Tempest dragged a wrought iron chair next to the fence to jump over the side.
Who was the real killer? Nicodemus was involved, but she didn’t believe he was a murderer.
Moriarty had warned her that “she” couldn’t be trusted. He hadn’t been referring to Paloma. Could he have meant Lenore? Even though she’d been acting suspiciously, was she really the killer? Moriarty couldn’t have meant Grannie Mor. For all she knew, he might have been misleading her altogether.
Or maybe she’d been wrong about Moriarty’s warning. Maybe the woman he’d mentioned was involved, but wasn’t the killer. It was a clue, but it didn’t necessarily tell her who the killer was. Only that Tempest shouldn’t trust someone. If she should even believe a word he said, which was debatable.
The door at the front gate was closing just as she reached it, but knowing Nicodemus, that could easily have been a misdirect.
Tempest dialed her grandmother’s number. “Grannie Mor, I’m going to tell you something confusing, but I need you to trust me.”
“What’s going on? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, but I don’t believe the police have the killer in custody.”
“Lenore escaped?”
“I don’t think Lenore is the killer.”
“Then who—”
“I don’t know that yet, but something very strange is going on, and I’m calling to tell you that you need to stay in a group of people right now. Don’t go off on your own at all. Don’t be by yourself with anyone. You’re with Ash, Sanjay, and my dad now?”
“Aye, but—”
“Gran, please. I promise I’ll explain everything as soon as I can. I’m probably overreacting, but please just stick with them.”
“Dinnae you remember who you’re talking to? I can take care of myself. You think I’m less capable than three strong men?”
“How do you know I’m not asking you to protect them? I have to go, Gran, but please just do as I ask.” She clicked off before her grandmother could say another word and silenced her phone.
She’d taken too long on the phone already. She had to search Fiddler’s Folly for the man she’d thought of as both a trusted friend and mentor.
Where to begin? She knew him well. Or at least she thought she did. She began with the guest wing. She pulled the wooden arrow resting in the arms of a cupid statue that stood a few feet away from the fireplace. The mechanism clicked, releasing a door hidden by a shallow bookcase of paperback books. The door hid a secret staircase leading to the guest rooms. An earlier attempt than her own bedroom, this staircase was steeper than ideal, plus the top steps didn’t stretch completely across the width of the space.
The bookcase slid open, and she conducted a quick search of the two guest bedrooms, two small bathrooms, and the central sitting room. Empty.
Before descending the stairs, she stood in the sloping doorway of Nicodemus’s room. She picked up a folded paper pop-up that had fallen to the floor and opened it up. The cardstock paper was folded into crisp corners, with jagged edges so sharp the paper sliced through Tempest’s fingertip as she examined the card. A single drop of blood formed on the paper cut.
She nearly dropped the pop-up card. Not from pain, but because she didn’t want to taint the intricate design with her blood. Each of the intertwined sheets of paper was bright white. The tableau was so thick with overlapping cutouts that she couldn’t make out what this one represented. Trees in a forest? She knew she should get back to searching the rest of the house, but an idea was hovering at the periphery of her mind. She could almost see it, just like she could almost see what this card was meant to represent.
Unlike the cards Nicodemus had cut that included a folded backdrop behind the main attraction, this one was layers of delicate cuts that fit together whether the card was open or closed. Tempest set it on the side table in its open state, then turned on the flashlight of her cell phone. Shining the light through the pop-up, the paper cast shadows on the wall. This was the story the pop-up told. It was hidden before she shone a light through it because the shadows told the story.
The shadows were indeed a forest of trees. The barren, gnarled branches cast eerie shadows on the wall. Hidden in the depth of the forest was a man in a top hat. Nicodemus. Tempest never would have seen the figure without looking at the pop-up card as a shadow box. He wasn’t standing on a stage pulling the strings of puppets or taking a bow. Instead, he was cowering underneath a barren oak tree. She felt as if she could see the anguish on the face of the paper man, even though no features were visible. He’d hidden his truth in plain sight. He must have felt guilty, but she didn’t care in that moment.
“What are you up to, Nicky?” she whispered to herself as she ran down the secret staircase.
It was Nicodemus’s paper hobby that gave Tempest the idea that was now forming in her mind. Whenever she created a new illusion, she had to ask herself if she was inspired by an idea or stealing it. It was a fine line, but one she and other magicians took seriously. Nicodemus had admitted he’d once been accused of stealing an illusion, and that’s why Brodie had been able to blackmail him. At the time, Tempest assumed Nicodemus hadn’t crossed that line, but now that she saw what he was capable of, what if he had? Had his whole career been built on lies?
She knelt at the unlit logs in the hearth. It wasn’t a working fireplace. The logs were real wood, but they were treated so they’d never light even if a well-meaning guest attempted it. She lifted the log in the back. The lever activated the faux-brick panel behind the logs, which slid open and led to the secret library.
Far taller than wide, the narrow library stretched up two floors, with a skylight providing the only natural light. Two walls were lined with built-in bookcases and a built-in ladder that facilitated climbing to any shelf in search of a book. The books themselves weren’t organized nearly as well as they could have been, but Tempest wasn’t here for a book. She grabbed the side of the ladder and climbed the rungs. She doubted he was in here for a book, but there was a recess at the top of the bookcases that was large enough for a person to hide. Again, she doubted he was hiding at Fiddler’s Folly, but she had to check. She couldn’t afford to make assumptions. Not anymore.
Stepping on a high rung, the nook came into view—and it was completely empty. It was also coated in dust.
She hurried down the ladder, slamming to a halt a few rungs from the ground.
“The dust,” she murmured.
It was a magician who pulled off the illusion of Brodie’s impossible death.
Tempest now knew how Brodie had been killed on the Shadow Stage. And who did it. It was the same person who’d killed Julian—and the person who’d also killed her aunt and mom.
After all these years, the answer was so simple. There was no grand conspiracy. No convoluted web of people working to perpetuate the Raj family curse. It was simply a single person who’d been hurt and lashed out ten years ago when Aunt Elspeth was killed. Things snowballed from there.
Tempest knew why Nicodemus had fled. He had figured out who the killer was. And he knew it was all his fault.
She feared Nicodemus was going to go after the killer himself. She had to act quickly.
And she knew exactly what she would do. Sanjay and her manager Winnie were both right: it was a performance. She now knew what her farewell performance would be.
Tempest was going to perform a show unlike any other. She was going to use a magical performance to reveal the truth. To get justice after all these years. She couldn’t plan a normal show on a stage where she’d sell tickets in advance. This would spring up as a surprise. As a pop-up show.
Pop-up justice.