THE HAUNTED WHISPERING CREEK THEATER HAS CLAIMED ANOTHER LIFE
That was the headline that greeted Tempest when she checked her phone at the hospital. Someone had leaked news that Nicodemus was a victim of the booby trap, but thankfully, they didn’t have all the facts. The knife’s blade had stabbed Nicodemus—but he was alive.
Nicodemus’s reflexes were quick enough to have saved his life—but not his hand.
Tempest’s relief was immense. She’d lost both her mom and her aunt on theater stages. To lose someone else she cared about would have been bad enough, but to have it happen at a theater once again would have made her feel truly cursed.
Her relief was tempered by a stark truth. Nicodemus might not have truly escaped death. To a magician, a hand injury meant the death of a career he’d spent decades perfecting.
If he’d been younger, Nicodemus might have recovered with surgery and physical therapy. But the injury happening right before his last tour meant there would likely be no farewell tour. Tempest hated to think of his current state of mind.
She’d arrived at the theater just as the ambulance pulled out of the parking lot. Her dad came to the hospital as soon as Tempest let him know what was going on, but once it was clear both that Nicodemus was alive and that nobody would be able to see him while his serious hand injury was being treated, Tempest insisted her dad get back to the jobsite. They were on a tight deadline to finish Lenore’s renovations, and she was fine waiting with Brodie. It was mostly true. It was fine at first, but as time stretched on, she grew more nervous. What was taking so long?
“Can’t you stop that fidgeting?” Brodie scowled at her from across the waiting room.
An unkind thought crossed her mind, but she didn’t say it out loud. Everyone deals with stress differently. “I’m going on a walk. Text me if there’s any news.”
When she got back to the waiting room twenty minutes later, feeling slightly better for having speed-walked around the hospital complex four times, Brodie was no longer in sight. She glowered at her phone, which showed zero new messages.
She found Brodie standing at the window of Nicodemus’s hospital room. Nicodemus was awake and sitting up in a raised hospital bed, a hospital gown hanging loosely on his shoulders, and a large bandage wound around his left hand. With his right hand, he tugged at the edge of the sheet. The blinds were closed, but pinpricks of sunlight still seeped into the room.
“You’re all right.” Tempest didn’t speak the words as a question. Even though she knew he’d survived, it was a relief to see him awake and fussing with his surroundings.
“If you consider losing the use of my hand all right.” Nicodemus gave her a wan smile. “Severed nerve. I don’t remember the last time I felt so damn helpless. No, that’s not true. I do. It’s a feeling I don’t care for one bit.”
“Huggable?”
He pointed to the mass of bandages on his left hand, which was elevated on a metal stand. “Avoid my left arm and you’re golden.”
Tempest wanted to squeeze him with all her strength, but she settled for a half hug.
“I swear I was cautious approaching the door,” he whispered into her hair. “I don’t know how—”
“Tour’s off.” Brodie was glaring at Tempest as she let go of Nicodemus.
The less generous part of her expected he was angry that he’d be out of a job. But she knew that wasn’t true. He’d worked for Nicodemus for more than a decade. Nobody would have put up with Nicky’s eccentricities for so long if they didn’t care for him.
“Be a good lad and find me some coffee, Brodie?” Nicodemus asked.
Brodie shot Tempest a glance that would definitely qualify as daggers, then gave a nod to Nicodemus before departing.
“I’m sorry.” Tempest wished, as she had many times before, that she could turn back the clock and have a do-over.
“At least it’s my left hand. I can still feed myself properly.”
“What were you thinking going back there?”
The look he gave her made her feel even worse. He’d done it to protect her. He knew what she was planning to do. And he’d been right.
“It’s not your fault,” he said, which only made it worse. “It was my decision. I could tell you wanted those notebooks back desperately. I know you, Tempest. I could tell you wanted them for personal reasons, not just because you wanted to prove the note left for Julian Rhodes was torn from one of your notebooks.”
Tempest’s heart thudded. Did he know she was looking into her mom’s and aunt’s murders? She hadn’t exactly kept it from him, but it’s not the kind of thing that comes up easily in conversation. How was your flight? Oh, by the way, I’ve been investigating my aunt’s supposedly accidental death on stage, and I think my mom was killed because she found out who did it. Want to grab coffee? She’d played it out in her mind and decided against it. She’d have come clean if he’d asked, but instead she’d opted to let him focus on his tour. Which was now irrelevant.
