Library Cat Magical Mysteries Box Set (Books 1-3), page 28
“But what about stealing his documents?” Lizzie said. “Stealing is definitely against the law. Grand larceny.”
“You won’t steal anything,” he said. “You’re only going to look.”
“Petty larceny?” Lizzie asked hopefully.
“Would it make you feel better if I arrested you after this is over?” Rend asked.
“A pat-down would be nice,” Lizzie mumbled.
“What’s that?” he asked. I rolled my eyes.
“Okay, I’ll do it,” she said. “But it really is bad luck. If I get a divorce, it’s your fault.” I thought she was talking to Rend, but then I realized she was pointing at me.
“This wasn’t my idea,” I said.
“You think that we’re going to get divorced?” she said. “You didn’t say ‘don’t be silly, you’ll never get divorced.’ You just said it wasn’t your fault.”
“Do you come at your husband the way you’re coming at us?” Rend said.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Lizzie said. She rounded on him.
“Nothing at all,” he said. “Come on. We haven’t got all day.” He pointed at the small opening in the rocks that served as the only way out of town.
“This is going to be hard in this outfit,” she said. Instead of wearing her usual athleisure outfit, she dressed up for our expedition. “No peeking up my skirt, got it?”
“I wouldn’t dream,” Rend said, and turned his back like a true gentlewolf. Lizzie wiggled between the rocks and disappeared on the other side.
I crawled through the tight opening, grateful that I’d changed into jeans before we set out on this zany adventure. I wasn’t entirely convinced that this was legal. We’d have to be extra careful so Rend wouldn’t get in trouble.
As I was dusting off my knees on the other side, Rend appeared and said, “This just shows how desperate I am to get the killer. I’ve made some Hail Mary plays before, but this takes the cake.”
We stood together and joined hands. Rend’s hands were rough. The tough skin rubbed on mine and sent a shiver up my arm. His grip was strong and made me feel like everything was going to be okay. We were going to find out who killed Walter. Hortensia and I were going to destroy the second cursed book. Kong would finally find an acceptable brand of litter. And—
“Just where do you think you’re going?”
Speak of the cat and he shall appear.
“Kong,” I said. “Go back inside.”
“I will certainly not,” he said. “You three are up to something, and it’s no good. You need an insurance policy.”
“And what’s that?” Rend asked the cat.
“Me,” Kong said. “Now let’s go, Lizzie, posthaste. I’m entertaining guests at three o’ clock.”
Lizzie looked at Kong, then at me. “Pick him up?” She was going to use transportation magic. For transportation magic to work, everyone being transported needed to join hands and combine magical energy. Rend didn’t have the same vim as a witch, but he had his own animalistic form of nature magic that could be used.
“I won’t be picked up like a spoiled lapdog,” he said.
“You’ll just stay on the ground like a spoiled cat instead,” I said.
“You say ‘spoiled’ like it’s a bad thing,” he said.
“Only for the one who has to take care of you,” I said.
“Let’s join hands. Come now,” Kong said. He sat down on the dirt and offered his front paws.
Lizzie made the move first, kneeling on the hardpan ground and taking Kong’s paw in her hand. “Aww, your little jellybeans are so soft,” she said.
“Jellybeans?” Kong asked.
“The little pink things on your paw,” Lizzie said. “They’re soft and plump.”
“You expected them to be chapped and callused like a common brute?” he said. I thought again of how it had felt to have Rend’s hand wrapped around my own and a prickle of heat bloomed on my cheeks. Rend took Kong’s other paw and I got between Rend and Lizzie.
We must have made quite the sight. Two ladies, a werewolf and a cat—all crouched on the hot desert ground, hands joined as if in prayer.
