Canyons Of Night (3 page)

“Hard to believe fifteen years have gone by.”

“Yes,” she said.

Trying not to be obvious, she raised her talent a little and studied Slade’s aura rainbow. He was not running hot so the bands of dark ultralight were faint, but that was enough to tell her Slade hadn’t changed much in those fifteen years. He had simply become a purer, more intense version of what he had been at nineteen: hard, tough, self-contained, and self-controlled. His eyes were colder now, as cold and bleak as the mag-steel they resembled.

Slade hadn’t smiled a lot fifteen years ago and she was pretty sure he’d never been prone to frequent displays of lightheartedness. But from what she had seen of him during the past five days he had evidently lost what little he had once possessed in the way of a sense of humor or cheerful spirits.

“Out of curiosity,” Slade said, “didn’t your aunt ever sell anything? This place looks like someone’s attic, a two-hundred-year-old attic, at that.”

She laughed and pushed her glasses higher on her nose. “All Aunt Beatrix cared about was collecting hot antiques. But I did a lot of business back in Frequency and I expect to make money with Looking Glass, as well. Trust me, I won’t starve. I’m good at this.”

To her shock his mouth kicked up a bit at the corner in the barest hint of a smile. “So it turned out you did have a career in art and antiques sales, just like your family thought?”

“Yes. Aunt Beatrix left her shop and the entire collection to me when she died a while back. I decided to operate from here instead of Frequency. It took a while to process my aunt’s will so this place has been locked up for some time. I just got the doors open again a couple of weeks ago. I’m still taking inventory and trying to get the paperwork straightened out. Aunt Beatrix was not much for organization.”

“I can see that.”

“Weird that we both wound up back here on Rainshadow, isn’t it? I mean, what are the odds?”

“Damned if I know,” he said. “Returning to Rainshadow wasn’t in my plans until recently.”

“Oh?”

“I’m making a career change. Turns out I need a short-term job to pay the bills while I get things going in a new direction. A friend told me that the chief’s job here on the island was open so I took it.”

“I see.” It was as if all the energy in the room had gone suddenly flat. So much for the little frissons of excitement and anticipation that had been flickering through her over the course of the past five days. Slade had no intention of hanging around Shadow Bay for long. She cleared her throat. “This isn’t a permanent move for you, then?”

“Not if I can help it,” he said. “I figure I’ll be here six months at most. I’ll need that much time to get my new project up and running. You?”

“After Aunt Beatrix died, I had planned to close Looking Glass and ship the stock to my Frequency City store but I changed my mind. I sold that store and moved here, instead.”

“What made you do that? Weren’t things going well for you in Frequency City?”

“Very well,” she said. She wasn’t boasting. It was a fact. “I made a lot of money with that store. But I’ll make money with this one, too. The power of online marketing, you know. In addition, I plan to turn Looking Glass into a destination antiques shop. In my line it’s all about reputation, and when it comes to paranormal antiques, I’m one of the best in the business.”

“I believe you,” he said. “I always knew you’d be successful at whatever you decided to do.”

“Really? No one in my family had a lot of hope. Whatever gave you that impression?”

He moved one hand slightly. “Probably the way you tried to fight off that bastard who manhandled you that night out on Merton Road.”

“Wasn’t like I had a lot of options that night.”

“Most people freeze when they face serious violence. They can’t function. You were fighting.”

“And losing,” she pointed out dryly.

“But you weren’t going down without a fight. That’s what counts. That’s why I agreed to take you into the Preserve that night. Figured you were owed that much after what you’d gone through.”

“Oh,” she said. “I was scared to death that night, you know.”

“It was the logical response to the situation.”

There was a muffled clunk from the far side of the shop. Charlotte heard a faint, ominous buzzing noise. She realized that she could no longer see Rex.

“Your dust bunny,” she yelped. Alarmed, she rushed out from behind the counter. “Where is he? What’s he doing?”

“Rex is not my dust bunny. We’re buddies, that’s all.”

“Yeah, yeah, I understand. That’s not the point. The point is that you are responsible for him while he is in this shop. Now where is he?”

