Dead spread, p.3
Dead Spread, page 3
The quickest way out of the building was the “closet” around the corner, a small anteroom marked No Exit that was absolutely an exit. The mayor used it to avoid ever-increasing mobs of torch-wielding locals, but it was designed during Prohibition to allow quick escapes for the smugglers who worked for Agustus Hoggarty. Only a few people knew about it, and the only reason I did is because my Uncle Grist was Prosperity’s premiere historian.
I conveyed Waggery into the closet as fast as I could. I worried he would, at best, distract the police and, at worst, contaminate the crime scene. We stepped into the room, only to see the briefest flash of light let in from the outside and the silhouette of a person stepping out onto the plaza.
“Hello?”
The door slammed before I could see who was there.
With no light, this room was a tomb. I took four swift steps across the floor, and Waggery and I made our exit through the same door.
Looking back, it’s obvious that I should’ve searched high and low on the plaza for whomever was skulking in the town hall anteroom. But Waggery was in a full-blown tantrum, and I was in a state of complete shock. I didn’t have the physical strength or emotional fortitude to contain him much longer without inviting a violent reaction from him that could potentially hurt us both.
I released him, and he took off toward the duck pond. I took a beat to see if anyone looked suspicious, but my priority was to keep my eye on my raven, for his safety and my sanity.
The shock of finding the mayor in a pool of blood was setting in. For a split second I allowed myself to think it was a dark prank, that he would walk out behind me and say “boo.” But it wasn’t. And he didn’t. I stood there in the blinding sun, torn between running back inside and trying to shake him awake and keeping my eye on Waggery, who could easily escape if he wanted to. My heart told me to watch Waggery closely because it would break if I lost him, too.
Under normal circumstances I would allow him to hang out at the duck pond with Ligeia. A four-pound bird with the mental capacity of a kindergartner wasn’t easy to subdue before he was good and ready anyway. But on this day, I did what I hated to do: I gave chase. I needed to corral him at home, ensure his safety, and hurry back to talk with Officer Bucket as soon as I possibly could.
He had landed on a tree branch over some shrubbery where Ligeia liked to hang out and was squawking her name. I can’t say for sure that this duck knew her name, but she certainly knew that Waggery sometimes showed up with snacks, and she chattered and wiggled her tail in excitement.
Waggery saw me approaching, which is the worst thing to happen when I’m trying to retrieve him. He loved games even more when he knew I wasn’t playing. I chased him from branch to branch more than halfway around the length of the pond, his cackling causing more and more laughter and attracting more of the attention he craved.
He darted into a hedge.
“Not now, Waggery—” As I began to scold, the bushes rustled forcefully, and I was concerned that he was tangled up or had been apprehended by one of the stray cats that prowled the duck pond for easy prey.
“Looking for this?” It was Hank Hoggarty, covered in dirt, wearing a High on the Hoggarty ball cap. He emerged from the landscaping that covered another secret stairway to his family’s network of underground Prohibition tunnels. Waggery was on his forearm.
“You scared me to death.” I put my hand on my heart, which I could feel pounding under my breastbone. “I thought Waggery was being attacked.”
“What’s happening here?” he asked, gesturing toward the flashing lights and first responders that hurried all about the plaza. His hands were filthy, and he had about three-days’ growth on his rust-colored beard, giving him a Prince Harry-on-vacation vibe. If the timing were different, I probably would have hit him with some kind of dirty Harry joke, but now was not the time.
“The mayor was found dead in his office,” I said, feeling the tears coming. I didn’t know how to tell him I’d been the one who found him.
His jaw tightened. “Choked to death on his own ego?”
“Hank.”
“He wasn’t good for Prosperity,” he said.
Waggery growled.
Hank Hoggarty was my oldest friend, and he was best summed up by the Devil card: he wasn’t a bad guy, but he was prone to mischief and the pursuit of pleasure. He was also easily tempted by vices, anger, and obsession. I once commented that he might have been better off if he hadn’t been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He said it’s not a silver spoon, it’s a golden shovel—and he can’t stop himself from digging.
