The long afternoon push to finish up at the Whispering House was briefly interrupted by news that a disruption had taken place outside the theater. An onlooker in the crowd had scaled one of the theater’s stone walls and climbed onto a spire. Though it didn’t look high from the ground, he’d needed the help of a firefighter’s ladder to get down. Several videos of the ordeal had been posted online, so Tempest and Ivy were able to watch from afar without stopping work.
“An attention seeker,” Ivy reminded her. “That’s all he is.”
“He’s a grown man who should know better.” At least this guy wasn’t a ghost hunter, just someone who showed videos of himself online pulling pranks.
Tempest’s phone rang as she was driving home. Night was falling, and her headlights bounced off the remnants of a fallen tree along the side of the road. She expected it would be more news of the theater, but it wasn’t.
“I wanted to keep you posted about what I found,” Blackburn said. The private investigator’s voice crackled over the phone line. “HCPD wasn’t turning you away for no reason. They’ve misplaced Corbin Colt’s manuscript.”
“What do you mean misplaced?”
“There’s been some turnover lately. Things aren’t as organized as I’d have hoped.”
“But those pages were evidence that was supposed to be released after the investigation was over.” Tempest hadn’t even had time to take photographs of those pages before they were seized.
“I know.”
“I need those pages.” She’d had her hopes set on Corbin Colt’s hidden manuscript pages. Even though it was only a fictionalized version of her mom’s disappearance, he’d known things that nobody else had known.
“There’s no need to worry,” Blackburn insisted. “I’m concerned about the state of affairs, but it doesn’t mean it’s related to this case in particular.”
Tempest wasn’t so sure.
She clicked the button to open the gate and pulled into her driveway. She hated that they had to be fenced off from the world, but with everything that had happened, on balance, she was glad that her dad had insisted on the security, even if it was making her paranoid. She watched the gate close in her rearview mirror before stepping out of the car.
Tempest checked on Abra first. The bunny seemed restless, even after he was fed, so Tempest scooped him up in her arms and took him with her to the tree house. She knocked on the tree house door, and immediately heard her grandfather’s footsteps.
He kissed her cheeks, displacing his fedora as he did so. “I’m glad I’ll have company for dinner.”
“No Grannie Mor?”
“Tansy and Trina invited Morag, Gideon, and a couple of other artists out to dinner.”
“They didn’t invite you to come along?”
He chuckled. “All artists, Tempest. I’d have been a fish out of water. I’d rather commune with my kitchen and the oak tree. And now you.” He turned and walked up the stairs. “I wish the police had located Paloma Rhodes already so we could finally close this chapter in our lives.”
“You really think she did it?”
“Abused women must sometimes take drastic measures.”
“At my theater? The one I rented. The one where my mom vanished?”
Ash sighed and turned around. “I know what you’re thinking, but it can’t be our curse.”
“I didn’t say that, but I do think it’s related to us.”
Ash wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Come. Let’s get to the kitchen. Everything is better there.” He fixed them both a cup of tea and took homemade shortbread cookies from a jar before continuing. “You have to understand,” Ash said, after taking a long swig. “I know, rationally, that it was a dangerous trick that killed my brother. It’s all in the past. It’s not related to what happened to your mother. Let’s leave it in the past, eh?”
Ash was such a jovial man that Tempest sometimes forgot how much heartbreak he’d suffered. Her aunt’s death, thought to be accidental at the time, was what had brought Tempest and her grandparents closer.
Ash had always said that even though he’d suffered the horrific loss of his two beloved daughters, he had gained a son and granddaughter in return. He never would have wished for it, but he had accepted the life he’d been given.
“Your phone is buzzing,” said Ash.
It was a text from Ivy. I have an idea about what happened. My house in 10 minutes? Dinner on me.
Ivy lived in the top half of a duplex, which was smaller than the lower unit, where her older sister Dahlia lived with her family. Tempest walked past the three custom-made garden gnomes in the garden that represented her sister’s family: a plump, redheaded gnome with a magnifying glass for true crime writer Dahlia; a dark-haired gnome holding a gavel for her attorney wife, Vanessa; and a giggling baby gnome for their daughter, Natalie, even though Natalie was now seven years old. She continued around to the side of the house, where a circular staircase led to Ivy’s unit.
A locked gate blocked off the start of the stairs, but this was no ordinary lock. A comically oversize lock that looked like it was straight out of a cartoon left room for you to slip your hand inside the keyhole and act as the key yourself. Tempest did so, and the gate swung open.
