The Cupid Caper, page 5
“Yeah, I definitely don’t get how any of this is funny, but let’s move past that for now. And we’ve cleared up the location.” Sort of. Not really. As much as possible for now. “That leaves the gun. Tell me about the gun.”
The affable, even accommodating, nature that both Gabe and Ray had displayed thus far evaporated.
“What gun?” Gabe asked with a scowl.
“The gun you guys put in my innocent unconscious hands,” Michael replied calmly. And coldly.
He was livid about the gun.
“Are you insane?” Ray asked. “A gun? Why would you have a gun?”
At the same time, Gabe asked, “Where did you get a gun?”
Nuts.
If neither of these yahoos found a gun on the porch or in the yard, and they didn’t put it into Michael’s hands—a “prank” that might have seemed insane before I met them, less so now—then who the heck had?
Who was I kidding?
There was only one choice.
I turned to Michael, who looked like he was having the same realization I was, and patted his back.
He’d had a very near miss with the killer. He just hadn’t realized it until now.
All three of the cupids were shaken by the implications of the killer placing the gun in Michael’s hand. So shaken that we ended the interview prematurely.
I got Gabe and Ray’s numbers before leaving, but I wasn’t so sure either of those jokers ever answered their phones. I could only hope, because I was sure I’d have more questions for them.
But not until we all had a chance to digest what we’d just learned.
6
No Such Thing as Zombie Swords
This was Texas. We had guns. Lots of guns.
But it turned out, the cupid portion of the population was an outlier.
As Gabe had stated before we’d parted ways, “We’re all about the love. We don’t do weapons in general and definitely not guns.”
They’d appeared both adamant and genuine. Which once again made me wonder about Anton and his hasty arrest of Michael. Was he that much of a rule-follower? Find guy on scene with gun, must arrest…even if obviously innocent?
To be fair, Anton’s opinions on justice, while not in complete agreement with Alex’s, frequently aligned. So maybe he’d done the best he could. Followed the rules. Arrested the obviously guilty guy just in case he really was involved in some way, however tangentially, with the killing of three women.
And then he turned around and hired me.
Maybe mean Mr. Clean wasn’t always so mean?
Hmm.
That assumed that Anton really was doing the best he could.
It also assumed that he respected my ability to get a good outcome and had hired me in good faith.
Two difficult realities for me to embrace.
And yes, I was well aware that I held a grudge against Anton for his initial starve-or-I’ll-kill-you mentality.
Michael, Boone, and I were in the Jeep headed back to my house as I contemplated the purity (or lack thereof) of Anton’s motivations.
Between tea with Bradley and the circuitous conversation with the cupid boys, it had gotten late. I needed to feed Boone and take care of another task I could only do at home.
Michael had agreed to come with me to discuss next steps and strategize. Since I was happy for the company and a sounding board, I’d readily agreed.
But since we’d gotten in the car, we hadn’t discussed the case and had fallen into our own thoughts.
Me dithering over the concept of justice, Anton, and how they collided, but also considering the ramifications of the whole gun issue.
And Michael… I wasn’t sure what he’d been silently contemplating.
“You okay, buddy?” I asked. We were almost to my house, just another three or four minutes.
“I thought they’d lost their ever-loving minds. I didn’t think for a second that it was the killer. I didn’t. It just… It just didn’t occur to me.”
Ah. I should have guessed.
It was understandable that he was struggling with the implications of the gun. It was a disturbing thought, for several reasons.
One, the killer had been in the house when Michael had been ditched by his friends on Katarina’s doorstep.
Two, the killer could have easily, in Michael’s incapacitated state, killed him.
Three, and this had to be truly disturbing for a gentle soul like Michael—the man’s life work was to facilitate love matches, for goodness’ sake—the killer could have possible been murdering Katarina at the very moment that Michael had been passed out on her porch. He’d quite possibly been in a drunken stupor only feet away while a woman had been murdered.
That fact made him in no way responsible for her death.
The only person responsible was the sicko who’d killed Katarina—and quite possibly Michelle and Lisa.
But if I were Michael and I thought I’d been so liquored up I hadn’t heard a murder being committed mere feet away… Yeah, I’d feel pretty damn guilty.
My gaze slid to Michael after I turned into my neighborhood. His expression was tight. “You were at the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s all.”
He scrubbed his hands across his face. “That’s just it. I don’t think I was. I think these murders are all about love. Somehow. Gabe and Ray may seem like complete idiots, and sometimes they can be, but they wouldn’t get the love part wrong.”
“Well, we know that she was on the enhanced dating app.”
“Hookup app.”
I rolled my eyes. “Is there any other app for meeting other single enhanced people in the area?”
“No, but that doesn’t change the purpose of the app…which is to facilitate hookups.”
Such a man, even if he was a cupid. “Here’s the thing, Mikey, when there’s no dating app, women of a certain age are going to use what’s available to find the very small pool of single men in their area.”
