Library Cat Magical Mysteries Box Set (Books 1-3), page 20
Sophie’s mom, my older sister, Maggie, had been notified and she was on her way. Behind me, there was a fracas. “Ma’am, please!” one of the Werewolves said.
“Take your ma’am and sit on it!” It was Lizzie.
“Let her through,” Rend told his officers. Lizzie was a mess. Half her hair was plastered flat against the side of her head and the other half was sticking up in comical directions. She was wearing a pair of her husband’s fuzzy fleece pajama pants with a strappy workout top, and her eye makeup was smudged black all over her cheeks.
She made a beeline for Sophie and scooped her up in her arms, spewing a flood of mixed apologies to Sophie and relief for her safety and embarrassingly sappy professions of love.
“Can I go home?” Sophie asked. “I’m tired.”
I looked to Rend. “Sure, take her home, Francie. I can get the rest of your statement tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” I said. I was about to walk home with Sophie and Lizzie, but Rend tugged on the sleeve of my robe.
“Hold on a sec,” he said. “Just so you know, I’m going to chew you a new one for putting yourself in danger like this.”
“It was Kong’s fault,” I said primly. “He convinced me to leave the archives.”
“The cat?” Rend said. “You’re blaming the cat?”
“Yes,” Kong said. He’d come trotting up the sidewalk. He jumped on the folding chair where Sophie had been recently sitting. “When Francie figured out who it was, she tried to contact you. But all the Werewolves were out, nowhere to be found. Wasn’t that suspicious?”
“That doesn’t change the fact that Francie could have made matters worse. She could have gotten hurt. And I’m not sure any of us want to live in a world where something like that can happen to such a—” But Rend choked off his words.
“I happen to fully agree with you,” Kong said. “But we knew the girl was here at the tailor shop, in the company of a murderer. And I also happened to know that all available Werewolves were nowhere to be found.”
“You’re right about that,” Rend said. “I’m afraid that Ansel made monkeys out of all of us. He’d called a tip to headquarters. He said he saw someone opening a transportation portal at the south end of town, by the old water tower. We thought it was the killer trying to escape. When we got there, we saw a big silvery mirage. We surrounded the area, even called in the High Adept to counter the transportation portal magic. But when we investigated further, you know what it was?”
“What?” I asked.
“A regular television screen projecting an image. And nearby was a signal-jamming device so that our radios wouldn’t work. It was all very analog. No magic used, so we couldn’t track the vim to the user.”
“Monkeys indeed,” Kong said. “But for wolves, I’d say that’s a lateral move, so don’t take too much offense.”
“Is he always like this?” Rend asked me.
“You know how often people ask me that?”
Rend put his hand on my shoulder. His fingers twitched, as if he yearned to pull me closer for a hug, but he decided against it.
“As long as everyone’s safe, then we’re fine,” Rend said.
“Is this the hero?”
Rend puffed out his chest and was about to answer in the affirmative, but Fintan held out his tape recorder and stuck it under my face. “Tell us, Francie, how did you solve the crime that had law enforcement baffled?”
“No comment,” Rend said and batted Fintan’s arm away.
“That’s technically assault and battery,” Fintan said. “So if you want to go a few rounds, anything I do to you will be considered self-defense.”
Rend snorted. “You’re going to type articles at me?” He closed the gap on Fintan, but did not raise his hands.
“We have freedom of the press in this town,” Fintan said. “The citizens aren’t too keen on law enforcement intimidation.”
“Funny how you speak for them,” Rend said. “In my experience, people don’t like it when pompous jerks claim to know what’s best for everyone.”
“You guys?” I said. “Is it possible to not have a freak-out right now?” The two men had flared into an uncomfortable standoff. I’m not so haughty as to presume that they were both being territorial over Yours Truly… but it certainly seemed like it.
“I’m perfectly calm,” Rend said. “If I was freaking out, College Boy would be on the ground clutching his ruptured kidney.”
Fintan smiled and let Rend walk away. “Good grief, is he always like that?”
“I’m not sure,” I said truthfully.
“Will you talk to me?” he said. “This is one of the biggest stories we’ve had in a while, but no one will tell me what’s going on.”
“Ansel Pelagatti killed Professor Florian,” I said.
“I gathered that much,” he said. “Why?”
“I haven’t pieced all of it together,” I said. “But hundreds of years ago, there was a dispute between the witches and the Elves.”
“Don’t tell me Ansel avenged a centuries-old blood feud?”
“Not quite,” I said. I explained what I’d found out.
In medieval times, the Elves had a stranglehold on the textile industry. They had weaving looms and special magic to create amazing coats that would repel water and keep you warm, summer garments to keep you cool, one-size garments that morphed to fit the wearer’s unique shape. The Elves wove special fabric harvested from the fibers of the yumyum tree, more durable than cotton, softer than silk, warmer than wool.
So of course other factions were trying to discover their trade secrets. One witch succeeded where others had failed.
She’d seduced a master tailor. He thought it was true love even though their species almost never mixed. He defected and moved to a witch community and taught the young woman everything he knew about the secret spellcraft behind the Elven garments. The woman was Lucretia Gatupelis.
