Chapter Ten

 

Despite what you might expect—despite what I expected—the rehearsal went off with almost military precision.

Afterward, John and I went up to the house so I could change my clothes. I was hoping for a moment alone with him, but Nola and Jinx went with us, so there was no chance to tell him about my interview with Sergeants Kolchak and Iff before leaving for the rehearsal dinner at City Club.

Although the city provided John with a car and an official driver, he always drove himself to and from anything not work-related, so that evening he chauffeured the four of us. Nola spent the entire trip making dire predictions about the cost of the evening’s bar tab. She had wanted to hold the rehearsal dinner at the hall of St. Patrick’s, but thankfully, John had nixed that.

“The church doesn’t recognize our marriage, so we’re sure as hell not giving them our business, even if they wanted it, which I’m sure they don’t.”

Nola had protested, “You’re the police commissioner, John. They would gladly make an exception for you.”

“I don’t want to be an exception,” John said. “Or make an exception.”

But even Nola was not proof against the old-fashioned glamor of City Club’s polished black-and-green marble floors, black-and-white marble walls, and gold-leaf ceiling.

Elevators whisked us up to the tenth floor. The tall doors slid open, and we walked into a crowded room full of smiling people. The air was scented with roses and orange blossom. Candlelight flickered in crystal lanterns, casting gold shadows over the linen-covered tables.

In all honesty, most of the evening passed in a blur. I do remember that the food was great—though I couldn’t tell you what I ate—the service terrific, and mostly people seemed to be having a good time. John’s friends certainly had a good time—and Nola was quite right about the impressive bar bill.

Rex did not show up at dinner and did not answer my phone calls when I tried to find out if something had happened to them on the drive over. But that wasn’t a total surprise. Rex was not all that social; in fact, I’d been surprised as well as pleased when they’d agreed to act as one of my attendants.

V. and Bree did make it to dinner, but did not stay much after the meal. Despite the bright smiles and pat-on-the-back assurances that it was going to be a lovely wedding, their fond farewells sounded more like commiseration as they clutched their silver flasks—John’s gift to each member of the wedding party—and made their escape. They promised to meet me and Andi at the restaurant the following night for my enterrement de vie de garçon.

At least Andi stayed the whole evening, attended assiduously by John’s best man, Trace, who seemed downright smitten with her.

“He’s not married or anything, is he?” Andi asked uneasily when we ran into each other at the bar.

“No. Widowed.”

“Recently?”

“Not sure.”

Her hazel eyes met mine diffidently. “Are you— Is everything— It seems like John’s as crazy about you as ever?” I didn’t miss that tiny, cautious uptick of inquiry.

“Something’s different,” I said. “I can feel it. But he doesn’t seem to want out. Yet.”

She put her hand on mine. “I think he does really care, Cos. He watches you all the time.”

“He’s not sure if I committed murder or not.”

I hadn’t meant to say it aloud, and she looked shocked.

I said quickly, “I’m joking.”

I hoped so anyway.

She nodded doubtfully.

“Then you’re going ahead with it.”

“Well, yeah.” I indicated the lavishly appointed room, people talking animatedly at tables. “Clearly.”

She made a little moue. “And what about us? Are we…?”

I felt my mouth curve into a reluctant, wry smile. I mean, I knew why she’d done it. For the same reason in second grade I’d given Gideon Terwilliker a green polka-dot complexion after he’d declined to share her Hostess cupcake. It’s a funny thing, but it’s easier to forgive people hurting us than to forgive them hurting someone we love.

“It’s forgotten,” I said. “But from now on, stay out of it. Whatever happens between me and John is between me and John.”

“Witch’s honor.” Andi stuck her little finger out, and I curled my own around it. Mortals call that pinky swear. We call it… Well, actually we call it a pinky swear too.

A minute or so after I left her, I finally ran into John. We were spending most of the evening circulating and so had not really spent much time together.

“Where’s Sergeant Bergamasco?” I asked. “I haven’t seen him tonight.”

John gave me what I was starting to think of as his bad-news smile. His mouth curved, but his expression stayed impassive. “Nothing to worry about. We’ll talk about it later.”

If we needed to talk later, obviously it was something to worry about, but I offered an equally untroubled smile. “Of course.” I glanced past him as the elevator doors slid open and a tall man in his mid-fifties with black hair and angular features exited.

I said, “My father’s arrived. Would you like to meet him?”

“I would.” I started to turn, but John stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. His brown-gold eyes studied my face. “Are you having a good time, Cosmo?”

“Comme ci, comme ça.” I wiggled my eyebrows. “It’s a lovely party, but I’m looking forward to going home with you.”

John’s smile was sudden and very white. “Me too.”

As I led the way through the tables, I heard him say ruefully, “Nothing brings home the age difference like realizing your parents are only a few years older than me.”

To which I really didn’t have an answer.