Nicodemus spoke even more gently now. “I know how much you care about those notebooks. They’re one of the few things you have left of your mother. You don’t want them held as evidence in a court case that could last for years.”
“Nicky, I—”
“Tempest. Stop.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“I’ve known you since you were a child. You’re headstrong, physically strong, and clever. But also remarkably capable of guilt for things that aren’t your responsibility or your fault. You’re welcome to bring me some of your grandfather’s home cooking, or a performance of whatever new act you’re working on, but not your pity.”
“You practice that speech?”
His dry lips ticked into a smile. “Only once before. Being a seasoned performer has its benefits.”
“And its drawbacks.” Tempest sighed. The moment was gone. She wasn’t going to worry him with her investigation. “That was a perfectly theatrical stunt. You didn’t have to nearly kill yourself to stop me from going back to the theater. Why did you try to get inside through that door?”
“I’m a foolish old man. The police knew how to secure the other two doors of the theater, but I expect they were still wary of the main door. They’d already taken away the two blades, so only tarp and crime scene tape blocked it off, and only one officer was stationed on site. I simply waited for him to take a short break. I presume it was only to use the loo, since he was back in time to find me right after…” He shook off the memory of the blade that severed the nerve in his hand. The blade that had effectively taken his life.
“Looking at all three doors,” he continued, “the main one appeared to be the easier option. I was so certain I understood what was going on with that booby trap. There has to be a pressure point to trigger it. I understand the principles of mechanisms better than anyone.”
He wasn’t exaggerating. Nicodemus built most of his own effects. He’d collected automata his entire life, often snatching up broken ones he’d fix himself. The precursor to modern robots, the clockwork precision of an automaton allowed magicians from centuries past to create spectacles that truly looked like magic, such as Jean-Eugène Robert-Houdin’s famous orange tree, which grew from seed to tree live on stage—including real oranges. It was a style Nicodemus preferred over modern magic. He’d brought back to life the two fortune-teller automata in his studio in Leith on the outskirts of Edinburgh. The wooden body of the woman in a glass booth hid mechanisms that allowed her to deal Tarot cards, and a smaller wooden hand wrote several cursive messages once wound.
“I should say I thought I knew.” He closed his eyes and suddenly looked so much older.
“You were wrong about the mechanism?” She didn’t like the look she’d seen in his eyes. Fear.
“How?” he whispered. “That’s three blades now.”
“What do you mean how? You said it yourself. It’s a rigged mechanism. Like the kind in automata.”
He shook his head. “I was careful. I dinnae ken how I triggered it. It’s as if it’s regenerating. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the bloody theater really was haunted.”
“It’s a good thing you know better.” Tempest knew better, too, but there was still something horribly eerie about hearing the mechanical gears spring into action and seeing that blade pop out of the theater’s wooden door.
Nicodemus winced. For a moment, Tempest wondered if he was truly considering a supernatural explanation, but his gaze was directed at his hand. He was in pain.
“Should I get a doctor?” she asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve had far too much time with doctors today.”
Tempest looked around the hospital room more carefully. Small, but private. He looked … settled. He’d asked Brodie to bring him a coffee, but surely that was only an excuse to get rid of him. “I can take you home this afternoon, can’t I?”
“One of the doctors wasn’t pleased with my blood pressure or some such nonsense.” He stroked his goatee. It wasn’t nearly as scruffy as his hair, which was even more disheveled than usual. “Like the rest of me, my blood is theatrical. Their verdict is daft, but I’m stuck here ’til tomorrow. Then I need to come back for surgery next week—if you’ll have me that long.”
“Of course. Can I bring you anything from the house for now? Or help with changing the tour arrangements?”
He took her hand. “You’re a dear, but it’s only ’til tomorrow. Brodie and one of the crew members already in Los Angeles are dealing with the cancellation details.”
Tempest remembered what it was like to have a supportive crew. She’d lost the support and friendship of her Las Vegas team when she’d been accused of engineering a reckless stunt that went horribly wrong, not believing her that it was sabotage. Nicodemus and Sanjay were the two people close to her in the magic community who’d stuck by her. But they’d been on their own tours when her world came tumbling down. Even though it was less than a year ago, it felt like another lifetime ago now that she was building a life in Hidden Creek.