“He may have gone behind that fancy little table with the mirror.”

The buzzing sound continued. Charlotte heard more thumps and thuds.

“That dressing table is a genuine First Century Pre–Era of Discord piece,” she snapped. She hurried across the room to the exquisitely inlaid dressing table. “It was designed by Fenwick LeMasters, himself. The inlays are green amber and obsidian. The mirror and frame are original, for goodness’ sake.”

“Who is Fenwick LeMasters?”

“Just one of the finest furniture craftsman of his time. Also a very powerful talent who could work green amber. Collectors pay thousands for his pieces. Oh, never mind.”

She peered over the top of the dressing table and saw Rex. The dust bunny had trapped a vintage action figure in the corner between a First Generation cabinet that reeked of the old-Earth para-antiquities it had once contained and a Second Generation floor lamp. Rex was batting the toy unmercifully with his paw as if tormenting a mouse or some other prey. The foot-high plastic figure wore long, flowing plastic robes marked with alchemical signs. The toy was armed with a small, fist-sized crystal.

The unprovoked assault had activated whatever energy was left in the old, run-down amber battery inside the figure. The action doll repeatedly raised and lowered one arm as though to ward off Rex. The buzzing noise came from the odd little crystal weapon. Each time the arm shifted, the toy weapon flashed and sparked with weak, violet-hued light.

“Stop that,” Charlotte said to Rex. “Sylvester is a very valuable collectible. Fewer than five hundred of them were made.”

Rex ignored her. He took another swipe at the figure.

She started to reach down to retrieve the action figure but common sense made her hesitate. Dust bunnies could be dangerous when provoked.

She rounded on Slade, instead. “Do something about Rex. I’m serious. That figure is worth at least a thousand dollars to certain Arcane collectors.”

Slade came to stand beside her. He looked down at Rex and the hapless Sylvester doll.

“That’s enough, Rex,” Slade said quietly. “You don’t want to mess with Sylvester Jones. According to the legends the old bastard could take care of himself.”

To Charlotte’s relief Rex stopped batting the figure. He sat back on his rear legs and fixed Slade with what Charlotte concluded was the dust bunny equivalent of a disgusted eye-roll. He sauntered off to investigate a pile of vintage stuffed animals.

“Whew.” Charlotte scooped up the action figure and examined it closely. “Luckily I don’t think he did any damage.”

Slade looked at the toy. “Never saw one of those. When were they made?”

“About thirty years ago. The designer was Arcane, obviously. Most of the customers who bought the original Sylvester Jones action figures for their kids assumed the character was supposed to be an Old World sorcerer. But everyone who was connected to the Society recognized him at once. Sort of an inside marketing joke.” Satisfied that the action figure was unharmed, Charlotte set it on top of the dressing table. “Luckily Sylvester seems to have survived.”

“Sure. This is Sylvester Jones, we’re talking about.”

Charlotte smiled. “True. Legend has it he was a hard man to kill.”

“Tell me about the break-in,” Slade said.

“Right.” She dusted off her hands. “As I explained to Myrna when I called the station this morning, I
think
I had a break-in. The problem is that I don’t know if anything was stolen.”

“I can understand why it would be hard to tell if something was missing. This place is crammed with junk.”

Charlotte glared. “That’s antiques and collectibles to you.”

“Right. Antiques and collectibles. Tell me about the break-in you think you had,” he said.

“He came through the back door. I’m positive I locked it last night when I closed up.”

“No one locks their doors here in Shadow Bay.”

“I do. I’m from the city, remember? At any rate, the door was unlocked this morning when I arrived. And there are what look like muddy prints on the floor.”

“Oh, good,” Slade said. “Actual clues. That should be interesting.”

“You’re not taking this seriously, are you?”

“In the five days that I have been chief of police here the most serious crime I’ve had to deal with involved the supposed theft of Hoyt Wilkins’s bicycle. It turned up the following day. Astonishingly, it was still leaning against the tree where Hoyt had left it when he realized he was too drunk to ride it home from the Driftwood Tavern.”

“I heard that two nights ago you also had to break up a fight at the Driftwood.”

