Library Cat Magical Mysteries Box Set (Books 1-3), page 50
“He was the head of a wizardry academy,” Whitney said. “Until his travels and obsessions took over. His school was neglected. Then one day, he disappeared and was never heard from again. Male wizards had fewer opportunities to practice their magic and the skill sort of evolved away, like how that one cave lizard doesn’t have eyes anymore because they’ve lived in the dark for so many generations.”
“Interesting,” I said.
“You should tell your mom to make a WitchFlix movie about him,” Whitney said. “Historical things are really popular right now.”
“I’ll mention it to her,” I said, but my mind was off, thinking of the possibilities. That during Antonello’s final voyage, he must have met Baron Von Alastair.
Chapter 15
A few minutes before closing, Rend came into the Archives.
“At least he’s not on horseback,” Kong said.
“What?” Rend asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “What’s up?”
“I was going to go to that pawn shop right now,” he said. “And then I realized, I need a book expert if I’m going to investigate Konrad’s business.”
“Give me a minute to close up and get ready,” I said. I finished my closing duties in a blur, my mind racing as I considered the reasons Konrad was dealing with stolen books.
Rend had thought that Konrad had been selling them, but I wasn’t so sure. He could just as easily have been trying to buy a stolen book… although I wasn’t sure if, morally, that was much better. He could have also had a client who was trying to get stolen property returned. There were many legit reasons he’d be doing business with a seedy pawnbroker, right?
I took off my Academy robe and was ready to head out with Rend when I caught sight of the big purple grumbleberry jam stain on my shirt. Where was Sophie and her stain-removal potion now? The stain was in such an embarrassing place too, as my bosom caught the blob of jam when it fell out of the bread.
“Ready?” Rend called.
“In a second,” I called back. “Kong, come here.” He heaved a sigh, but faithfully came to my office.
“What is it this time?” he asked.
“Can you remove the stain from my shirt?”
He jumped on the desk and sniffed at it. Then licked it. “I don’t know how you humans can stomach these berries,” he said.
“Can you remove it or not?” I asked.
“Sort of,” he said. “I can only think of one way to do it, but you probably won’t like it.”
“I don’t care,” I said. “I can’t have this big purple blob on my chest.”
“Tell Rend you need to stop by your house first,” Kong said.
“And admit that I’m so clumsy I can’t be trusted with white clothing and jam at the same time?”
“If you’re lucky, he’ll find it endearing,” Kong said.
“Just get rid of the stain any way you can,” I said.
“Don’t say that I didn’t warn you,” Kong said. He lifted his paw, and it glowed a serene blue, his unique cat vim swirling around like the gentle current of a river.
“Wait—” I said, realizing a minute too late how he was going to get rid of the stain.
“Aqua!” Kong said.
Even I know enough Latin to know what aqua means.
A jet of water spewed out of his paw and landed on my shirt. When he was done, the stain was indeed washed out. But I looked like the world’s most pathetic contestant in a wet t-shirt contest.
“Francie?” Rend called.
“She’s worked a full day,” Kong yelled. “The woman needs to freshen up a bit.” I was about to complain when Kong lifted his paw yet again, this time it turned orange. “Time to turn up the heat,” he said. “Ignis.”
The room became swelteringly hot, but the water was evaporating. “Don’t overdo it,” I said, feeling my hair get frizzy.
“Any means necessary,” Kong said. “I believe those were my marching orders.”
When he was done, I inspected my shirt. He actually got the stain out. “You did it,” I said.
“Was there ever any doubt?” he said. “I am a cat of my word.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I owe you one.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ll just add it to the weekly invoice.”
- - -
We drove through the desert for about an hour until we got to the pawn shop, Kong sitting in my lap and complaining about the direction the air conditioning vents were pointing.
The shop was little more than a roadside shack across the highway from a cafe and gas station and would have been easy to dismiss as an abandoned building. “The owner’s a witch?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Rend said. “And the cafe across the road is a paranormal cafe too. They’re both enchanted to appear vacant to non-magical practitioners.”
We got out of his car and approached the door. He knocked and waited. “We can’t just go inside?”
“No,” he said. “She has to buzz you in.”
“It’s a real exclusive place,” the old witch said as she swung open the door. “Just like the graveyard, people are dying to get in!” She let out a cackle that showcased the gaps between her teeth where her molars should have been.
“Maldiva,” Rend said. “You’re looking crusty and ill-tempered, as usual.”
“And you’re still bald as an egg,” she said. They laughed like they were old friends, but I knew Rend well enough to know that he was no friend to this old lady if she was a criminal.
“May we come in?” he asked.
“Who’s this?” she asked. She stepped forward and poked her long, crooked nose in my direction. “I smell something on you. Dust. Grumbleberry. Cat hair.”
“Right on all three accounts,” I said.
“You can’t blame me for the cat hair,” Kong said and trotted inside without waiting for permission. Indeed, Maldiva watched as he tiptoed into the store without trying to stop him.
“This is Francie,” Rend said. “She’s a law enforcement consultant. Her specialty is rare books. I’ve got some questions I want to ask about Konrad LaRue.”