Lizzie said the words of the spell and in an instant, we were gone. I’ve always hated the feeling of being transported. It feels like your entire essence is distilled into a single dust mote—then that mote is compressed into a subatomic particle. Smaller than a proton or neutron (whatever those are made of). A speck of a speck. I mean, in the grand scheme of the universe, we’re all pretty insignificant, but we do a good job forgetting about that. When you’re transported, though, you’re forced to confront the fact that your life and dreams are not nearly as important as you think they are.
To some people, it might be a comfort. But not me. To me, it’s a grim reminder that any problems you might have—you’re on your own.
As we shook off the dust and stood up on the outskirts of Hell’s Bells, a supernatural town near Philadelphia, that feeling of insignificance didn’t weigh down my soul like usual.
Instead, I opened my eyes to the faces of Lizzie, Kong and Rend—and realized I wasn’t alone. No matter how big the universe, we were all teeny tiny motes floating through it together, significant, at least, to each other.
- - -
The private detective’s office was in a small domed building next to a florist and an Italian deli. Rend went inside the deli and ordered a calzone, taking it out onto the patio to eat. Lizzie tried the door to the detective’s office, but it was locked. I pressed my face to the glass and peered inside. A heavy-set man with a sandy brown comb-over was lurching out of his chair and towards the door. “Who is it?” he asked.
“Elizabetta Smith,” she said, giving a fake last name.
He dug a set of keys out of his pants pocket and unlocked the deadbolt.
“Sorry, are you closed?” she asked. “I had an appointment.”
“I know, come in,” he said. “I like to keep the door locked. Don’t want any angry husbands paying me a visit after I snap pictures of them in the motel parking lot with their mistresses. I’m Mel Ferguson.”
“Wise choice,” I said. I added ‘mystery mistress’ to the list of suspects. Maybe Walter’s wife had been betrayed by his infidelity and poisoned him—or maybe his mistress was sick of being The Other Woman. Sick of being strung along with promises he’d never intended to keep.
He led us inside to two chairs in front of his desk. The calzones from next door must have been good, because he had a half-eaten one on a paper plate on the corner of his desk.
“What brings you here today?” he asked Lizzie. “Why are you seeking private investigations?”
“It’s…” she said and choked off a sob. “My husband. I just need to know if there’s someone else.”
“I see, okay, sad to say this is common enough and I have plenty of experience,” Mel said. “I have a basic intake form for infidelity. Do you mind filling it out?”
She covered her face with her hands and let out a wail. I put my hand on her shoulder and patted it encouragingly. He spun around in his chair and opened a drawer in his tall filing cabinet. His fingers paged through several folders before deftly plucking out a sheet of paper and setting it before Lizzie. “Take your time,” he said. “Can I get you some water or coffee?”
“Water please,” I said and Lizzie nodded. When he walked away into the kitchenette, she lifted her head up and gave me the thumbs up. For someone who thought that pretending to have a cheating husband was too close to tempting fate, she was sure having fun with the role.
She took a pencil and started filling out the information on the form. Name, address, spouse’s name, place of employment, phone number, close friends, odd patterns of behavior, unexplained spending, recent travel. She went through the questions, carefully printing her answers.
I took out my phone and texted Rend. Within a few seconds, Mel Ferguson’s office phone rang.
He shuffled back to his desk and set down two wax paper cups of water, then picked up the phone. “Ferguson Investigations.” He nodded and said ‘uh-huh’ in all the right places, then hung up the phone.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “There’s a police officer who needs my help on a case. Would you think it terribly rude if I asked you to return in about a half hour, once you’ve filled out your form? The officer said he needs to discuss the case privately.”
This wasn’t part of the plan. Mel was supposed to go outside to talk to Rend. We had (wrongly) assumed that Mel would favor his paying client and let us stay inside while he quickly shooed away the cop outside. I didn’t know how we were going to flip the situation around.
Lizzie let out a wail and put her head on the desk, shoulders wracked with sobs. “I’m not sure she’s in the best condition to go out right now,” I said. “Is there any chance we can stay here while you talk to the officer?”