As I pulled into my driveway, I saw that his expression had eased a bit. “Women of a certain age, huh? What age would that be?”
“Not twenty,” I replied tartly.
I might be happily coupled up with a wonderful man, but I remembered what it was like being a single thirty-something.
Not fun. That was what it was like.
I shut off the car engine and turned to look at him. “We’ll figure it out.”
He shifted in his seat to face me. “Before there’s another murder?” Then he shook his head. “I need some food if I’m going to think clearly. I’ll order a pizza and you can feed Boone and yourself.” He gave me a stern look, which was deserved. I was overdue some shake action. “Then we’ll dig into what we know so far.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
With Boone eating his dinner and Michael happily occupied with pizza and my laptop, I excused myself and took the opportunity to slip away to my bedroom.
After I closed the door quietly behind me, I locked it. Then I retrieved Tangwystl from her new resting place under my bed.
I loved Tangwystl.
And not in that way that people talked about loving a favorite mug or pair of jeans.
She wasn’t an object.
Well, she was an object, but she was a very special sort of object. She had a personality. Her own thoughts, opinions, and adorably obnoxious way of communicating.
And I hadn’t given up hope that her unique, bloodthirsty, somewhat contrary personality was inside the seemingly lifeless husk she’d become.
Maybe hibernating?
Maybe mostly dead but a little alive? I mean, I was a weird combination of dead and living myself, though clearly mostly alive since I only failed on a few of the normal living markers. But it was possible.
With that hope in my heart, I’d taken her out routinely and polished her with Santa’s hanky. I didn’t think he’d mind. Santa was a good guy, and he’d be okay with me using his magic healing hanky on a sword, because Tangwystl was a living sword.
Or she had been.
But that wasn’t the point. The point was that I held out hope, and I cleaned her regularly because it was the least I could do for a friend who’d sacrificed so much.
Then this thing happened.
One day when I wasn’t paying close attention, I might possibly have nicked myself. And my blood might possibly have disappeared into the still dull metal of Tangwystl’s blade.
And then I might have started to, sort of, regularly accidentally nick myself.
And accidentally dribble blood on her blade.
And accidentally make sure I did it a few times a week.
Because it’s not like I could make a zombie undead sword…right?
Right?
And once I’d convinced myself that there was no way that such a thing as a zombie sword could possibly exist—even though my blood had a history of doing weird mind-controlly things to people—the dribbling became a daily event. And then the dribbling turned into a little more than dribbling.
Which is how I ended up with a secret daily appointment with my resting, maybe hibernating, definitely not dead sword.
If she was absorbing blood, then that was some sort of proof that she was still in there somewhere, so far as I was concerned.
But I wasn’t sure what everyone else (Cornelius and Alex, even Wembley) would have to say about it all. So I wasn’t willing to share yet.
I released her from her scabbard then sat down on my bed. I kind of hated this part. When she was awake, she could make wounds she inflicted painless, and she could heal them as well.
But while she was…like this, she couldn’t do that.
I inhaled deeply and on a slow exhale sliced the inside of my forearm. “Ow.” It hurt every time I did it except now I’d begun to anticipate the pain, which made it a smidge worse.
Using the flat of her blade, I pressed against the wound to staunch the flow of blood.
This was the procedure that had evolved over the last three weeks, providing me with the least pain, her the most blood, and my clothes a chance at being blood free. Also, I didn’t have to actually watch drips of blood seep out of my arm and onto her blade. For someone who had only recently overcome a pretty stout aversion to blood, witnessing the stuff dripping was asking a lot.
I counted to thirty and lifted the blade away, there was no excess blood and the wound only wept slightly.
She had to be in there. She’d always liked the taste of my blood when she’d been a living, talking, opinionated weapon, and even now in her dormant state, she still took every drop I gave her.
I grabbed the pristine white handkerchief that was loosely tied around Tangwystl’s grip and rubbed it along my arm. Santa’s hanky came in handy for healing the wound I made daily, which saved me a lot of awkward questions.
Then I took the cloth and ran it along all her surfaces: both sides of the blade, the grip, the pommel, and the guard.
Then I did it again.
And since three was a lucky sort of number, I did it one more time.
“Tangwystl?” I whispered.
There was no reply, however much I wanted to hear one.
7
Star Takes a Stand
A polite knock at the front door surprised me.
I’d just left my room and rejoined Michael in the kitchen. He’d been busy emailing what local cupids he could—the ones who weren’t still partying—to ask them if they knew anything about Michelle, Lisa, or Katarina.
He was convinced there was a love connection in this case, and I didn’t think he was wrong.
I hurried to the door, wondering who could possibly be stopping by. Alex would knock and let himself in. Also, I knew his knock, and it was much more assertive, if a knock could be assertive.
Bradley would never dream of stopping by unannounced. But now that I thought about it, I would have expected to hear from him by now.
I opened the door to find Star, aka She Who Does Not Return Phone Calls, standing outside.
