost as dramatic as you’re being—get to the good part.”

  I rolled my eyes but took his point. “Tim wasn’t attacked down in the tunnels. He was attacked right here behind the display case before the tour—by Bryan.”

  This got a few genuine gasps from the crowd, and Iggy gave me a flaming thumbs-up.

  Bryan gripped the glass counter. Red blotches flushed his otherwise gray face and neck.

  I shook my head at him. “Bryan, I suspect you were upset with Tim. You thought he was leaving you to start his own business, not only betraying your friendship but also benefiting from all your research.”

  Bryan pushed off his stool, which tumbled to the floor, and stood behind the display case, looking wildly about. Officer Flint, wand drawn, edged closer to him.

  “I’m guessing you confronted Tim when you saw the letter from the bank securing the loan, and when he denied it all because he wanted to keep his illness to himself, you flew into a rage, grabbed the dagger from the front case, and stabbed him—right here in the shop.”

  Bryan’s chest heaved as Flint closed in with Daisy, snarling, right beside him.

  “Which is about the time we all walked in to buy our tickets—right before the tour started. Tim, good friend to the end, covered for you, Bryan. He knew he’d die soon anyway and didn’t want you to go to prison. He magicked off the blood, plastered on a brave face, and got on with the tour.”

  Sid moaned. “Oh—poor Tim. It must’ve been so difficult for him—no wonder he was struggling.”

  I nodded. “Tim took his medicine to keep his energy up for as long as he could. He brought the dagger along, hidden in his jacket, and wiped it clean of Bryan’s fingerprints. He even magicked up as much of his blood as he could along the way—though Bethusa and Walter still slipped in some of it. We didn’t notice the wound in the dim lighting down there.”