He soon found out she didn’t love him. She was a weaver and only after his secrets. After she learned all she could, she publicly humiliated him and told him she’d never love an Elf.
Her real husband was Mr. Gatupelis, the mastermind of the whole thing.
The Elf left, spurned and vowing vengeance. He went back to his people. They wanted revenge on the witches. The witches were only able to avoid war by decreeing that no witch seamstress was allowed to use Elven magic in the creation of garments.
This was the law, but the Gatupelis family secretly passed down the magic they learned from mother to daughter. They never practiced it for fear of retribution from the Elves, but knowledge is power and they felt it would be stupid to let that secret spellcraft die.
While he was being carted off to jail, Ansel had said, “I’ll tell you what’s stupid, having such powerful, profitable knowledge and never using it. But Grandmother said we have to play the long game—that most witches are short sighted. We might not use the knowledge for generations, but who are we to throw it away?”
Ansel’s eldest sister learned the secrets and made the best garments. She never sold them, of course, but produced them from time to time to practice the craft.
“What a fool!” Ansel had said. “You know how much money I’ve made? I export these things! I supply every academy in the western hemisphere with robes!”
Over fifty years ago, he’d had his sister exiled. He made a robe using the Elven technique and sold it under her name. She was taken by the Elves and was serving a life sentence.
Professor Florian had seen a blip in the history books about recent Elven relations, how a nameless witch was caught violating the treaty and imprisoned. Florian figured it out, due to his extensive knowledge on the subject. That was why he’d been fighting with his wife. When his neighbor had heard shouting about “There will be blood!” and “This will not go unpunished!” Florian was talking about potential Elven war if this got out. His wife had wanted to go to the police. Ironically, Florian had wanted to keep it quiet, but he’d still been killed.
When I finished, Fintan was wide-eyed. “That was a fantastic story,” he said. “Wait—where’s the sister? In prison?”
“Rend already sent a carrier pigeon to the Elves requesting her full pardon and immediate release,” I said. “That was the first thing he did. He’s not a bad guy.”
“I know he’s not,” Fintan said. “He just jumped bad on me, so I had to give some back. You think I really want to get in a fist fight with a Werewolf?”
“Well, you are… what did he call you? Overeducated?”
“Close,” Fintan said. “Pompous. And College Boy.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. Fintan didn’t have Rend’s hotheaded primal masculinity, but he was easygoing and had a good sense of humor. “I could maybe tell you the rest of the story,” I said. “How I figured it out and how I caught Ansel.”
“Maybe?” Fintan said. “My, what a tease you are. That’s the one thing a reporter can’t stand. Dangling that who what when where why and how right in front of me.”
“I can’t help it,” I said. “I love it when a grown man begs for it.”
“Please, Francie, I beg of you.”
“I guess we could have lunch,” I said. “Get a few lemon oozlers in me, who knows what I might do.”
“Throw in a donut and all her inhibitions will go out the window,” Kong said.
“Can you go fifteen minutes without impugning my character?” I asked the cat.
“It’s been seventeen,” he said. “I’m not a barbarian.”
Chapter 32
Epilogue: Kongressman Kittles
I daresay there has never been such a showing at the annual Spelling Bee. It is usually a dry affair for the parents, where half of them sit, eyes glazed over, frequently checking their wristwatches.
But this year, things are different in the town. The Spelling Bee represents a return to normalcy. It represents justice having been served.
The Academy staff had to go fetch more chairs on three separate occasions as the surge of spectators kept coming. The audience waved pennants with the Academy colors and cheered for all contestants equally. They didn’t care who won. The air was positively humming with good vibes (though it pains me to use such a smarmy, new-age phrase, proper English fails to adequately convey the uplifted spirits and unbridled positivity flowing through each member of the crowd).
Sophie won, of course.
Were you worried that, fearful of her daughter’s transgressions becoming public knowledge, Lady Hildegarde had rigged the results somehow? Don’t be.
Yours Truly knows as well as anyone of fair and honest bent that the true nature of a victory lies in the heart of the victor. Titles and trophies are but mere constructs of the vain societal imagination. Not wanting to rob the young witch of her moment of triumph, I found Lady Hildegarde before the competition.
Or rather, I found her wand.
It was quite an indignity, I admit, to trot along the Academy grounds with a stick in my mouth like a common canine. Had any of the other felines seen me, I would have been forced to play along with the ruse and feign interest in the pedestrian game known as ‘fetch.’ For, you see, to admit my true intentions, even to my esteemed feline colleagues, would not have been prudent.
I took the wand off Academy grounds. I knew the perfect place to hide it. Now, now, don’t frown and waggle an accusatory finger in my direction. Good sir, you say. Didn’t you just give a fine speech about honor and sportsmanship in a fair competition? Of course I did. And I so dearly value fair play that I had to undergo drastic measures to uphold the sanctity of the contest—to wit, hiding the High Adept’s wand.
Of course I did not tell Francescza. She’s far too nervous, and her guilty demeanor would have betrayed my plan. When the Adept discovered her wand missing, all it would have taken was one glance at Francie’s darting eyes and wringing hands for the Lady to uncover the plot.