“Of course,” he said. “My apologies. I’ll meet with the officer next door at the deli.” He grabbed his calzone and fountain drink from the corner of his desk. “I can finish my lunch.”
“Perfect,” I said. “Thank you so much.” I felt kind of bad now, taking advantage of his kindness. I steeled my nerve, reminding myself that we weren’t going to hurt him or his business at all. We were only going to take a quick peek at some information that would save the Werewolf Law Enforcement Brigade several hours of wasted effort. If Walter hadn’t been having an affair, we could clear his wife and hypothetical mistress and save law enforcement’s resources for better suspects.
When the glass door closed behind him, Lizzie sat up. “He’s probably got hidden cameras,” I whispered. “Let’s not do anything rash.” I didn’t see any cameras, but it would be stupid not to think that a man who spied on people for a living didn’t have surveillance in his own business.
“Then how are we going to find it?” she asked.
“Watch and learn,” I said. Keeping my wand low and hidden between my knees and the desk, I recited the catalogue spell. It was one of the few spells I’d always been good at. There was a flash of light as the vim energy went into action. All the drawers of the filing cabinet shot open, and every scrap of paper swirled around the room like a tornado.
“I thought you said not to do anything rash?” Lizzie hissed through clenched teeth. “Is it supposed to do that?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. When I cast this spell at the library, the right book would come floating gently into my hand, like a duck bobbing on the surface of a pond. I’d even gotten better at it since Sophie started tutoring me.
All the papers flew up to the ceiling, collating into a single-file line. Then, one by one, they began zipping back to the filing cabinet drawers. It was a blur of black text on white papers. If I’d reached my hand out, I think I’d have lost a finger to papercuts.
As suddenly as it started, all the papers were back in the drawers. Except one manila file folder in front of me on the desk. The label on the tab read Crabtree.
“You did it?” Lizzie said.
“I’m just as shocked as you,” I said. But that was false modesty. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s running the Archives—and that requires always being able to find the right bit of text amid a sea of information.
“But won’t it all be on camera?” she asked.
“You’re forgetting Archmagus Alegra’s Third Law of Magic.”
“Refresh my memory,” Lizzie said.
“Magical acts cannot be captured on film,” I recited. “Unless the equipment is properly enchanted by a witch.”
“Oh,” she said.
“Human technology is made with their definition of the natural world and what’s possible,” I said. “Their gadgets work with light and colors and sound waves. It doesn’t know what vim is or how to record it.”
“But the papers were flying around,” she said. “The papers aren’t made of vim. The filing cabinet drawers are metal. You’re saying the videotape won’t catch the drawers opening and closing?”
“No,” I said. “The massive burst of vim will make the last ten seconds appear like a big white smudge on the film playback.”
“Good to know,” she said. She flipped open the file folder and quickly began taking photos of each page with her phone. No antiquated chip reader required for this one. When she was done, she pointed her wand and used a redeo spell to put the folder back in place.
“Good to go?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “That was fun. We’re just like Cagney and Lacey.”
“They weren’t witches,” I said.
“True,” she said. “But there’s no witch-sister-librarian-stay-at-home-mom crime-solving duo. At least not that I know of. We can get good at this and Mom can make a WitchFlix documentary about us.”
“First we’d need a cool name,” I said.
“Lizzie and Frank,” she said.
“I’m Frank?” I asked.
“It sounds cooler,” she said. “Or Lizzie and the Librarian.”
“Better,” I said.
“Ah-hem.” We both startled and looked down. It was Kong. “I think the obvious name for our crew is the Kat Squad.”
“Where have you been?” I asked.
“Hanging low,” he said. “You couldn’t very well bring a cat into a private detective office, could you? Good show, Francie, with the cataloging spell. I couldn’t have done it better myself.”
We went outside and Lizzie tearfully told Mel that she wasn’t sure about all this. She crammed some cash in his hand as we left, telling him to consider it a deposit in case she used his services. We walked around the corner and down a few blocks and waited for Rend.
