Doyle Times Police Blotter, Friday, May 24th
Disorderly Conduct: On Thursday, May 23rd at 8:12 PM, police arrested two Doyle residents at the Gas n’ Stop, who’d gotten into a fight when one pulled his car in front of the other’s, taking “his” gas pump.
Before I could react, Darla unlocked the front door. “Oh, hey. Is everything all right, Deputy?”
My grip tightened on the mop handle. I’d magically called the tattooed man, not Deputy Daley. What did he want? I squished the mop deeper into the bucket.
In his khaki uniform, Ben Daley strode past her. “Hi, Darla. Everything’s fine.”
“Ben.” I swallowed. “I’m sorry, but we’re closed.”
“There’s still some coffee in the pot though,” Darla said helpfully. “Your favorite. Black.”
“That would be great,” he said. “Thanks.”
“Yes, thanks Darla,” I ground out. That’s what I got for hiring a pleasant and helpful assistant manager.
I turned to face Ben. “Are you just here for the coffee, deputy?”
Darla bustled behind the counter.
He stepped close, his voice too low for Darla to hear. “You’ve been asking about me?”
“No.” I straightened. “People have been talking about you. There’s a difference.”
His gray brows dove downward. “Saying what?”
“That there was no love lost between you and John Marsh. That you’re hot tempered.”
His broad face flushed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You tell me. Are you hot tempered, deputy?”
His fists clenched. “This is about my divorce, isn’t it?”
“Here you go.” Darla walked around the counter to us and handed him a paper cup. “Black, just like you like it.”
“Thanks.” A muscle jumped in his jaw. For a moment, I thought he’d throw the scalding coffee at me. He seemed to master himself and smiled. “You should be careful. There are people out there who take gossip personally.” He strode out the front door.
Darla trotted after him and shot the bolt. “Be careful? You’re not in any trouble, are you?”
“No. No, I’m fine.” But I wasn’t fine. I was shaken. If I’d been alone, what would have happened? But if I’d been alone, I would never have let him inside Ground.
“Do you know him well?” I asked Darla.
She shrugged. “A little. He doesn’t live in Doyle. He’s in Angels Camp. He just seems... lonely, I guess.”
“Lonely?”
“He’s divorced.” She flushed. “I guess we’ve talked a few times.”
My stomach wriggled. Had Darla been flirting with a killer?
“Divorce is rough,” I said neutrally, and we finished cleaning the coffeeshop. After Darla left, I hurried upstairs to my apartment.
Picatrix greeted me at the door and twined around my ankles. I gave her a good back scratch and checked the black cat’s bowl. It was full.
I grabbed my laptop off the kitchen table and walked to the white-brick alcove. Dropping onto the alcove couch, I checked the divorce records online. For thirty-five dollars, I accessed Daley’s files. They may as well have been written in Martian. I did figure out that Ben Daley only had to pay alimony. No child support. Either his kids had been too old, or he didn’t have any. And I couldn’t find anything on him abusing his wife. But the online records weren’t detailed.
Picatrix leapt onto the couch beside me, and I petted her absently.
Still, it was kind of amazing how much info was online. It was also a little terrifying. But what I’d found hadn’t helped me.
I did another internet search, for John and Gertrude Marsh. Neither had social media pages. That seemed kind of weird. But Connor had once told me cops were paranoid about posting their life online.
I typed in Hermia’s name. She was all over social media — photos of her in cheeky pinup poses on the classic cars she’d repaired.
“Also, not helpful,” I muttered.
The online articles about the deaths of John and Gertrude Marsh told me nothing I didn’t know.
Picatrix growled.
I looked up.
She stared at the door to the exterior stairs.
One good/bad thing about the stairs was I always heard people coming. I didn’t hear anyone now. “Is a raccoon out there?”
She sneezed on my jeans, which I probably deserved. I mean, it wasn’t like the cat could answer.
I ran an online search for Professor Casey Fager. He blogged for his classes, posting homework and class notes, and other random, chemistry-related thoughts. Borrrring.
Clicking on a social media button, I scanned his posts and flinched. Fager wasn’t opining about chemistry here. These were a full-throttle flame war against the sheriff, the town of Doyle, newspaper reporters, newspapers, and a slew of politicians. He hadn’t written anything about John or Gertrude Marsh. But there was a screed against the local humane society. I guessed that was where John Marsh had delivered the professor’s dog.
Picatrix hissed and rose into a Halloween arch, her fur standing on end. She stared at the exterior door.
Sliding a baseball bat from beneath the couch, I crept toward the door. I cocked my head and listened hard. If someone was on the stairs, they had ninja-like stealth. But my heart thumped.
Quietly, I unchained the latch. Slowly, I slid open the bolt. Lightly, I grasped the handle.
I wrenched open the door.
Smoke billowed upward.
Cold fear swept through me. “No!” Slamming the door shut, I grabbed my phone and a protesting Picatrix. I raced down the interior stairs to Ground.
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
“A fire! A fire outside Ground, in the alley.” Not happening. My café had burned once before. This couldn’t be happening again. I couldn’t live through another fire. Not again, please not again.
“What’s the address?”
Picatrix twisted in my arm and bit my wrist.
“Is this Patricia?” I snarled. “Patricia, you know the address!” Just because I’d once dated her ex…
Dropping Picatrix, I pressed my hand to the kitchen’s metal door. Was it warm? It felt warmer than normal. Was I imagining the heat?
“Address please?”
I spat out the address. “Quit screwing with me, Patricia. The whole block could go up!”
I hung up and pressed my hand to the door again. Warm? Not warm?
I swore. Scooping up Picatrix, I ran out the front door and onto Main Street. “Fire!” I dropped the cat on the sidewalk and raced around the corner to the alley. “Fire!”
I charged down the alley. Smoke spiraled around my staircase.
I skidded to a halt, blinking furiously.
The garbage cans were on fire.
The tattooed man raced up the alley. He let the duffel bag on his shoulder drop to the pavement. Picking up a flaming can, he whipped it upside down and slammed it on the ground. He did the same to the one beside it, smothering the fire. He stomped on some burning debris that had escaped.
“That’s not how you were supposed to arrive,” I blurted. He wasn’t supposed to arrive bare chested (aside from the tattoos) and in jeans. He wasn’t supposed to be a hero. Not that I minded, but my spell—
He straightened, panting. “Jayce Bonheim?”
“Yes, but—”
“I’m from the circus.”
“I know, but—”
“There’s something wrong there. They’re criminals, I think. Dangerous.”
“I know. I mean, I suspected—”
“You know?” His face fell, then he nodded. “That must be why they’re after you.”
For a moment, I couldn’t speak. “After me?”
He nodded. “I heard them talking. They said your name. They’re going to do something to you, something bad.” He swallowed jerkily. “And to me too. The ringmaster caught me talking to some girls. I have to leave.”
“Talking to some girls? What girls?”
“UFO nuts. It was nothing. They wanted to know about UFOs, not crimes. But I started telling them about all the weird things I’d seen in the circus. The ringmaster turned up, and— He scares me. He should scare you too.”
A siren howled.
His head whipped toward the noise. “I’ve got to go.”
“No, wait. Who else is the ringmaster working with?”
“Just those Wyrrd Systerrs, I think. Everyone else is scared of him.” He raced down the alley. “Get out of town,” he shouted over his shoulder.
I sagged against the brick wall. At least my calling spell had worked. We hadn’t had the talk I’d hoped for, but his advice wasn’t bad.
It was my bad luck I couldn’t take it.