And I also submit to your waggling, accusatory finger, as evidence of my integrity, that I did not destroy the wand. Not even close. I merely removed it from the vicinity for the duration of the competition so that the High Adept could not be tempted. She’ll find it easily enough after the medal ceremony. It is safe. No harm shall come to the wand.
Unless, that is, the litterbox explodes.
According to Jula, their prototype has been repaired and there is no chance of the self-cleaning litterbox exploding again.
Jeyne, on the other hand, is not so optimistic.
We shall have to wait and see.
Good sir, you say again. The poor twins will be blamed for your malfeasance! Not in the slightest, for you see the girls are out of town with their parents. Their alibi and innocence will be above reproach. Furthermore, Lady Hildegarde will not want to admit that she was careless enough to let her wand be taken from her—and she will definitely not want it to be public knowledge where she finally located it.
So you see, all is right in the town of Hell’s Birth Canal.
Even the spirit of Captain Ahab was able to find peace. Mrs. Vespertine—that is, Francescza’s mother and not the unfortunate LaVelda—came to the Archives not long after the incident with the cursed book. She had decided to give reading another chance. Dear Francescza was delighted that she’d converted another non-believer to her sacred library, but she tried not to show it.
While in the stacks trying to decide which bodice ripper to bring home for the evening, Mrs. Vespertine had occasion to make the acquaintanceship of Captain Ahab.
Being an elder witch with very capable skills in illusion magic, she created a rather lifelike facsimile of Ahab’s sworn foe, the white whale Moby Dick.
It was a sight, I assure you, to watch the good Captain chase the ‘devilfish’ through the Archives. I faithfully attest that I have never seen such a look of manic glee or pure satisfaction on the face of any other person—ghost, incarnate or otherwise. He was never more alive, even though he technically never was alive, than in that final moment when he struck the coup de grâce.
All this has been rather heartwarming and encouraging for the future of the town and the Archives.
Which is why I hesitate to deliver the letter I intercepted from this morning’s post. I will give it to Francescza later this afternoon, after I let Hortensia take a look.
I slipped into Saguaro Estates trying to go undetected, but I am a popular chap. The residents charged towards me with hands outstretched like deranged toddlers. It shames me to say I had my tail pulled more than once before I found Hortensia secreted away in a cleaning cabinet smoking one of her beloved cigarettes.
“This stench will be discovered and you will be in trouble,” I told her as I used a pulse of magic to open the door and step inside.
“Only if you go busting the door open like that,” she said. She swept me inside and closed the door again. “You think I’m the only person in the place who can’t give up their earthly vices? You should see some of the—”
“I prefer to imagine you all sitting around playing chess and swapping photographs of your grandchildren, thank you,” I said.
“What’s that tucked in your collar?” she said. Without waiting for my permission, she slipped it out and opened up the envelope. All in all it was rather rude, but the elder voidwitch has already proved that decorum is not one of her core values.
She finished reading the letter and tucked it back into the envelope. “This is bad,” she said. “But I expected as much. Why didn’t the old coot warn her about the amulet before he sent it?” she asked.
“Look at the postmark,” I told her. It was dated several months ago, bearing the stamp of Société des postes et d'épargne du Congo, which I know from my fluent study of French is the Post Office of the Congo. The town on the stamp was Lumbula, which I admit I had to look up in an atlas, a tiny village on the Luvua River in the middle of the rainforest. “He mailed this letter first, to warn her about the amulet he was going to find and ship to her. But the letter got lost.”
“So incredibly lost that he had time to track down the amulet and mail it to her before this warning letter arrived,” she said, understanding the predicament. “But she’s already worn the amulet and used its power. There’s no use moping about the past.”
“This isn’t going to… change her?” I asked. It took all my feline pride and dignity to keep my voice from cracking as I spoke my deepest fear.
“Not unless she lets it change her,” Hortensia assured me.
“What about you?” I asked.
“You’re afraid she’ll end up a fugitive from justice hiding out in an old folks’ home with a crooked metal claw for an arm?”
“Yes,” I said. No point in hiding the fact.
“She won’t,” Hortensia assured me. “She’s got an inner strength that I didn’t possess. I was younger. Weaker… and I was swayed by what I thought was true love. She won’t make the same mistakes.”
“Plus, she’ll have a mentor,” I said. “A friend.”
Hortensia thought about this a moment. “Yes, a friend. It’s been a while since I had one of those. You think I’ll screw it up?”
“Maybe,” I said. “But true friendship can weather a few screw-ups.”
“Then you better get back and tell her the bad news,” Hortensia said. She stubbed out her cigarette and reached up high on the shelf to put the butt into a coffee can. “See?” She rattled the can for my benefit. “I told you I wasn’t the only one who snuck a smoke time to time.”
She put the letter back inside my collar and I went back to the Archives. Time to confess that I read her letter.
Uncle Arthur had warned her not to use the amulet. He’d said that it could be used as a beacon to draw the cursed books, that the dark power infused in the amulet would seek other dark entities.
But in no uncertain terms was she to use it.
I approached the Archives and steadied myself. Time to tell Francescza that, by using the amulet, she had irrevocably become a voidwitch.
THE END