“How’d it go?” he asked.
“Perfect,” Lizzie said.
“Good,” he said. “Now go home and read the information and don’t tell me anything unless it’s important. This is as dirty as I want to get my hands.”
Chapter 12
We were back in time to pick up Sophie. I was dying to look through the case file, but it would have to wait until later.
Lizzie, on the other hand, was glued to her phone, reading me choice snippets of the report. The report was heavily redacted, apparently out of privacy concerns in case one of those angry spouses tried to get revenge. It contained much of what I already knew from the papers I’d gotten from the hotel trash. Patrice had hired the private investigator to follow Walter. He was meeting in secret with a young blond girl in her early twenties.
While we were waiting outside Sophie’s school, my phone rang. It was Jinny, Walter Crabtree’s personal assistant. “Is this Francie Vespertine?” she asked.
“Yes, how can I help you?”
“I have some items of Walter’s,” she said. “He’d ordered some swag for the signing event.”
“Swag?” I asked.
“Bookmarks, pencils, notepads,” she said. “You know. Swag.”
“I see,” I said.
“Unfortunately, we won’t be needing any of his promotional materials anymore. Seeing as how this was his last appearance, I thought you should have the items. You run the library, right? You can distribute them to the patrons.”
“That would be great, thank you,” I said. “I’ll give you the shipping address, it’s—”
“Oh, no, I’m in town,” she said. “I know where the library is. I can drop it off in twenty minutes? Is that fine?”
“You’re in town?” I asked. The dismissal bell had just rung, and I wanted to be sure I heard her correctly.
“Yes, I always travel with the Crabtrees when he does speaking engagements,” she said. “I’ll see you soon. Bye!”
“The personal assistant is in town?” Lizzie said. She started waving her arms in the air, trying to get Sophie’s attention as kids poured out of the building.
“I guess so,” I said. “And don’t wave your arms, you’ll embarrass Sophie.”
“That’s the whole point,” Lizzie said. “Can we interview the personal assistant?”
“You’re really getting into this, aren’t you?” I asked. Sophie appeared out of the crowd of students and rushed over to us. “The assistant is coming to the Archives in a few minutes. She’s going to give me some swag.”
“Lucky you,” Lizzie said.
The Archives were close to Sophie’s school, so we got there with plenty of time. Sophie immediately tossed her backpack on a study table and ran upstairs to talk to Victor Frankenstein.
“Be careful,” Lizzie said. “Don’t volunteer to be a test subject!”
“No yelling in the library,” I reminded her.
“We’re the only ones in here,” she said. “Except the ghosts. Honestly, you think it’s healthy for a thirteen-year-old girl to be after school playmates with an obsessed, immoral scientist?”
“Sure, why not?” I said.
“Because he’s dead,” Lizzie said. “And also, he was never alive to begin with.”
“I’d argue that many fictional characters are more alive than—”
“Okay, you win,” she said, holding up her arms. “No philosophical arguments about storytelling, please.”
“As long as I win,” I said.
“Francie?” The doors swung open and a young woman came inside. She was holding a big cardboard box with the flaps tucked in.
“Yes?”
“This is the swag,” she said. “From Walter Crabtree.”
It took my overworked brain a minute to compute. “You’re Jinny? His assistant?”
“Yes,” she said. She was younger than I’d assumed. She’d been watching Murder, She Wrote when I called her. And she’d mentioned spilling her prune juice on her knitting project. What girl in her twenties knits and drinks prune juice while watching Murder, She Wrote? “Like I said on the phone, there are bookmarks and other things.” She set down the box and trailed her finger under the flap, like she was considering going through the promo materials one last time. She must have decided not to, because she crammed her hands in her pockets and looked at the ground.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m sorry about Walter. He seemed like a great guy.” I gave her the stipend check for Walter’s appearance too, since she was here.