I managed to intercept my father before he could make his way over to where my mother was holding court with Uncle Lucien, Aunt Iolanthe, Great-aunt Coralie, my cousin Waite, and his fiancée, Jadis. Yes, Jadis. Her parents actually named her after the White Witch in the Chronicles of Narnia. And my family thinks I’m too much influenced by mortal culture.

“Ah, Cosmo,” my father greeted me in his usual, cool New England tones. “I didn’t know pets were allowed at this event.”

That piquant comment was not directed at me or John. It was aimed at Phelon Penn, my mother’s companion. Companion sounds better than boy toy. Same job description, but a higher paygrade.

“Father—that is, Torquil Tremaine, may I present my fiancé, John Galbraith?”

Father recalled himself—sort of—and shook hands with John. “Galbraith. Scottish descent, correct?”

“Correct,” John said. This was a good start because John was very much into his Scottish heritage, having completed one of those DNA Ancestry kits a few months before we met.

“Yes. An ancient bloodline. Picts, I think.” Father said to me, “A good choice.”

“Right, well,” I said heartily, fearing he was about to launch into a dissertation on primitive magic. “We’re all Americans now.”

Father snorted. “Have you met your mother?” He considered. “Who cast your horoscopes?”

“No one. We didn’t have them done.”

He began to splutter. “D-d-didn’t have them done?”

“John is not—doesn’t believe in astrology.”

John sounded startled as he said to me, “Do you?”

“Well, I mean…yes.”

John looked completely taken aback. And if he was taken aback at the idea that I believed in astrology, the Goddess alone knew what he’d make of the rest of it.

Father said, “You’re going to marry this child of mine without any idea of what you’re getting yourself into?”

“Uh, Father, I’m twenty-nine. I’m not exactly a—”

John smiled at me, put his arm around my waist. “I think I have a pretty good idea.”

“Don’t misunderstand me. He’s charming and well educated, but if you marry him, you marry the Duchess of Abracadantès.”

I relaxed. Okay, that was better. My father was once again on his favorite topic. My mother.

Or maybe that wasn’t better as John said a little grimly, “So I discovered this evening.”

Yes, that had been a little uncomfortable. Until tonight I’d managed to skirt around the whole issue of titles and birthrights. It wasn’t like Maman swanned around town referring to herself as The Duchess. That was the rest of us. But there was no way to officially introduce her and her sister the, er, countess without getting into, well, details.

Nola had been impressed. That was the one silver lining. John had been dismayed, but then I suspect he’d been dismayed by Maman from their first meeting seven days earlier.

I cleared my throat. “The title is mostly ceremonial these days.”

My father laughed.

John looked from me to him and made a valiant effort. “I understand you teach at Salem State University, sir?”

“Call me Torquil. Not that we’ll be seeing much of each other. Cosmo is entirely his mother’s son. Arabella was mine. Even before this one was delivered, Estelle had all but cast me out. The sole point on which she ever gave in to me was allowing him to be born in Salem.”

I groaned inwardly.

“Arabella?” John repeated.

“My sister,” I said. “She…crossed when I was seven.”

“I had no idea. I’m sorry.”

I shook my head. One more of the many, many things we did not know about each other. Two weeks is a long time to be tortured, but not so long to get to know someone you plan on spending your life with. And rushing the latter almost guarantees the former.

Or so I had thought before I met John.

“I teach astronomy and philosophy.” Abruptly and unexpectedly—as was his wont—my father answered John’s earlier question.

“Both fields of study?” John asked, surprised.

“Officially, astronomy. But how can you teach the stars without exploring those fundamental questions of existence?”

John shook his head. Navy SEALs study the stars for different reasons.

“Mr. Saville?”

A waitress hovered on the edge of our conversation. I turned to her in inquiry. She said in an under voice, “An elderly gentlemen is insisting on speaking with you. He’s not a guest. I’m not sure how he got into the club. He gave me a card.”

She handed me a slightly bent black calling card printed in gold script with the name Oliver Sandhurst. Books and Bygones.

“I’ll speak to him,” I said. “Where is he?”

She looked pained. “He won’t come in. He’s waiting for you in the stairwell. In front of the Diego Rivera fresco.”

“That’s all right. I’ll go see him now.”

“What’s up?” John asked.

“Oliver Sandhurst—the man I bought Blue Moon from—wants to speak to me.”

“Speak to you about what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

I was surprised at how instantly on guard he was. Not naturally trusting, John. But then naturally trusting people don’t go into law enforcement.

“No, no. I’ve known Oliver for years. He’s a friend. If you could just…” I glanced past him to my father, who was glaring at the table where my mother—pretending to be oblivious to him—sat.

“Rest assured,” John said.

“Thank you.”

He added, “Don’t take too long.”

* * * * *

Oliver looked small, frail, and a little frightened standing on the landing before the vibrantly hued thirty-foot-high Diego Rivera fresco Allegory of California.

“Oliver, hi,” I said. “Why don’t you come and join us? There’s plenty of food and drink. You’d be very welcome.”