“I’m not going to have this conversation with you again,” I said. “Not now.”
The heir to the Hoggarty fortune, Hank fled town the second the check cleared, and partied his inheritance away. He’d returned to Prosperity, broke and broken, determined to live on his family’s estate, Hoggarty Heaven. But what he found instead was that the only thing he still owned was an old hardware shop downtown that, due to the mayor’s new Prosperity Prospers initiative, was only permitted to be a restaurant. In Hank’s absence, Hoggarty Heaven had fallen into disrepair, so the mayor created the Historical Society to oversee its repair and upkeep.
My Uncle Grist, who grew up working for the Hoggarty Family on the estate, was appointed caretaker. Grist lived in the carriage house that Hank had hoped to claim.
To say Hank was bitter about all of this was an understatement.
“I won’t miss him.” He spit on the ground.
“Careful, Hank,” I said. “That’s meaner than usual, even for you.”
“Sorry,” he said, in a voice that didn’t sound sorry. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“Only thing on your mind is that ugly High on the Hoggarty hat you’re wearing,” I said. “You should have left it in the tunnels.” I made a bad joke to lighten his mood. “What were you doing down there?”
“Thanks to your mayor, may he rest in peace, this hat, and the business it advertises, are two of the only things I have left.”
“I’m sorry, Hank—” I had trouble looking him in the eye. We both had struggled recently, and our problems usually drew us together. But today, with what had happened, I feared we weren’t going to find common ground.
“You should probably mind your own business, Mizz Dettwiler,” he said, with an emphasis on “dett.” “Like the stack of letters from creditors I’m keeping for you at the Bar & Grill. I wouldn’t want anyone to suspect me of covering up a crime for you.”
Deflection was Hank’s superpower.
“You don’t have to be like this,” I said. “It’s been a hard day. For some of us.”
“Your so-called uncle is waving you down.” He pointed to Uncle Grist who was in the crowd, watching the scene unfold. I hadn’t thought about him yet. He would be crushed.
I signaled to Waggery to hop onto my shoulder. “I need to go to him.”
“You do that,” Hank said. “Go to your family.” He said the word “family” with a sneer.
“Hank, I—”
He turned and walked away. I wondered if he was going back to his restaurant. Or if he had unfinished business in the tunnels.
The plaza had erupted into chaos. Tourists were gawking. Residents were rubbernecking. I thought the mayor would love how cinematic this all looked. He’d recently outfitted Prosperity’s small police force with vintage 1920s squad cars.
“They’re a nod to Prosperity’s Prohibition heritage,” he said. “They’re perfect for Instagram.”
“They’re expensive to maintain,” I said. “They’re perfectly impractical.” But he’d had his heart set on them, and here they were, looking equal parts charming and silly.
I spotted Uncle Grist’s top hat, and shouldered my way through the gathering crowd, many of whom were taking selfies with the police cars, unaware that a man had been murdered.
“Carrie, thank goodness you’re here,” Grist said, rubbing his salt-and-pepper beard, a self-soothing habit he’d picked up after my Aunt Inez died. “Terrible thing. The mayor. I can’t believe it.”
Grist Featherweight was my Magician. Like the image on the tarot card, he was always dressed in something fancy, as if he were presiding over an important ritual. The chalice on the Magician’s table reminded me of Grist’s love of wine; the flowers that bloomed around him represented his stewardship of the natural world and beautiful things. But the thing that reminded me most of the Magician was the infinity symbol over the Magician’s head—perpetual reinvention. Grist was a master of adapting to new circumstances.
“Officer Bucket is looking for you.” He had taken off his hat and was worrying the edges of the brim with his fingers.
“I found him,” I said. “The mayor, I mean. I’m the one who called.”
“Oh, no,” he said. “Why aren’t you cooperating with the police?”