When Tempest told her grandfather about the invitation, he insisted he’d be fine on his own that evening, and he also insisted on whipping up dessert for her to take, so she carried a container of quick-cook coconut ladoo up the stairs with her.
“Coconut and cardamom?” Dahlia sniffed the round cookies before sweeping Tempest into a hug. Dahlia’s bright yellow glasses Tempest remembered had been replaced by sparkling purple ones.
“Good sniffer.”
“Natalie is in a stage where she refuses to eat certain foods and instead sneakily hides food deemed unworthy in potted plants around the house. My nose is all about detecting specific scents these days.”
“I’m happy to see you,” said Tempest, “but I didn’t realize this was a family gathering. Are Natalie and Vanessa inside too?”
Dahlia looked at her sister. “You didn’t tell her?”
“Tell me what?” Tempest looked back and forth from one sister to the other.
You could tell the two women were related, but aside from their auburn hair, they were gentle opposites in most realms. Dahlia was a nonfiction writer, true crime whenever possible, and had been obsessed with dark crime stories ever since learning about the Black Dahlia unsolved murder of the 1940s when she was a kid, though she hadn’t actually been named after the case, but the flower. Ivy couldn’t stand anything as grim as true crime but thrived on classic mystery novels where you always knew you’d get a happy ending, or at least a satisfying resolution. Even physically, where Ivy’s hair was straight, Dahlia’s was curly. And while Ivy lacked curves of any kind, Dahlia had enough to spare, and she wasn’t shy about wearing bold clothes that showed off her round figure. They never had to worry about dressing alike when they went out in public together, since most of Ivy’s clothes were pink or other light colors, but Dahlia’s closet was filled with purples and reds. And right now, yellow go-go boots with two-inch heels that still left her half a head shorter than Tempest.
“Ivy caught me up on what’s been happening this week,” said Dahlia, “and how you’re investigating. Nat and Van are at a playdate with some other kids and parents tonight. Ivy thought it was the perfect time for me to walk you through my methods to see if that jars anything loose for you.”
“Your methods?” Tempest asked.
Dahlia lifted a corkboard from Ivy’s coffee table. A stack of notecards, pens, and thumbtacks were on top. “Ivy informed me that you two don’t even have a murder board.”
Ivy groaned. “I asked you not to call it that.”
Dahlia cracked open the pack of multicolored pens. “But that’s what it is. A man was murdered this week. I’m so sorry you’re involved in this, Tempest. But if Ivy wasn’t lying about you looking into it, you two need to step up your murder game.”
Ivy groaned again.
“It’s okay,” said Tempest. “It’s true. Euphemisms won’t help us. Aren’t you missing some red string to connect to some notecards?”
Dahlia plopped the stack of materials back onto the coffee table and waved her hand through the air dismissively. “I’ve never understood those. If you’re doing your investigative job right, the connections can be brought together in a much more organized manner. Now—” She paused and gave them a diabolical grin. “It’s time for our council of war.”
“Let’s call Gideon,” said Tempest. “Maybe he’ll even answer his landline, if he’s back home after his dinner with the artists.”
Tempest tried calling his house. He sometimes was so caught up in his stone carving that he didn’t answer the phone, even if he heard it. As expected, the call went to his answering machine. “Gideon Torres here,” the message began. “I could lie and say I’ll call you back shortly, but that’s probably not the case. I’m not a phone person, but please do leave me a message, and I’ll respond in due time. Maybe.” That was just like Gideon. He appeared formal and old-fashioned on the surface, but then he surprised you.
She spoke a few words to the answering machine just in case he was already home but screening calls, but he wasn’t. Before putting her phone away, her finger hovered over Sanjay’s number. It was right before the time he’d be going on stage this evening, nearly a thousand miles away. He’d probably pick up his phone, but she didn’t want to distract him. She slipped the phone into her pocket.
While Dahlia placed an order for dinner from a Thai restaurant down the street and Ivy found a stand for the corkboard, Tempest began writing out a list of suspects. By the time the order was delivered and they’d dished out plates of food, they’d filled the corkboard with notecards of suspects, facts about them, and locations. Ivy had even printed out photos of Julian Rhodes and each of the suspects from what was available online.
Julian Rhodes’s photo was on top. It was his headshot from the Bespoke Rhodes website. Underneath were the suspects.