He took both my hands in his unsteady, ice-cold ones. “Cosmo, dear, dear boy. I’m so sorry to interrupt your happy occasion, but I felt I must tell you at once. Police detectives came to see me a short while ago. They seem to believe…” Oliver gulped. “That you killed Seamus Reitherman.”

For the last couple of hours, I had managed to forget the looming threat of the investigation into Seamus’s death. Now all that anxiety and apprehension came crashing down with the weight of that Broadwood piano earlier.

“It’s not true.”

“Certainly it’s not true.” Oliver looked relieved. “I didn’t believe it for a moment.”

“He asked me to meet him at his shop last night. When I got there, he was dead.”

Unfortunately, I had told this story so many times, it was beginning to sound like a script.

“Did he tell you…” Oliver hesitated, biting his lip. “I’m sorry to ask this, but why did he invite you of all people?”

“He told me he believed he had found the Grimorium Primus.”

Oliver’s eyes kindled. He whispered excitedly, “He did! He had!”

“But… Are you sure?”

Oliver nodded. “He showed it to me. Well, not the whole thing. He showed me a page. He wanted me to authenticate it.” His pale-green eyes were wide and frightened. “It was. Authentic. It was the real thing. The Grimorium Primus.”

My knees went a little weak. I had been trying to reassure myself that Seamus could not have really, truly found the first and greatest of the grimoires. That I had not seen those telltale chalk marks. That his death had to have been due to other circumstances. Maybe Ciara had killed him. Maybe someone had tried to rob him. Maybe a crazy customer had returned after-hours, demanding a refund on a witchcraft starter kit.

Oliver was watching me with blazing-eyed and slightly unnerving intensity. “Do you know what he did with the book?”

“No. I never saw it. It’s as I said. He was dead when I arrived.”

Oliver began to wring his hands. “This is bad. This is very bad.”

“I know.”

“In particular, very bad for you, dear boy. Very bad for your family.”

I said more huskily, “I know.”

“Whoever killed Seamus must have stolen the grimoire.”

I thought again of the chalk markings. What had I seen? I couldn’t be sure. The spell had only been started.

“Maybe not. It’s possible Seamus hid the book.”

A finding spell? Was that what I had seen? I half closed my eyes, trying to remember…

“Do you think so?” Oliver whispered.

“I don’t know.”

I opened my eyes, studied his wizened, worried face. Either he truly was terrified, or he had aged a lot in four years.

“Oliver, one of your gifts is finding things.”

His eyes widened. He drew back. “Yes, that’s true, but—”

All witches are born with certain talents. No, call them aptitudes. Witches who train and develop their abilities usually gain other, well, powers. The ability to find things without the aid of a finding spell typically manifested late in life. Since his fifties, Oliver had been legendary for his ability to locate that which was lost.

“If Seamus had time to hide the book, it might still be in his shop.”

“The Creaky Attic?”

“Yes. The store is huge. If his slayer didn’t take it, it could be hidden anywhere. Hopefully somewhere only another witch could find it.”

For a moment we both considered the terrifying consequences of a grimoire so powerful falling into the wrong hands. Oliver shuddered.

“Who else did Seamus tell about the grimoire?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Ciara, for sure. His consort. And whoever he got the book from knows. Assuming it came to him through regular channels.”

“Do you know where he got the grimoire?”

“No.”

“Nor do I.” He added, “Then we can assume nothing.”

I conceded it. An idea came to me. “I was going to try and search his shop tonight. What if you came with me?”

“Tonight? But you’re…” Oliver waved vaguely at the door above us. Muffled voices and music drifted down the stairwell.

“After the party,” I said. “I could meet you at the Creaky Attic at one.” Midnight would be better for Oliver’s finding, but that might be cutting it too close. I had a feeling John would want to talk when we got home.

Oliver’s eyes lit. He was about to speak, when a door swung open overhead. We both froze. The sound of music and voices swelled, peaked.

John called down, “Cosmo? Everything okay?”

I sagged with relief, threw my head back, and called, “Fine! I’ll be right up.”

I could feel him listening. For what? A second voice? My coconspirator?

“Roger that,” John said.

He didn’t move.

We waited—and he waited.

Why? What was he expecting to happen? My unease grew. Did he really not trust me?

But then the door swung shut again, cutting off the noise above.

“I don’t know,” Oliver said uneasily. “What if it’s a trap?”

“How can it be? It’s our own plan.”

He said, “Well, dear boy, actually it’s your plan.”

“Okay, it’s my plan. I think it may be our only chance of finding the grimoire before it’s lost forever.”

“Maybe,” Oliver murmured. “You could be right. I don’t know…”

It would be so much easier with his help. But he was frail and elderly and it was not really his problem. I said, “Oliver, that wasn’t fair to ask. It’s all right if you don’t want any part of this. You already stuck your neck out by coming here tonight.”

He hesitated.

“Don’t be silly,” he said quickly. “I won’t desert you in your hour of need. It’s only…”

“It’s only what?”

He gave me a sickly smile. “I think we would be wise to remember that if whoever killed Seamus did not take the grimoire, they may also be searching for it.”