“That blustery blowhard?” Maldiva asked. “What did he do, bore someone to death talking about his vacation?”
“He’s dead,” Rend said.
“Dead?” She seemed truly surprised. “But he was so square. Who killed him?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Rend said. “I know he was at your shop two months ago. I want to know why.”
“Would you believe it if I said it was the charming company?” Maldiva asked.
“Yes,” I said. “But I’m the gullible one. Redclaw here’s the skeptic.”
“You might as well come inside then,” she said. “I’ll talk about Konrad because he didn’t deserve to be killed.”
“You knew him well?” Rend asked. He didn’t need to voice the implication—why would a supposedly honest book dealer get to be so close with the old bag who dealt in stolen goods?
“Well enough,” she said, “to know that he was in the wrong line of work.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
“Most of us are in the wrong line of work, honey, myself included,” Maldiva said. We went inside her shop and I was surprised by how spartan it was. A few old televisions, some gaudy-looking jewelry in a display case, a pile of mismatched power tools. But mostly the shelves were bare. She must have seen me gawking because she said, “Were you expecting a big sign that said STOLEN GOODS AISLE?”
“No one said anything about stolen goods,” Rend said. “This is a friendly visit.”
“All my visits are friendly visits,” Maldiva said. “Because I’m a friendly type of person.”
“First,” Rend said, “you confirm that Konrad LaRue was in your shop two months ago?”
“I’d have to check my records, except I don’t keep records,” she said. “If you say it was two months, then that sounds about right. Though at my age, I think something was two months ago, and it was really a year and a half. Funny how time works like that. Slow in the beginning when you’re a kid. Remember when a two-month summer vacation felt like it lasted forever? Now, two months pass before I have a chance to blow my nose. It’s like you’re being swept away by a river that keeps gaining speed and there’s nothing you can do about it except die.” As if underscoring her point, she dug a handkerchief out of her pocket and honked loudly into it.
“What was he doing here?” Rend said.
“Now, I thought you said this was a friendly visit, Mr. Sheriff,” she said.
Rend slammed his hands down on the display case, rattling the glass in the metal frame. “Buying or selling?” Rend asked. “I apologize if I’ve forgotten my manners, but when someone gets murdered in my town, I get a little unfriendly.”
“A little of Column A and a little of Column B,” Maldiva said. “No need to get testy. He had a book I was interested in acquiring. Likewise, I had a book that I thought he would be interested in. We were trying to work out a trade.”
“Which books?” I asked.
“Big old boring-looking things,” Maldiva said. “When people wrote with lots of thous and haths. No pictures. No car chases or murder mysteries or steamy romance. In other words—nothing interesting.”
“That narrows it down,” Rend muttered.
“No,” I said. I locked eyes with the old lady. “I don’t believe for a second that a shrewd businesswitch like you doesn’t know the exact titles of the books and how much they’re worth.”
“Might be you’re right,” she said. “And maybe the exact names of the books might, what do you call it, infringe upon my fifth amendment rights.”
“We’re not interested in stolen books,” Rend said.
“Oh, I believe you,” Maldiva said. “You’re not interested now. But when you’re sitting at your desk half a year from now, with nothing to do but dig in your ear and sculpt the results, you might remember these books, might get the itch to do some research. Hell’s Birth Canal is a small town. You’ll get bored enough, eventually.”
We were at a stalemate. She wouldn’t tell us which books because she thought we’d cross check them through a stolen property database. But I needed to know which books. It might have everything to do with why Konrad was killed.
“I thought you said you were going to help,” Rend said.
“Now you’re putting words in my mouth,” she said. “I said that I’d talk about Konrad.”
“Fine,” Rend said. “Did you work out your deal or not?”
“We did not,” she said. “But I ended up buying his book. It was too good a deal.”
“So he came,” Rend said. “And sold you a book. He looked at your book, but didn’t want it?”
“That’s it,” Maldiva said.
“Can I see the two books?” I asked.
“Not on your life,” she said. “The titles of the books might reveal more information about my business practices than I care to.”
All this way for nothing? If I didn’t know what books they were, I would not be able to unravel Konrad’s secrets.
“Please,” I said, hating the way my voice sounded so nasally and whiny.
“No can do,” she said and crossed her arms over her chest.
“But this is our chance to figure out what he was up to before he died,” I said. “He was hiding something, and it’s what got him killed.”
“If you think he got killed for a copy of—” She stopped and smiled. “Whoops, almost said the title of the book. That would have been funny. You guys are barking up the wrong tree. These book nerds don’t have murder in their veins. It was probably his wife.”
“His wife?” Rend asked. “Do you have knowledge of the crime?”
“No,” she said. “I didn’t even know if he was married. But it’s always the wife on those WitchFlix true crime docs.”
“So we came all this way and you won’t help?” I asked.
“No one told you to come,” she said. “Least of all me. Get back to town and interrogate the wife.”
“You mean old wart-nosed hag,” I said.
Not my proudest moment.
But I was so frustrated. She had vital information and was withholding it—mostly, I was sure, because she enjoyed being able to lord it over us.