At least this time I hadn’t jumped to any outlandish conclusions concerning her silence, versus the last time she’d gone radio silent on me. Last time she’d been in the midst of a personal crisis. This time was one hundred percent Cornelius-manufactured.
“I missed you, so I thought I’d stop by.” She gave me an innocent smile. “Maybe have a cup of tea.”
There was nothing innocent about Star. Also, she missed me?
We were friends, yes, but her life was so busy, even with recent changes she’d made to lighten her load, that I doubted she had time to miss me or anyone else. And Star wasn’t the sort to miss people.
I crossed my arms. “Really? You thought you’d stop by without calling first? That's unusual for you.”
She fluttered her lashes, in a blatantly faux display of innocence that was completely at odds with her soccer mom image. “I'm certainly not here to share information with you. I wouldn't do that, because I've been told I'm not allowed to share information on this case. Also, can I mention how annoying Cornelius has been in recent months?”
Translation: I’ve been forbidden to speak to you about the case. I’m going to speak to you about the case.
She looked past my shoulder and smiled. This time there was no artifice involved. “Michael! I'm so glad to see you.”
“It's been a while.” Michael stepped forward, and Star walked past me to hug him.
Star hugged Michael.
This from a person who refused to shake hands.
What was I saying? It wasn’t just Star’s hang-up. The whole enhanced community was weird as heck about casual physical contact.
Reasonably so, considering some of the accidental magic I’ve sparked by touching people. I usually only offered to shake hands when I forgot or was in a mood and intentionally pushing someone’s buttons.
And yet, here were a cupid and a witch, going crazy with the touching, forgoing a handshake for a full-body, affectionate hug.
When Star released Michael, she turned to me with a squinty-eyed look. “Why did you look guilty when you answered the door?”
Tangwystl and her daily feeding… “No reason.”
“Hmm.” She wasn’t buying it.
It was really annoying that her recent increased involvement with her kids had sharpened her BS detector. Or maybe it had always been this finely tuned. This was Star, overachiever extraordinaire, beyond competent in all things.
On the plus side, managing a passel of kids looked good on her. Focusing on just the kids and her witchy contract work and giving her husband back the responsibility of running the funeral home had removed a gauntness around her eyes that I hadn’t even noticed was there until it had disappeared.
She was still looking at me with too much curiosity, so I fled to the kitchen.
“Tea,” I said as I hurried past her.
“Fine, but only because there are more pressing matters at hand.” She followed me at a more a reasonable pace and then settled in a seat at the kitchen table.
Boone hadn’t retired to his bedroom—I’d given up pretending it was the guest room—because Michael presented the possibility of pets. So he’d been watching the greetings unfold with a speck of canine hopefulness.
Once Star was seated she turned her attention to Boone, reinforcing his belief that all visitors were actually there for him, to provide scratches, pets, and rubs.
“Did you get a chance to look at the bodies?” Michael asked, joining her at the table.
Star might not run the funeral home any longer, but she still did as many of the local enhanced autopsies as she could get assigned to her. According to her, no other witch was half as qualified.
True fact.
“Better. I did the autopsies, only a partial so far on Lisa and Katarina, and I arranged to pick up all three at the scene.” She lifted the strap of her crossbody purse over her head.
“Oh, you clever girl. I’d kiss you if you weren’t happily married with twelve kids.”
She snorted. “Right. I don’t think I’m your type.”
Busy with the electric kettle in the kitchen, I could hear the smile in Michael’s voice as he replied, “Of course you are. My type will always be edges that need a little smoothing layered on top of a heart of gold.”
Which made her laugh.
I’m not sure why, because that was Star. Sometimes brusque, certainly competent, but most importantly, always helpful, because she cared so very much.
When I returned to the table with tea fixings, Star had her purse open and was pulling out what looked like plastic baggies with paper towels in them. Three to be exact.
“Is this a weird mom thing?” Because moms had items for all occasions in their mom-purses.
Although what occasion called for wipes in plastic bags, I wasn’t entirely sure.
“No. I’m hoping I did this right. Or right enough that Boone can give us some clue if the three women came into contact with the same person near the time they died.”
Boone bounded from the spot near Michael’s feet where he’d laid down. With his floppy ears perked, he trotted the few steps to Star’s side and then planted himself in an eager sit.
Since I was excluded from this case, that meant that Boone was, as well. Rather short-sighted of Cornelius given Boone’s very particular skills. But Star had found a way around that. Hopefully.
“I wasn’t entirely sure how to do this, so I’m just going to tell you what I did.” And when Star said she wasn’t sure, she meant she’d done some research but had no personal experience. Or had personal experience, but hadn’t mastered the task.
Boone wagged his tail in agreement.
She pointed to the bags. “Each of these contains a gauze pad that I ran along the body and clothes of the murder victims. Just a piece of sterile gauze. When I was done, I put them in the plastic bag and stored them in my purse. Since plastic breathes, I went ahead and created a tiny containment field around each of the bags.”
