Murder Most Witchy (Wendy Lightower Mystery) (7 page)

“But no,” she shook her head, “I didn't know him well at all.”

Gerry nodded in understanding. He patted her hand. “That's okay.”

Those two simple words from anyone else would have felt empty, or worse patronizing, but form Gerry they felt true. He knew her better than anyone, having raised her from the time she was in her early teens. When Gerry said it, Wendy actually felt that it was okay that she hadn't known Benny all that well. In the end, would knowing Wendy Lightower have changed Benny's life, or saved it?

Probably not.

“Thanks, Gerry,” Wendy tried to smile. It was a bit wobbly, but once again, Gerry understood.

“So,” Gerry took a long sip of his coffee. “Did you try the spell?”

Wendy narrowed her eyes, her suspicion of Gerry's motives, which had temporarily been damped down by pastry and comforting words, flared up. “What spell?”

“I taught you well, so I can only assume that you found it. It's well within your abilities, even if you are rusty. Did you see anything in his Last Breath?”

Wendy knew she was fairly caught, but his smug, all-knowing attitude always grated her nerves. “No,” she snapped, “it was too dark.”

“Then what did you feel? What did you hear?” he pressed.

“I felt his throat being crushed. I felt the life draining out of him. I heard only the sound of his heartbeat thudding in his ears.”

Gerry peered at her over his cup of coffee. “His throat being crushed? He was strangled? You said you couldn't see the killer.”

“That's just it, Gerry. There wasn't anyone there. He was being strangled, but there were no hands, no rope, nothing. He was killed by magic.”

“It is certainly beginning to sound that way. I expect I'll be getting a phone call soon.”

Wendy put down her coffee and grabbed another pastry. “From Detective Milton? Is he one of us?”

Gerry laughed. “Milton? No, just an ordinary man with an open mind, which I suppose makes him rather extraordinary. I help him out from time to time when the cases are more in my line than his.”

Gerry Lightower and Lightower Investigations dealt only with the strange and unexplainable. Paranormal investigations were her family's stock in trade, at least until Wendy had up and decided to become a librarian instead.

“Will you help?” Wendy asked. She felt very strongly that it was important that he help. The regular police would never understand what had happened, and they wouldn't find the magical being who had killed Benny. She couldn't let that happen.

“Like I said, I'm swamped.”

Wendy stood, nearly knocking over her chair in the process. “Of all the selfishness,” she sputtered, “Just to get me to come back.” She wasn't being entirely coherent, but Gerry got the point.

He held up a hand to silence her. “I'm too busy, but I'll send my associate.”

Wendy deflated. “Your associate? Since when do you have an associate?”

“He's new,” Gerry shrugged. “I'm not as young as I once was. I need to start training someone to take over this place.”

He'd said it lightly, but as Wendy looked at him, she noticed more wrinkles on his familiar face and dark circles under his heavy-lidded eyes. He looked tired.

She didn't say anything about his appearance, knowing that it would only irritate him. Instead she asked him about the case. “How new? Can he do the job?”

Gerry steepled his fingers over his vast stomach. “Very new, but smart. Beyond that,” he spread his hands wide as though to encompass all the infinite possibilities. Then he shot her a shrewd look. “He may need help. I may not be around. Big job out of town, you understand.”

When Wendy got up to leave, her uncle's intelligent eyes followed her down the path and out to her car. He watched her as she fumbled to insert the key in the ignition. Her distracted appearance did not worry him in the least. Gerry Lightower really did know his niece, perhaps even better than she knew herself.

“Will she help?” the tall young man that Gerry had introduced the day before as Ian stepped out from the kitchen where he had been enjoying his own breakfast along with a spot of eavesdropping.

Gerry chuckled. “She already has.”

“But what happens next?” Ian, though he had only known Gerry Lightower short time, was worried about the older man. He wasn't just tired, and Ian knew how important it was to him to see Wendy become part of the business again. He knew how far Gerry would go to see that happen.

“My dear man,” Gerry said, slowly pulling his bulk out of the chair, “before today, she hadn't done magic in a very, very long time. She won't be able to resist the pull to do it again.”

“What will that accomplish? She can still do magic and be a librarian, can't she?”

“No,” Gerry shook his head, and Ian thought he detected a note of regret, “she can't. And she knows that better than anyone.
”

Five

Wendy drove home without realizing what she was doing. It was with surprise that she looked up to find that she had parked outside her little cottage because she had no recollection of how she had arrived there. Her keys jingled in her hands as she walked up the pathway and let herself into the safety of her own home.

The door swung open to reveal a pair of unblinking yellow eyes staring directly at her.

“So you're back. Forgiven me yet?” she asked, recalling his presence at her spell the night before. Without Charlie's bulk to pull her back to reality, she wasn't certain the spell would have succeeded, but that was supposed to be his job. Since the day she'd found him, he had seemed more lazy than helpful, even before she gave up magic, but she had to admit that he had saved her last night.