“Don’t worry about me, Tempest,” he added. “Perhaps I’ll follow in the footsteps of my fellow Scotsman, the Wizard of the North. A fresh start late in life and all that.”
“You mean after he gave up his questionable ways and dedicated himself to exposing fraudulent mediums?”
Scottish magician John Henry Anderson lived in the 1800s and performed magic under the stage name the Wizard of the North. He was a great showman, but most of his successful illusions were ones he’d “borrowed” from other magicians, including those stolen from Jean-Eugène Robert-Houdin. Stealing illusions was a bad look for a magician, but he changed his ways toward the end of his life.
“I suppose it doesn’t have the same cachet in this day and age.” Nicodemus sighed.
“I could stay a while. I’ll—” Tempest broke off as a shadow hovered in the doorway. “Is someone there?”
Detective Rinehart stepped into the room.
He looked older this afternoon. Stress and lack of sleep weren’t wearing well on him, and it was only the beginning of the investigation. But his small eyes were still every bit as alert. Tempest was certain he was taking everything in.
Tempest blocked Nicodemus protectively. “You aren’t charging him, are you?”
“For disturbing a crime scene? Not at present.” He stepped past Tempest to reach Nicodemus’s bedside. “I’m told you’re here for the time being, but I’m hoping you’re up for talking while your memories are fresh. Any details about what you saw of the booby trap would help.”
“You believe me now?” Tempest asked.
Rinehart ignored her and kept his attention focused on Nicodemus. “What did you do to trigger the blade?”
Nicodemus shook his head and looked up at the ceiling as he leaned back into the pillow. “Nothing. That’s what worries me. I didn’t do anything.”
“Have you found Paloma Rhodes yet?” Tempest asked.
Rinehart ignored her once more. “You were watching for your opportunity to get inside. Why?”
“Police DO NOT CROSS tape is like catnip to an illusionist.” Nicodemus forced a lighthearted smile, but his heart wasn’t in it.
A nurse came in and told them, in a forceful voice that left no room for argument, that Nicodemus needed to rest.
Tempest gave his uninjured hand a quick squeeze, then left with Rinehart.
“I hate hospitals,” the detective mumbled as they made their way down the hallway.
“It’s a place where devoted medical professionals take care of people.” Tempest gave a fond look at a nurse hurrying down the hallway. She thought of hospitals the way her grandfather did. A decade after retiring, Ash was still in touch with dozens of former patients. To him, hospitals were a place of healing. Even if they couldn’t perform miracles—which Tempest wouldn’t have been surprised were possible on her grandfather’s watch—everyone was doing all that was humanly possible for people who were loved.
She stopped him as soon as they reached the waiting room. “How could your people leave a dangerous booby trap just out there in the open?”
“The trap and its blades were already removed. The mechanism was visible to the naked eye, just hidden by the dim lighting, so there was no reason to believe there was another trap hiding in the door. Besides, the door was blocked off in multiple ways. Mr. Nicodemus already admitted he knew he was breaking in.”
“The people who removed the blades,” said Tempest. “What did they—”
“Tempest. I’ve already told you more than I need to. I know my predecessor took liberties in the amount of information he conveyed to you, but that isn’t how things work. You answer my questions.”
She crossed her arms and looked straight into his little birdlike eyes that betrayed nothing. “I’m waiting.”
“I didn’t come here to talk to you. Unless you have any more to tell me beyond what you shared last night, we’re done. Just remember, until we figure out what’s going on, that theater is off-limits.”
Tempest froze. It should have occurred to her earlier. It had, logically, but not in the way that it hit her right now. Not only was someone she cared about injured and another person dead, for a reason she was sure was connected to her—but now, with Rinehart’s words, her own investigation into what happened to her mom in that theater was crashing to a halt.
“A lot of my possessions are inside the theater since I rented it. I have a right to—”
“It’s a crime scene.”
“At least let me get my notebooks.”
“Anything at the theater is part of that crime scene.”
“But I need—”
“Crime. Scene.”
“Those notebooks are—”
“Crime—” He stopped before adding scene, as Tempest gave him a raised-eyebrow scowl that she was fairly confident would have broken a petty criminal. With Rinehart, at least it got him to stop speaking sooner.
“I get it.” She heard him loud and clear. That didn’t mean she had to listen.