“Brodie Frost,” said Tempest. Ivy had found his most reposted photo on the internet, an old one from when he’d played Ichabod Crane from The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. “Suspect number one. He might be selling off Nicky’s props now that he’s out of a job, and he’s been tracking my movements. He’s up to something.”
“But not necessarily murder,” Dahlia pointed out. “Save your theories for after we lay out the facts.”
“Isn’t she great?” said Ivy. “This is why I didn’t think you’d object.”
“Paloma Rhodes,” continued Tempest. Ivy’s own biases came through in the photo she’d selected of Paloma. Rather than use her headshot from the Bespoke Rhodes luxury travel website, she’d selected a candid shot from more than a decade ago when Paloma was a librarian. “The main suspect of the police, because she ran away. Her phone pinged from Michigan, but that doesn’t mean she’s with it. Her husband tried to kill her, so she has the strongest motive to have wanted Julian dead. But she has no connection to the Whispering Creek Theater.”
“That you know of,” noted Dahlia.
“Point taken,” said Tempest. “Next, Moriarty. Real name unknown.” There was no photograph of Moriarty. He’d avoided cameras to a creepily precise degree. “He’s fixated on me, but he says he’s my guardian angel, not a stalker or nemesis.”
“Why does the notecard say he’s in town?” Ivy asked. “You said he hadn’t made contact in months.”
Tempest took a deep breath. “Until last night.”
Dahlia stood up. “I need wine. I’m opening a bottle. Who else wants in?”
Tempest and Ivy both raised their hands but didn’t look away from each other.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you when I saw you earlier today,” said Tempest. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you. It was late last night, and he came to Gideon’s house while I was there. It was so surreal, it didn’t even register as real when I woke up today. But it was.”
“Drink up, ladies.” Dahlia set two glasses of red wine in front of them and raised her own glass. “To surreal experiences and getting to the bottom of this mystery.”
Tempest took a big gulp and told Ivy and Dahlia about Moriarty’s strange visit.
“He said, ‘She’s dangerous,’” Tempest concluded. “I thought he meant Paloma Rhodes, that he believed she was guilty like everyone else seems to think and that he was just worried about me in general.”
“Since he’s a creepy stalker fan,” Dahlia murmured.
“But what if Moriarty is actually involved in some way? He knows the world of magic and is equipped to create an ingenious booby trap. But I don’t see Paloma teaming up with him. What if he was talking about another woman? Moriarty, or he and his partner, could have killed Julian Rhodes because Julian was trying to destroy my dad’s business. We know he’s capable of killing when he believes it’s justified.”
“Hold on,” said Ivy. “What other woman would he be involved with?”
“Lenore Woods,” said Tempest.
Ivy choked on a bite of rice noodles. “I need more wine.” She held out her glass to her sister, who obliged.
“Lenore snuck out of her house this afternoon without telling us,” said Tempest.
“That’s right,” Ivy whispered.
“Was it really sneaking out?” asked Dahlia. “This is a woman whose house your crew has basically taken over. Plus she’s not living there. She might have just needed some peace and quiet.”
“She’s also the architect descendant of Chester Hill,” Tempest said. “That’s the same man who built the Whispering Creek Theater. That could be our connection. The Whispering Creek Theater is involved.”
“You’re getting distracted by a location because of its striking appearance and history,” said Dahlia. “I’m not disagreeing that it’s relevant. It’s where the booby traps were set. But people are more important than places. Is that all your suspects? Brodie Frost, Paloma Rhodes, Lenore Woods, and Moriarty?”
“One more,” said Tempest. She’d debated whether to put it on the murder board. She doubted he was a real suspect, but after what Blackburn had told her … she tacked one more notecard onto the corkboard. “Detective Rinehart.”
Ivy hid her face behind her hands. “Please tell me you’re joking, that you’re just upset he once thought your grandfather was a murderer, so you want to put him on the board out of spite.”
“Some evidence from his last case has gone missing at HCPD,” Tempest explained. “Corbin Colt’s manuscript that I was supposed to have after the case was over, which it is. That manuscript is related to my mom vanishing. But they ‘misplaced’ it.”
“As much as I love a good conspiracy,” said Dahlia, “it’s upsetting how frequently files really do get misplaced.”
“I liked it better when we were investigating an impossible crime earlier this year.” Ivy speared a spring roll with her fork. “Then I didn’t have to think about the horrid person who’d kill someone. We could simply focus on the puzzle.”