Charlie, with the deliberation that only cats can achieve, turned his back on her and stalked away. On his way out, he stopped at the locked closet and gave it a nudge with his head. Without another backward glance, he sauntered away, off to that unknown place that cats disappear to when they don't want to be found.

Wendy shouted at his retreating form, “I won't be pressured! Especially not by my own familiar!”

A twitch of the tail was the only response from Charlie as though he couldn’t be bothered with irrational human outbursts.

“Great,” Wendy mumbled to herself as she dropped her bag on the table by the door. “I am now yelling at my cat. Aren't witches supposed to be able to control their familiars? And now I'm talking to myself,” she added. “Very healthy.”

After only a quick glance at the closet door, Wendy went directly into her bedroom. Once there, she pulled down an old, battered photo album from the shelves along the wall. The cover, which had once been leather, was shiny and cracked from excessive handling and the corners of the pages were creased and lifted in both directions. When she sat on the bed with the album on her lap, it fell open on its own to a page near the middle with a photograph of a smiling young woman in the center.

She had Wendy's golden brown eyes and her blond hair, only this woman's fell freely around her shoulders in soft waves of pure sunshine. The image was brought to life by her shy smile and laughing eyes. Whenever Wendy looked at it, she imagined she could smell the scent of jasmine on the air. Her mother had always worn jasmine perfume.

Usually this particular image conjured a combination of sadness and anger inside her. Sadness that her mother was gone and anger at how Wendy had lost her. Through magic.

If it hadn't been for Lightower Investigations, her mother would still be alive today.

And yet, when she looked at the picture that day, she felt something else. The sadness was still there, of course, but the anger had been replaced by a different sensation entirely.

Understanding.

For years after her mother's death, she couldn't reconcile why her mother would choose such a dangerous job, or why her uncle would ask it of her.

Somewhere, not far away from where she sat now, was a person with magic. A person who would use magic to kill. The very idea of using magic for something so evil made her stomach heave.

“I guess I'm in this one, Mom,” she said to the picture. “I don't want to be, I hope you know.”

A low rumbling and a heavy weight on her feet told her that Charlie had returned. She reached down out of habit and began petting his thick black coat.

She spent the rest of the day with the thick spell book open across her lap, a pen and paper at her side, taking notes.

By the time she went to bed that night, she had a few ideas about how to proceed, at least magically speaking. The difficult part, once she settled down and let herself think about it, was the
normal
part of the investigation. She knew magic. It was part of her, always had been, but she knew absolutely nothing about criminal investigations in the real world.

She thought about Detective Milton and how he had walked her to the door and given her the proverbial nod. Perhaps this investigation business wouldn't be so hard after all.

The next day was a work day, but for the first time in her tenure as head librarian, Wendy was late to work. It wasn't a reaction to finding Benny's body, though she was sure that was what people would think. Instead she was late that morning because she had to make a stop at the North Harbor police department.

Wendy stepped through reflective glass doors into a cramped waiting area with hard plastic chairs and table strewn with magazines, all of which were at least a year out of date. A plump, unpleasant looking woman with an enormous mound of curly red hair sat at a desk behind a plastic partition, filling out what appeared to be a never-ending stack of paperwork.

Wendy approached the desk and spoke towards the small opening in the plastic wall. “Excuse me,” she began.

The woman held up a single chubby finger and kept her eyes riveted to her papers. She mumbled to herself as she filled in line after line and checked box after box.

Wendy waited, patiently at first, until she hit that point where she was wanted to reach through that tiny square and grab the woman by the collar to get her attention. Luckily she was saved from that maneuver, which probably would have resulted in being shocked by a Taser or hauled off to a holding cell, when the woman finally looked up.

“Can I help you?” she asked. Her voice was nasal, and her tone suggested that there was absolutely nothing she wanted less in this world than to help Wendy.

Wendy flashed her most charming smile. “I would like to see Detective Milton, please.”

The woman studied her through the fogged plastic partition. Her eyes narrowed and trailed up and down Wendy's petite form, as though she suspected her of having murderous intent towards Detective Milton.

“Appointment?”

Wendy blinked. “Pardon me?”

The woman expelled a large gust of fish-scented air. “Do you have an appointment with him? Does he know you're coming?”

Wendy frowned. “I don't think so. Does that matter?”

The woman heaved herself out of the rickety desk chair. “He'll have to come sign you in. Wait here.”

Wendy looked around the tiny space and the closed, and most likely locked, door that led to the inner sanctum of the police station. She wondered where else she would have tried to wait.

Wherever Detective Milton worked within the mysterious interior of the building, it was either very far away or Officer Friendly from the desk was taking her sweet time. It seemed like hours, but was probably less than fifteen minutes, before the woman returned, trailed by Detective Milton.

Wendy noticed that he kept his head down, and after he had signed her in, he rushed past the desk with a mumbled apology that the woman completely ignored.

Out of her hearing, he chuckled. “Now you've done it,” he told Wendy, “I'm in trouble with Doris.”

“Doris?”

“Our dispatcher. She doesn't like unannounced visitors. Once my wife brought our three-year-old in to meet me for lunch, and I didn't tell Doris. I was stuck checking out every crank call that came in for weeks.”