“Breaking up a bar fight is not the same thing as conducting an investigation. Mostly it involves trying not to get slugged while you separate the drunken idiots involved.”

“But wait, there’s more,” she announced triumphantly. “Yesterday you arrested those two hot-weed runners who anchored their boat in the marina in order to hide from the Coast Guard.”

“Both of those guys were too stoned on their own product to notice that they’d been arrested. All I did was throw them in jail until the authorities from Frequency could get here to collect them and the weed,” Slade said.

“Still, it sounds like a busy first week on the job. Why am I getting the feeling that you’re already bored?”

“Is it that obvious?” Slade asked.

“If you didn’t want to be a small-town police chief, why on earth did you take the job here on Rainshadow?”

“I told you, I needed something to tide me over until I can get my project up and running.”

“Things didn’t work out in the FBPI?”

“Let’s just say I’m ready for a change. Now, about your break-in.”

“Follow me.”

She led the way through the crowded, shadowed space and into the back room of the shop. She was very aware of Slade following close behind her.
Face it,
she thought,
he’s the sexiest man you’ve ever met in your entire life and you are alone with him on an island.

Okay, not alone, exactly. She and Slade shared Rainshadow with the other residents, but an island was an island, and given that a ferry that operated twice a day was the only regular link to the outside world, there was a very real sense of remoteness and isolation.

The back room of Looking Glass was even more crowded than the front sales room. It was jammed almost to the ceiling with packing crates and shipping boxes full of antiques and collectibles that her aunt had never bothered to unpack. The containers formed a narrow canyon that led to the rear door. There were also several new crates stacked around the room. They contained the objects that she had elected to bring with her when she closed down her Frequency shop.

“I don’t envy you trying to take an inventory,” Slade said. “Some of these crates look as if they’ve been sitting here for decades.”

“Like I said, Aunt Beatrix wasn’t big on organizing stuff.”

“This goes beyond a lack of organizational skills. There’s a word for folks with this kind of psychological problem, you know.”

“Hoarder? Yes, I know.” Charlotte stopped. “What can I say? It’s no secret that my aunt was a little weird.” She gestured down the narrow path created by the towering walls of crates. “That’s the door that was unlocked this morning when I arrived.”

Slade walked forward and crouched on the floor directly in front of the door. “Huh,” he said.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“Looks like the print of a running shoe.” Slade got to his feet. “Judging by the muddled footprints, he spent some time in this room and then went into the front of the shop. Turned around and came back here. Left the same way he got in. Through the back door.”

“Believe it or not, I figured that much out all by myself.”

“Yeah?” Slade raised his brows. “You ever think of pursuing a career in crime fighting?”

“Very funny. What do you think happened here?”

“I think someone found the door open last night, walked into the shop, took a look around and then left.”

“I told you, I locked up last night,” she said firmly.

Slade glanced at the lock on the back door. “Even if you did, all anyone would need to get through that door is a credit card.”

“I intend to order new locks. But there’s been so much else to do that I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

“Good plan.”

She frowned. “Shouldn’t you be dusting for fingerprints or something?”

“Oh, yeah, and maybe swab for
DNA
while I’m at it. Thanks for reminding me.”

“You really are not going to treat this seriously, are you?”

He looked at her. “If you were in Frequency City and your shop got robbed what do you think the cops would do?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Not much. Probably just ask for a list of stolen goods in case any of the objects turned up in a pawn shop.”

“Since nothing appears to have been stolen here and there are no pawn shops on Rainshadow, the scope of this investigation is somewhat limited.”

“Cripes. You’re really not into your job, are you?”

Slade shrugged. “It’s just a temporary detour.”

“It strikes me that you have a very poor attitude, Chief Attridge.”

“Okay, okay. Here’s the most likely scenario. Last night after closing up someone noticed that the door of your shop was open. He came inside, took a quick look around to make sure everything was okay, and then he left. How’s that for a theory of the crime?”

“Absolutely pitiful. But it’s obviously all I’m going to get in the way of law enforcement so I’ll take it.” She turned and went into the front room. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”