The Hearth Witch's Guide to Magic & Murder, page 11
Avery was puzzled at the turnstile before watching Saga pass through, and when they came before the map of train lines, her brow had crumpled.
“Don’t stress,” Saga assured. “A lot of people get a bit turned around with the tube system. What’s the address?”
Avery reluctantly handed over the file once more for Saga to examine. “I…” She seemed to rethink her sentence and spoke again. “I don’t have money for the train on me, I’m afraid.”
Saga paused in her efforts to cross-reference the address on her phone. “That’s all right, public transport is free in London, remember?” At least it had been since Saga had been a child. It was part of the government’s ongoing effort to keep traffic flowing and the air clean by decreasing the number of cars on the road.
“R-right,” said Avery. Then with an expression somewhere between embarrassment and irritation, she added. “I…forgot.”
“It happens. I take it this is very different from where you used to live?”
Avery met her gaze, and there was a flash of desperation in her eyes that reminded Saga of patients before going into the OR—something that said, “you have to help me.” Instead the woman chuffed a laugh, and the look was gone. “You have no idea.”
They took the Hammersmith and City line from Baker Street Station toward Hammersmith, Avery following closely behind Saga, but never taking the lead. They sat side by side in silence.
Saga was excited. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this sort of excitement. Not even her own wedding day had her heart thrumming the way it was now. It made it hard to sit still on the train. She found herself glancing at Avery periodically. She was distant, deep in thought.
The woman was ghostly against the contrast of the vibrant seats, a wraith shrouded in a black duster. Beneath a simple black vest, she wore a white button-up that had been left undone at the throat and collarbone, and high-waisted trousers had been tucked neatly into tall black riding boots.
It was at that moment it struck Saga that Avery appeared rather “out of time.” From no place in particular, but certainly not originating in the present day. It was oddly charming, albeit far too devoid of color.
A nice scarf would cheer the outfit up nicely. Something rich. Warm and rich.
The train chimed, and a woman’s posh accent broke Saga’s concentration as it slowed to a stop and the doors opened.
“This station is Wood Lane. Change here for the Circle Line.”
Again, Saga took the lead and they both exited the train.
“Please mind the gap between the train and the platform.”
It wasn’t a long walk to the apartment building, but now that they were not crowded by people, she felt like she could ask more about the case. “So, for this…me-coming-with-you thing.” She thought better of the words after she said them, certain that Avery would regret inviting her along. “What I mean is—what do you need me to do exactly?”
Despite the comfortable silence they had found next to each other for the eighteen minutes or so of travel both on foot and by train, this question got Avery’s attention in a way that suggested she’d forgotten Saga was there.
That was it. She’d done it now. Saga’s stomach lurched. Why did she say anything at all? She should have stayed quiet. Her mouth was always getting her into trouble.
“You brought the notebook and the pencil?” It was asked quietly, and gave the impression Avery already knew the answer.
Saga pulled the small pad of paper she’d used for writing down orders from her pocket.
“Would you mind terribly taking notes?” Avery’s voice did not raise in volume, but Saga had no trouble hearing it; it was gentle, low, and unassuming. “I noticed you have a quick hand. It would help a lot to have more than just my memory to go on. Normally I can trust it, but…” She shook her head, dismissing the thought and causing the silvery strands across her forehead to rustle.
“I don’t mind,” Saga answered, then, feeling a little bolder. “Is that all you need me to do?”
“Fates no, what a waste that would be.” The answer came so naturally it could only be believed. Then, a thoughtful addendum. “Though, it would probably be best when in mixed company. Observe, take note, confer after in private.”
It made sense. After all, Saga was not with the police, she had no idea what should or shouldn’t be said, and the realization that she could absolutely bungle an interrogation or evidence made her incredibly nervous. She hung back behind the other woman, watching the breeze play with the tail of her coat and the strands of her hair. She held the Brigid medallion between her fingers.
The Bowery, an upscale apartment community that had been listed as Valentina’s last known address, was a newer addition to the area. Part of a mixed-use development that seemed out of place in the quaint suburban neighborhood, it stood on natural stone pavement betwixt a market and a string of boutiques. It towered up several stories through the wonders of modern architecture, with the materials and style of days long gone.
A large hunter-green awning stretched out onto the sidewalk, sheltering both the front door and a man dressed in a matching green uniform.
An odd sight. When Saga thought of the area, she thought of Brackenbury Village and the houses that resembled Easter eggs, or perhaps Ravenscourt Park and its paddling pool. It did not conjure an image of a man in a custom suit that matched the awning of the apartment for which he stood gatekeeper.
Avery appeared to share her mild confusion, for she produced a paper where she’d written the address and was glancing between it and the building in front of them. “Strange.”
“Innit?” Saga echoed. “I used to have a mate that lived round here. Can’t imagine when this sprung up though.”
Avery glanced at her before folding the paper back into an inside pocket only to produce something else. “Looks nothing like a farm either. Dutch or otherwise.”23
Saga wondered if a joke had just gone over her head as she followed after the taller woman who strode directly up to the porter.
“Afternoon, sir,” Avery greeted, flashing a little black notebook at the man. “Detective Inspector Avery Hemlock, I’m investigating the passing of one of your tenants.”
