I awoke at sunrise to find a gargoyle standing over me. This used to be disconcerting, but I was used to it now. I wasn’t always greeted to the start of a new day by a smiling gargoyle. But since my internal clock was attuned to the sun, Dorian could guess down to the minute when I’d wake up.
“You learned something,” I said as I sat up.
“Oui. Get dressed and I will tell you what I have discovered in the night!”
Three minutes later, I was climbing the stairs to the attic, my morning glass of lemon water in my hand. Normally I liked to step out onto the back porch for a few minutes of sunlight as an invigorating start to the day, but this wasn’t a normal morning.
“Why is there a warning sign taped to my pantry?” I asked as Dorian met me in the attic doorway.
He drew his brow together, causing his horns to tilt inward. “Your pantry? Have we not agreed that the kitchen is my domain? Do not answer. We have more important things to discuss at present. I have learned many things during the night. Shall we begin with my murder board?”
I blinked at the gargoyle. “Your murder board?”
“I was busy preparing it during the night.”
Because of course the gargoyle had created a murder board.
“The board is in its infancy,” Dorian said once we’d reached the attic. He led me to the cork board he’d used before. “I have not yet connected the dots… or, to be truthful, discovered many dots to connect, but I believe it will prove useful.”
Most of the large cork board was half empty, but Dorian had sections on Arthur Finder and Betty Kubiak. Arthur’s section only had questions underneath it, since we knew nothing about him, not even whether he was the killer and thief. Betty’s section was far more developed.
I unpinned the top printout. “She acted in Marlowe’s The Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus?”
“Oui! This is the most promising lead I discovered. She played the devil, a role not usually performed by a woman in the play.”
I eyed Dorian. “I don’t think the fact that she played the role of the devil means she was actually evil.”
“Of course not.” Dorian gave a single flap of his wings. “But it does suggest a connection to alchemy. The character of Faust, also known as Doctor Faustus in Marlowe’s imagining of the Faust legend, was an alchemist. One who sought shortcuts, similar to backward alchemists. She had a leading role in a play about a corrupted alchemist who sold his soul to the devil.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but Dorian continued on before I could do so.
“Betty Kubiak is interested in both art and alchemy,” he said. “Her watercolor still life paintings are mediocre, at best. Someone who takes shortcuts. You realize what this means, do you not?”
I did not.
He was staring at me with unblinking eyes, waiting for my reply, so I said, “You think because she acted in a play about a man selling his soul to the devil that she did the same to become a better artist?”
“Do not mock me, Zoe. You know as well as I that one cannot do such things.”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes. “I have no idea the connection you’re trying to make.”
“She has a connection to both art and alchemy. Just as our Perenelle does. Perenelle also wields a power that would be dangerous in the wrong hands.”
“You mean her ability to paint people and objects into canvases.”
“Oui. I understand she cannot transfer this skill to others. Yet the stolen paintings she created include alchemical elements, including a hidden notebook. An interest in alchemy indicates a possible line of investigation.”
I sighed. “How many plays did Betty act in over her career?”
Dorian snatched the printout from me. “So be it. We will set aside this clue. Perhaps you would rather discuss the secret society taking over Portland?”
“I’d hardly consider the Freemasons to be taking over Portland.” I finished my glass of water and looked more closely at the murder board, wondering how my life had changed so drastically that this wasn’t the first time I’d had a “murder board” constructed in my attic.
“Pfft. Not the Freemasons. Their existence can hardly be considered a secret.”
“Who are you talking about then?”
“I have not yet discerned the identity of the hooded individuals seen at midnight the night before last.”
“The night the paintings were stolen?” Now he had my full attention. “Hooded individuals? Was Betty—”
“I do not yet know the identity of the three figures seen near Hawthorne Bridge.”
The doorbell rang. It was too early for a casual visit from anyone. Dorian met my gaze. He nodded silently, then crept upstairs to hide.
The doorbell rang once more.
With Dorian out of sight, I peeked through the window curtains in the living room. A woman gripping an oak cane stood at the door.
The real Gwendolyn Graves.