“Oh, no,” Waggery repeated.
“Not now, buddy,” I said, gently patting his beak. “I’m cooperating by not cooperating. After I found the mayor’s—” I had trouble choking out the words “—body, Waggery wigged out. I had to get him out of there. I’m trying to get him home. When he’s settled, I’ll talk to anyone who wants to talk.”
“See that you do, Carrie,” Uncle Grist said. “He told me there were black feathers in the building and he wondered if you’d been there.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I said I’d seen you on the plaza as usual, and that you probably went by to make a payment on your loan.”
“You told him I owed the mayor money?” My palms felt sticky, and I couldn’t figure out why. Everyone in town knew I was in debt, but it bothered me that Grist had mentioned this to the police. My debt was becoming both literally and figuratively inescapable.
“I didn’t mean to insinuate anything,” he said. “I wanted to let him know that it’s a common occurrence for you to drop by. I’m sure it’s fine. But he wants you to speak with him.”
While I was bothered that he’d mentioned the debt, I was unconcerned that Grist had accidentally fingered me as a suspect. He was being honest. And I knew that my actions that day could easily be explained.
I saw Daisy’s blond ringlets bouncing in the distance as she trailed behind the first responders, taking notes. I could already imagine the headline: Mayor Slayer on the Loose: Suspected Enchantress Disappears for a Spell.
I was going to have to hurry to get ahead of this story. The last time Daisy trash-talked me in the press, my business dipped, teenagers egged my house, and Hank wouldn’t stop joking about my ‘resting witch face.’ I’d had to give away free readings at the Prosperity Porch Potlucks to build my client list back.
Waggery fussed on my shoulder. “I need to get Waggery home soon. He’s already ambushed one stranger today.”
“It’s a terrible day,” Grist said.
“It is,” I agreed. “But let’s remember what Inez always said.”
“Stop leaving the seat up in the middle of the night?”
“Grist. No,” I said, with a laugh that didn’t sit right in my throat considering the grim circumstances. “She would say, ‘There’s always a way forward.’ Let’s agree that no matter what, you and I will always move forward.”
We hugged and held on for a little longer than usual, more aware than ever of how quickly you can lose someone you love.
Chapter Four
“Girl, there’s gossip.”
The great thing about living in a small town is that you can’t walk five feet without running into someone you know. The bad thing about living in a small town is that you can’t walk five feet without running into someone you know.
I’d barely stepped onto the sidewalk when Walker and Lister, wearing their perfectly pressed, inexplicably stain-free Daily Grind aprons, caught up to me. If Prosperity’s currency was gossip, Walker and Lister were the local bank.
“I’m sorry I brought Waggery in again this morning,” I said. “I know you hate him being in your shop, but with everything that happened after, I hope you can forgive me.”
These two were like a dog with a bone when something bothered them. I’d learned long ago that the path of least resistance was to apologize for something, anything, to get back into their good graces. I deserved overpriced, locally brewed coffee as much as anyone.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Lister, twirling the dainty upturned curl of his imperial mustache. “But we spotted you sneaking out the back door of the town hall where the mayor’s body was found. A door that we had not seen until today.”
“It’s not like that,” I said. “And how’s that gossip?” My thoughts drifted to the figure I’d seen in the anteroom, and I was kicking myself for not giving chase. But what would I have done if I had captured a murder suspect? Read their cards?
Walker and Lister exchanged raised eyebrow looks.
“It’s gossip now because we’re telling everyone,” Walker said, undaunted. “We’re spreading it all over town, like you do with those creepy cards of yours.”
“I, for one, do not think you have it in you,” said Lister. “Walker likes to imagine that everyone’s got some dark secret, right babe?”
“Everyone’s hiding something,” Walker said. “Who knew the mayor was going to end up taking a dirt nap today? He’s got a lot of enemies, for sure. Seems likely that people would think it’s a satanic sacrifice. That’s what Daisy’s already telling everyone.”