“You noticed?” she said, smiling and batting her eyelashes.
“Uh, yeah,” I said. “It’s huge and right on the tip of your nose.”
“I tried out some new wart polish this morning,” she said. “It’s supposed to give them a shiny, healthy glow.”
“It’s radiant,” I said.
“Absolutely stunning,” Rend said.
“Well…” she said, considering everything. “I suppose you could take a peek at the books. I can tell you really just want to catch the murderer.”
“We’d really appreciate it,” I said.
“Wait here,” she said. She disappeared into the back room.
“What was that all about?” Rend asked.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I’m glad it worked.”
She came back with two huge tomes that did indeed look boring and full of thous and haths. She slammed them down on the display case. “Read ‘em and weep.”
I approached one of the books with caution—who knows, maybe it was why Konrad was killed. The leather-bound cover was adorned with gilt leaf decorations. I carefully opened the cover and read the title page. “Concerning the Spirits and Souls of the Salisbury Estate.”
“What is this?” Maldiva asked. “Some nonsense about Salisbury steak?”
“What’s with all the Salisbury steak?” I muttered. My stomach growled, and I realized I hadn't eaten since my messy grumbleberry sandwich earlier that afternoon. Not gonna lie, even LaVelda’s Hamburger Helper would have tasted pretty good right then.
I leafed through a few pages, paying careful attention to the front-matter inscriptions and dedications. Rare books were not my area of expertise, but I knew enough from my work at the Archives. There were beautiful illuminated manuscript pages in the center, haunting drawings of wailing banshees, ghouls and kelpies.
Kong jumped onto the display case. “Hey, paws off the merchandise,” Maldiva said.
“Francescza,” Kong said. “Sorry, I was perusing the jewelry section.”
“Jewelry?”
“Yes, I need a gold chain, for a, umm, can’t a fellow wear nice jewelry?”
“Sure you can,” I said.
“Anyway, I forgot to remind you to put on your gloves at once,” Kong said.
“Oh yeah,” I said. “The books are pretty old, wouldn’t want to get oils on the pages.”
“Not that,” he said. “The snozzleberry ink. I can smell it from here. All those thirteenth-century Mediterranean scribes used snozzleberry ink.”
“You’re right,” I said, but I was looking at my fingertips.
Grumbleberries might have made a decent (if not indelible) jam. But I was severely allergic to snozzleberries. It happened every so often that I’d handle an old book with the ink make from the berries and the tips of my fingers would itch for hours, with hundreds of tiny red wheals lighting up my skin.
“This book…” I said. “The ink’s not making my fingers itch.”
“One of the books is made with the ink,” Kong said. “I can smell it. I don’t need to remind you of my superior vomeronasal organ.”
I opened up the second book and Kong stuck his nose into the spine. “This is the one,” he said.
“What are you saying?” Maldiva said.
“This book,” I said.
“The Salisbury steak book?” she said.
“Yeah, that one,” I said. “I’m pretty sure it’s a fake.”
“Fake?” She looked like she was about to have a cataclysmic coronary event.
“Is that why Konrad didn’t want to buy it?” Rend guessed.
“No,” Maldiva said. “This is the one he sold me!”
“He sold you a counterfeit book?” I said.
“You tell me, know it all,” she said. “You’re the one who said it’s a fake.”
“It’s a fake,” I said confidently. “Sorry.”
“That weasel,” she hissed. “He should be glad he’s dead.”
“Ma’am,” Rend said.
“Sorry,” she said. “But then he didn’t buy this book.” She pointed to the other tome, titled The Proper Animation and Reanimation of the Household Mummy. “He didn’t buy the authentic one?”
“I guess not,” I said.
“I don’t believe it,” she said.
“It’s fine. Happens to the best of us. We won’t tell anyone. I know you have a reputation to uphold.”
“My reputation holds itself up,” she said.
“Well, sure,” I said. “Especially now that Konrad’s dead and he won’t be able to tell anyone.”
“Tell anyone what?” she said. “You think I killed him?”
“No,” I said. “I know you didn’t kill him. But you’re probably glad that he took your secret to the grave.”
“I don’t have secrets,” she said. “Secrets imply a guilty conscience.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “Who do you think we’re going to tell? It’s not like we run in the same circles.”
“Quit blathering,” Maldiva said.
Although I could hardly stop myself. I couldn’t believe it.
Konrad LaRue, known as the most honest rare book dealer in the paranormal community, had sold a complete forgery.
Chapter 16
Before going home, we stopped by What the Cluck and got two fried chicken dinners. I ordered a family bucket to-go for Sophie, Lizzie and her family and told Rend drop me off at Lizzie’s house. Rend offered to wait outside for me, but I didn’t know how long Lizzie was going to want to talk, so I told him to go home. He reluctantly agreed, uneasy that there was a killer in town, but made me promise to text him once I was home safe and sound.
“Is that fried chicken?” Lizzie said. Maybe it was my imagination, but drool glistened at the corner of her mouth.
“Yes,” I said. “I know it’s not the healthiest thing—”