Hemlock? Had Saga known Avery’s last name was Hemlock? No. Surely, she’d have remembered that.
“Miss LaRosa.” His face fell and he removed his matching green Breton cap with a gold braid over the brim.
“You knew her?” Avery asked gently, giving a slight glance to Saga, who quickly produced her notebook and a pencil.
“It’s ma job to know everyone in the buildin’,” the porter answered with what might have usually been a point of pride but was significantly diminished in the wake of Valentina’s death. “Sanderson Fitz, been a doorman for nearly half my life. Not here though. Here is new.” He tapped his temple. “Eighth floor. Number 5. Miss LaRosa and Miss Walker. No pets. Moved in two years ago. One of the first, just after the building opened. Think Miss Walker knew one of the developers. She’s in real estate.”
Saga mused that learning Gregg shorthand had been invaluable for taking notes at school, with the added bonus of making it rather impossible for any of her classmates to copy her notes. This skill set had unconsciously seeped into taking orders at the café (much to the cooks’ vexation), and now it served her to take down witness accounts of a possible murder investigation word for word.
“Do you happen to know Miss Walker’s first name?”
“Rachel.”
Saga stopped writing abruptly, shocked. She caught Avery’s eye, seeing the barest hints of an approving smile on her lips. A wave of goose bumps crashed over her skin, and she forced herself to look back at the man in green.
“Do you know if there’d been problems between the two of them lately?”
He fidgeted with his hat. “Miss LaRosa hadn’t been home for a couple of weeks. I figured they’d sort it out—they always did. Miss LaRosa did come back before the accident.”
“When was that?” Avery pressed.
“About a week before she passed?”
“And where was Miss Walker during that time?” There was a calmness to Avery’s voice that was almost hypnotic. It didn’t demand answers, it beckoned them with a tone that knew it would be given satisfaction.
Saga found herself oddly wishing she had the answers so she could be the one to deliver them. It was a strange sensation—an intoxicating desire, no, a need to answer the melody of Avery’s voice if she had the information.
“Miss Walker had been staying with her mother until recently. She didn’t want to be around when Miss LaRosa returned.” He gave a sad smile. “They would have worked it out, Inspector. They always did. God just didn’t have the time, I suppose.”
Avery smiled politely and nodded. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Fitz. Do you happen to know if Miss Walker might be home?”
The porter nodded, replaced his hat, and turned to open the door for them.
Avery paused before entering. “You didn’t happen to see Miss LaRosa leave that night, did you?”
Sanderson Fitz shook his head. “We have a day and night porter, but unless a tenant makes a special request, we end service at midnight.” He let them pass into the lobby. “Inspector, she did come downstairs quite a few times that evening—but I never saw her leave.”
Avery held still as if any movement might spook him into silence. “How do you mean?”
“About once an hour from four to nine p.m. She’d be making as if she was leaving for work, then ask me the time and go back up.”
The pale woman’s brow knitted momentarily, and she gave a firm nod. “Thank you, Mr. Fitz.” She turned to face the elevators and stopped, her expression quizzical.
“Eighth floor,” Saga remembered, calling the lift with the press of a gold button.
Avery acknowledged this with a half-nod, her attention homing in on the notebook in Saga’s hand. “Were you able to get all of that?”
“Every word,” Saga raised the pad for Avery’s inspection.
The confusion that flooded over the handsome face was endlessly satisfying. “I don’t wish to be unkind, but your handwriting is absolutely atrocious. I can’t make out any of this.”
“It’s shorthand.” Saga laughed.
“Respectfully, I’ve seen far smaller hands write infinitely more legibly.”
The doors dinged, and Saga led Avery inside, still fantastically amused by the misunderstanding. “I meant I wrote in shorthand.” She pressed the button for the eighth floor. “Stenographers and secretaries have used it for centuries. It’s a way of writing so you can copy a lot of information accurately without having to write every letter. See?” She pointed to a line in her notes and quoted. “They would have worked it out, Inspector. They always did. God just didn’t have the time, I suppose.”
“I don’t believe any God had much to do with what happened to Valentina LaRosa that night,” Avery answered grimly. She inspected the notes again in a new light and smiled. “I’d heard of a system like this. I’d even read John Willis’s book on the matter, but this looks so different.”
“Well, there are different systems,” Saga explained. “This is Gregg shorthand. I liked it because it didn’t matter what I was writing with as much, I could eke out a passable version of it for my notes. Even with a crayon once.”
“I would very dearly like to learn it,” Avery confessed, handing the book back to her. “You are a growing wonder, Saga.”
She could feel her cheeks burn, but she just smiled. “As are you, Inspector Hemlock.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Not at all. I just realized I hadn’t known your surname until just now.”
“Really?” She was genuinely surprised. “I would have thought your aunt would have told you.”
“No, just that your tab was being picked up by Blackthorn. We’d all seen you by then.”
“Odd,” Avery observed.
“Is it? You don’t know my surname.”
“It’s Hudson.”
“It’s Trygg.”
The doors slid open to the eighth floor with another punctuated ding, but neither woman moved.