Walker and Lister were my Moon and Sun cards. Walker, whose round, hairless head and serious expression was reminiscent of the lunar image on the tarot card, was fear-based and prone to chasing illusion. Lister was energy, vitality, positive messages—a happy baby riding in on a white horse to bring good tidings. But the flip side was that Lister could be irresponsible.
“A satanic sacrifice seems likely?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “In Prosperity? Performed by me? Because Daisy said so?”
“People are also saying the police found something rather… incriminating.”
My patience was running out. “What did they find, Walker?”
“The mayor was holding a tarot card in his hand.”
I scanned my memory and cringed at what I conjured. The mayor’s dead body. The blood. But I didn’t see a tarot card. I would’ve remembered that.
“What card?” was all I could think of to say.
“Like we would know,” Walker said. “Officer Bucket took it as evidence. Put it in one of those little baggies like on TV.”
A fresh chill snaked up my spine. There was nothing inherently negative about a tarot card. But when found in the hand of a corpse, it might relay a dark message from a murderer.
Or it could incriminate me.
I considered launching into my usual diatribe about how tarot cards aren’t black magic, but Waggery was doing that thing he does when it’s snack time: squawking and wiggling.
“There was a card in his hand. You were at the office, and you are the only person in town who struts around with a literal harbinger of death on her shoulder,” Walker said.
He was enjoying himself a little too much.
“I don’t strut,” I said. “Let’s apply this same logic to you two. Last time I checked, you were trashing the mayor to everyone who came into your shop for allowing that Corporate Cuppa to open.”
“I don’t like what you’re insinuating,” Walker said with a wag of his finger. “Plus, we were delivering coffee to Emma Fort-Knightly on the plaza when you dashed out. We all saw it. Doesn’t look good.” He made a little tsk-tsk sound that infuriated me.
Waggery growled, a low grinding sound that he only made when he felt threatened.
“We shouldn’t turn on each other,” Lister interrupted. “There still needs to be an investigation. I’m sure Daisy Chatterly will get to the bottom of it. She always does.”
I rolled my eyes.
“I saw that, young lady. You’d better hope no one finds anything else,” said Walker. “Or you’re going to be flipping your little cards over in the hoosegow.”
My hand instinctively went to the opulent ring in my pocket. I realized that if the police—or worse, Daisy—knew I had something this expensive that belonged to the mayor, things might be more complicated than explaining my side of the story. Plus, hadn’t the mayor mentioned to Officer Bucket that he thought someone might have stolen it? (Bling Sting: Tarot Temptress Stole Ring flashed into my mind.)
“I didn’t go into his office,” I said. “But I have to run. I remembered something important.”
“Your cards aren’t going to help you here, Carrie,” Walker called after me as I hustled down the street toward my house.
“You’re right,” I called over my shoulder. “This time I need to be the one asking questions.”
Back in the safety of my sunny kitchen, I fed Waggery a handful of unsalted peanuts in the shell, and a few peeled cucumbers from the garden.
“You probably need a nap,” I said. “But I’ve made a dangerous decision, and you are going to help me.”
I had his attention.
“Now that you’re all fueled up, you wanna go make some mischief?” I asked.
And I swear his reaction sounded like, “I thought you’d never ask.”
The mayor’s house was around the corner, but it might as well have been in a different world. My little cottage, so lovingly doted on by my aunt, was exactly that: a little cottage. It was on a shady street nestled next to other little cottages, all with similar stucco walls, tile roofs, and water-wise yards. Lavender bloomed in abundance, filling the air with that specific sweet-menthol scent; everyone had a Meyer lemon tree and a row or two of wine-grape vines. Cats lounged in the middle of the lane like they owned the place, unafraid of speeding traffic because there was none. Like myself, most of my neighbors walked everywhere in town. I didn’t have a car, though, so my walking was less “charming quirk” and more “total necessity.”