“The puzzle is still key,” said Tempest. “Because there’s got to be a reason the killer—Paloma or whoever it is—chose this devious method. It’s still a puzzle—just not an impossible one.”
“The booby-trap blade might have hit the wrong victim,” Ivy suggested.
“The trap delayed me from getting inside,” said Tempest. “Maybe that was the plan. To keep me from discovering something inside the theater. Because something we haven’t talked about yet is the Raj family curse.” Tempest pointed to the corkboard’s family curse column. “Whatever is happening this week has to be related to me and my family’s past. It’s too big a coincidence that booby traps like a magician would build are shooting out of a theater that I happen to be renting and where my mom disappeared, and that the man who was murdered was suing my dad. Even people on the internet are saying my mom is responsible for the booby traps from beyond the grave.”
“I hope you’re not being influenced by the internet mob,” said Dahlia. “Listening to those voices never did anyone any good.”
“They’re wrong about my mom, but they’re right to point out the obvious connection. Someone is hiding behind the Raj family curse.”
“Which brings up the biggest omission on the board,” said Dahlia.
“My grandparents aren’t involved,” said Tempest. “I’d bet my life on—”
“Not them,” said Dahlia. “Nicodemus.”
Tempest felt her hand go numb as she gripped her fork so tightly it nearly snapped.
“You didn’t put him on the board,” Dahlia continued, “and I’m in favor of loyalty, but if you think this is truly related to your family curse, Nicodemus has been there the whole time. And he’s here this week.”
“No.” Tempest’s voice was louder and angrier than she meant it to be. “He was nearly killed by the booby trap. And it ruined his career.”
“Dahl has a point,” Ivy said gently. “He might have been accidentally hurt by the knife. Maybe he screwed up when trying to remove the booby-trap evidence, or setting up another one. He builds illusions. He collects automata.”
“He’s also not a woman,” said Tempest. “Moriarty said—”
“Moriarty,” Dahlia cut in, “might be the killer. You’re not thinking dispassionately enough about the facts.”
“Of course I’m not thinking dispassionately. But beyond my biases, Nicodemus was on the other side of the world when my mom vanished. And I was with him when Julian Rhodes was killed.”
“By a booby trap. That means the killer didn’t have to be there.”
“There’s something that feels wrong about the booby-trapped door.” Tempest thought again about what she’d seen that morning. She’d seen something that mattered. She knew it. But she couldn’t quite place what it was that felt wrong.
“Of course something feels wrong,” said Ivy. “It’s super creepy that it’s regenerating. Way creepier than a supposed ghost from a classic impossible crime novel. It’s like it’s from a horror movie. And I don’t want to be in a horror movie.”
“I give up,” said Dahlia. “I was trying to keep us on track with known facts to start, but you two are right. There’s a lot more going on here than a simple murder board will tell us.”
“No.” Tempest pushed aside her plate and stood up to look more closely at the board. “You’re the one who’s right. I’m too close to this. I need to look at the facts on the board, not go with a gut feeling. I know the facts are all here. I just haven’t put the pieces of the puzzle together yet. Brodie Frost, Paloma Rhodes, Moriarty, Lenore Woods, Detective Rinehart, and Nicodemus the Necromancer. Looking at all of them, Nicodemus alibis out for my mom vanishing; hopefully we can trust a detective, so I’m ruling out Rinehart for my sanity; Lenore Woods has an interest in architectural history, so her connection is innocently explained; Moriarty is a wild card, so we don’t know enough to pass judgment on him; Paloma Rhodes could reasonably have wanted her husband dead, so I’ll grant that the police are right about her being a person of interest who needs to be found so she can share what she knows. That leaves Brodie Frost.”
Tempest lifted his creepy photograph from the corkboard and turned it over. She didn’t want to be biased by his stage costume. She was looking only at facts. “Brodie has been around since before my Aunt Elspeth was killed in a supposed accident on stage. He was in Scotland when she died there. As far as I know, his alibi was never checked for when my mom vanished. He’s been here in Hidden Creek this week. He’s been sneaking around. And he’s willing to go behind his boss’s back to sell off valuable props.”
“Oh no!” Ivy squealed, causing Dahlia to knock over her wineglass. “This really is a horror movie.”
Tempest and Dahlia blinked at Ivy as red wine spread across the table like blood.
“Don’t you see?” said Ivy. “The killer is in your house.”
Ivy was right. The prime suspect was at Fiddler’s Folly with her family.