“Saga Trygg,” Avery repeated softly, curiously.
“My dad was from Oslo.” The doors began to close and Saga stretched her hand out to reset them before motioning for Avery to exit first.
Avery’s attention fixated on the numbers of each apartment as they passed. “So, your grandmother is a Hudson—”
“My grandmother is an O’Donnell, my grandfather was a Hudson,” Saga interjected her correction. “My mother and aunt are also Hudsons.”
Avery’s head bobbed as she got a clearer picture of this family tree. “Your uncle is a Lahiri and you’re a Trygg.”
Saga bowed her head in a mock curtsey. “We’re a family of proud families.”
“So it would seem.” There was a moment, brief, but unmistakable, that Avery appeared envious of the idea. She took a deep breath, focusing on the door now in front of them. “Are you ready?”
Saga held up her pad and pencil. “Once more unto the breach.”
Avery stepped forward and gave two firm knocks.
Finally the door opened and a woman in her early thirties peered out at them. She was fair-haired and tall with a ballerina’s build and a porcelain complexion. She was dressed suitably cozy for a Sunday afternoon, wearing a pink woolly jumper over black leggings. Her green eyes regarded them with a skittish mix of confusion and perhaps even fear.
“Miss Walker?” Avery addressed the woman in that same calm disarming way that felt like being wrapped in a warm blanket.
“Yes?” Rachel opened the door a little more, and Saga could already see her posture had relaxed from when she first answered.
Avery reached into her coat and produced the black book once more to flash her credentials. “Beg your pardon. Detective Inspector Hemlock, I’m with special investigations. I’ve been looking into Miss LaRosa’s death. Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?”
It was brief, and likely a trick of the light, but from the corner of her eye, Saga could have sworn Avery had merely held up a notebook. A black leather notebook. Perhaps a few scribbled notes, but nothing more. But the way Rachel acknowledged it with such recognition, respect even, it couldn’t have been.
“I’m sorry, I’m confused. I thought Val was in a car accident.” Rachel glanced back and forth between the two of them, lingering on Saga quizzically. Saga didn’t blame her. Between her pink hair combined with a personal style somewhere between glam punk and cozy, her appearance didn’t really communicate any sense of authority, let alone “law enforcement.” Perhaps she should have asked Avery if she could have changed into something more official looking.
Avery gave a meaningful look around the hallway, as if suspicious of nosy neighbors. “Would you mind if we stepped inside?”
Rachel needed no further prodding and immediately stepped back to make room. “Of course.”
Saga followed after Avery, walking through the small entrance to a sitting room illuminated by a tall window on the opposite wall with a grand view of the city. It was beautiful. Impeccably decorated, albeit a bit more monochrome than she cared for. Yet for all its aesthetic, something about it simply felt off. No, not off. Wrong. It was possible the feeling stemmed from the abundant use of pure white, which often reminded her of the hospital. Or perhaps it was a nagging notion that it seemed far too posh for a nurse’s salary. Or her judgment might simply have been clouded by the knowledge that this place very well could hold answers to the mysteries around Valentina LaRosa’s death.
It was at that moment Saga realized she’d not been paying attention to Rachel and Avery, and she raised her pencil and pad to hear the tail end of Avery’s explanation.
“A few key pieces of evidence don’t quite align with the coroner’s initial assessment.”
Rachel’s face crumpled. “What sort of evidence?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to share those details.”
“Right, of course,” Rachel acknowledged, her voice sounding weaker. She surveyed around the room helplessly as she stepped farther inside. “Do you need to search the apartment…or…um…”
“We would like to ask you a few questions first, if it is not too much trouble.” Again, Avery’s voice was gentle.
Rachel considered the room again as if it might give her advice on what to do before she sank into a large armchair. “Sure…”
Avery casually took the love seat across from her, giving Saga a look that indicated she shouldn’t follow.
Saga realized that from her position she was out of Rachel’s direct eyeline. It felt vaguely voyeuristic staying where she was.
“How long have you known Miss LaRosa?”
“About four years,” Rachel answered, her arms now around a decorative cushion with tassels. “We’ve been sort of living together for the past two.”
“Sort of living together?”
“Val specialized in end-of-life care. A lot of her patients required twenty-four-hour attention. So, unless it was her day off, she’d usually spend most of her days and nights with them.”
“And how long had she been staying with her patients even on her nights off?”
Rachel’s fingers had been playing with one of the terra-cotta tassels in a soothing gesture, but now they froze. Her lower lip quivered before she stammered, “H-how did you…”
“She’d recently been somewhere sunny, but your complexion shows no signs of such a holiday. The doorman mentioned she’d been gone for a few weeks. She also at one point had your name tattooed over her heart.” Avery said this part slowly, watching the other woman very closely. “But it appeared to have been recently modified, and in a hurry. Circumstances would suggest some kind of schism.”
“She changed it?” Rachel asked incredulously.
“It now reads, ‘Rache ist süß.’”
A sardonic laugh escaped the willowy girl. It was a strange, strangled sound, half choked by what might have been a sob fighting its way up her throat. Her eyes were glassy, and her fingertips trembled as they rested over her lips.