“Oh,” Wendy blushed, “I am sorry. I didn't mean to get you in trouble.”

“It's all right,” Milton said as he ushered her into an incredibly tiny office, “I slip her boxes of chocolates once a week, and that keeps her happy.” He showed her a chipped wooden chair. “What can I do for you, Miss Lightower
?”

“Wendy,” she corrected automatically. “I'm here to talk to you about the murder.”

“Are you referring to the death of Benjamin Jacobi? That's an ongoing investigation, Miss Lightower. I can't talk about it.”

For a moment, Wendy thought she had made a horrible mistake. She decided to try another tack. “I thought you said you knew my uncle.”

“I do,” he hesitated. “Are you working as his representative?”

She honestly didn't know how to answer. One way or the other, she was about to commit herself. She took a deep breath.

“Yes,” she answered firmly.

“Well that's different then.” He opened
the single drawer in the plain metal desk and pulled out a slender manila envelope. “There isn't all that much yet. What I know is enough to tell me that I am glad you and your uncle are coming in on this.”

Wendy made a mental note to call Gerry the moment she left the police station. Odds were good that if Milton made the call first Gerry would be so thrilled to hear that she was his “representative” that he would back her up, but she should still let him know. Just so things didn't get awkward.

Milton removed a glossy color photo from the file and placed it in front of Wendy.

She swallowed hard on the bile that rose in her throat.

“The victim died of asphyxiation,” Milton said, apparently unaware of Wendy's reaction. He pointed to the photo of Benny's cold, lifeless face. “That much is clear. The hemorrhaging in the eyes, even the larynx was crushed practically to powder. What is strange, and this is more in your line,” he lowered his voice, “is that there are absolutely no marks on the exterior of the body. The kind of damage we saw in this guy's esophagus should have left some kind of bruising.”

Now Wendy was intrigued, and she forced down the nausea to look more closely at the picture. “I noticed that myself,” she murmured. Even now, with a
high-resolution picture to examine at her leisure, she could see no evidence of how Benny had been strangled.

“That makes me think this killer might be a Ghoul.”

Wendy's eyes shot up to his face. “A what?”

“A Ghoul,” he repeated. “That's what your uncle calls the bad ones of your kind, isn't it?”

“Right,” Wendy agreed, “a Ghoul.” She had known Gerry had a relationship of some kind with police, but she didn't realize it was such an
open
one. Her uncle had been telling her about Ghouls all her life. It was their family's equivalent of the boogeyman or the monster under the bed. Ghouls were people who twisted magic and turned it from something natural and good into something dark and evil. There was no greater crime as far as her uncle was concerned, and that included murder.

“So if we've got a Ghoul, then the standard arrangement applies?”

Wendy had absolutely no idea what Milton was talking about. “Definitely. Standard arrangement.”

“If I have anything for you, should I contact you through your uncle's office?”

“No,” she said, a little too quickly. “I'm not always there. I'm part-time,” she finished lamely. She wrote down her cellphone number, and the detective tucked it away in his jacket pocket.

“And next time you have any questions,” he began, “do me a favor and call.”

Wendy answered his smile with one of her own. “Will do.”

The moment her feet hit the pavement outside the police station, Wendy whipped out her phone and called her uncle.

“Hello, Wendy,” he answered.

Normally, someone knowing who is calling is not magical in nature. Most people pretty much assume that whomever they are calling has caller ID, whether it be on a cell or antiquated landline. In Gerry's case, it was a bit more mystical in origin. He had an old school spin dial phone complete with curly cord without even an answering machine, let alone caller ID.

“How did you know?” she asked. Then she shook her head, “Never mind. Listen, I went to the police station today.”

“And how is Detective Milton? I hope you asked after his wife and daughter.”

“How would I have known to do that?” Even though it was completely ridiculous, she was actually feeling guilty for not having sent his regards to the family she didn't know Milton had.

Without being able to see him, she knew he shrugged. “That's just good manners.”

“I told him I was your representative.” Like pulling off a bandage, she said it in a quick rush of words.

“Really?” his bored tone didn't fool her for a second. “Why would you do that?”

She ignored his question. “He said the standard arrangement would apply. What does that mean?”

“Full sharing of information, both directions. Small consulting fee.”

“How small?” Wendy had no notion of the financial side of her uncle's business. It had never interested her all that much.

“$1500, but I cover my own expenses. They can't itemize ingredients from the local occult shop.”

Wendy whistles. “How often do you work with police?”

Gerry was silent at the other end for so long that Wendy wondered if his ancient phone had finally given up. Finally his voice came through, soft and deadly serious. “As often as necessary.”

After they hung up, Wendy tucked her phone into her bag, considering Detective Milton's offer. With his help, she had a chance of getting to the bottom of what had happened to Benny. Without it, she didn't really know where to start.

She decided to call him and share all her information. The very moment she had any information to share, that is. The spell she did last night only really qualified as the absence of information and served to confirm what he already suspected. It was death by magic – her jurisdiction.