Promptly at nine a.m. the next day, a car honked outside the cottage. Sloane opened an umbrella and hurried through the rain to a small, black Fiat in the circular drive. “This is your car?” She plopped down in the passenger’s seat next to Dorathea and shook the umbrella, tossing it in the back.
“You sound surprised. I’ve had dear little Onyx for several years. Longer than most. She performs nicely.”
“I just figured when you wanted to go somewhere, you appeared there or rode a broom.”
“Really, pet. Try not to be so cheeky today. I do not practice magic in public. And we are saying goodbye to a dear friend.”
Sloane shoved her tote between her feet. “I know. It’s all I can think about.”
“Death cultivates memories of itself, indeed.” Dorathea pulled onto Mallow Avenue, driving away from Old Main.
“Yeah. I’ve spent the morning thinking about Jane.”
“Why don’t you tell me something about what she was like as an adult?”
Sloane stared out the windshield. “She was a successful psychologist in Manhattan and worked as a profiler for the FBI.”
Dorathea smiled. “Your mum was a rare telepath, one of our finest. I am sure she helped a lot of Nogicals.”
Sloane scoffed. “You think using her powers was fair?”
Dorathea thought for a moment. “Did she hurt anyone?”
“I guess it depends.”
“Maybe it does.”
Sloane looked out the windshield again. “What do you do?”
“I write mysteries under a pseudonym—Ray West. You might have heard of me or even read one of my books.” She turned, drove up a hill, passed through a rusty wrought iron gate, and parked.
They stood under the umbrella in front of Onyx, facing the church, a humble stone building. It had long, narrow stained-glass windows and a tall steeple looming over the gravestones and knobby trees like a conservator of the dead. Sloane lifted her chin at a steady stream of mourners entering the chapel’s dark wooden doors. “Nine times out of ten, murderers hide in plain sight.”
Dorathea pressed her lips into a thin line. “As does all evil.”
Sloane pulled her tote’s strap over her head, crossing it over her chest.
“For goodness’ sake, can you leave the unruly bag in Onyx, please?”
“No thanks. I don’t go anywhere without it.”
Dorathea shook her head at the dark-gray sky. “Very well.” She led them along an outer path that skirted the graveyard.
Sloane stared into the cemetery. “Are all the Wests buried here?”
“In a sense. Except for one.” Dorathea ducked out from under the umbrella as they entered the church. “Keep me abreast of your suspicions.”
At the front of the sanctuary, a plain silver coffin covered with a white floral spray was placed before a wooden pulpit. Sloane tugged on her cousin’s black cloak and nodded toward the back. “I need to sit in the corner.” Those already sitting turned their heads and stared at them.
Dorathea lifted her nose. “I am happy with that decision.”
A few minutes later, the ancient reverend shuffled to the pulpit.
“This will take a while…I should know,” Dorathea said with a hushed voice.
“Oh come on, what are you sixty-eight, seventy?”
“Not even close. And I have known him for over fifty years. That has been his speed for the last forty.”
The murmurs faded, and except for Sloane and Dorathea, the old man gathered his flock’s attention. Sloane watched the Musketeer families. One of them might betray themselves, display fidgety behavior, or sweat even though the sanctuary was cold.
Dorathea studied the faces around them. “I know everyone here,” she whispered.
The reverend placed an open Bible on the lectern and rested his hand on its pages. “Friends, we gather here this morning to celebrate the life of Harold Charles Huxham. A man of gentle character. Kind and giving. He lived his entire life here in Denwick. He gave his time and expertise freely to those who needed it.” His voice boomed through the intimate space.
Charles sat in the front pew with his head lowered, often glancing back at the entrance. Lore sat next to him. She held a kerchief and dabbed at her tears, never losing eye contact with the reverend.
Sloane nudged Dorathea. “Is that James Reed sitting behind Lore?”
Dorathea glanced at the front pews and nodded. James sat in the second row. Sloane watched him spend the better part of the service staring at the back of Charles’s head. Ken, Fiona, and Rose Keane sat next to him. Ken and Rose kept their eyes forward, bodies motionless, but Fiona looked over at the side pews and behind her several times. Sloane wondered if Fiona was uncomfortable or looking for someone, maybe her son, Oscar. And the Reeds had a son too but his name had escaped her.
Dorathea elbowed her in the side, breaking into her thoughts. “The reverend has asked us to rise and sing.” Sloane got to her feet and looked at the hymnal page Dorathea pointed to. At the same time, the congregation burst out in “Morning has Broken.” Their collective voice made her jump, and she fought back a fit of nervous laughter.
Sloane and Jane had never belonged to a church. Quiet devotion unnerved Sloane. When Jane died, Sloane held a memorial outdoors in Strawberry Fields. It was Jane’s favorite spot in Central Park. They would go there when she was little and watch people leave flowers on the mosaic. Once, Jane had whispered, “World peace is more complicated than any of these people can imagine, pet.” She believed that that was one of the few truths Jane had told her.
The exuberant singing in the sanctuary finished, and a few prayers later, the funeral ended with the reverend’s benediction. Charles Huxham, Ken Keane, and James Reed rose along with three other men to shoulder Harold’s casket out of the church.
The mourners spilled into the yard behind the pallbearers and congregated around a long, black hearse. Sloane and Dorathea were the last to leave the church. The rain had turned to mist, and Sloane tucked the umbrella into her tote. A procession of mourners followed the hearse as it pulled away. Sloane and Dorathea joined the end of the line. They passed slowly through another weathered gate into the cemetery toward a white tent.
Rows of gravestones, mostly timeworn and blackened by lichen, spread across a meadow of rocky outcrops, Garry oaks, and Douglas firs. Atop another hill at the back of the grounds, a mausoleum’s gleaming white exterior caught Sloane’s attention. She nudged Dorathea. “Who’s buried in there?”
“The Gildeys. And the old Denwick family tombs are in the crypt below. Including the Wests’.”
At Harold’s final resting place, the smell of wet, newly turned earth filled the air. There was only a handful of white folding chairs. Sloane and Dorathea stood in the back of the tent with several others. Dorathea leaned into Sloane and asked in a hushed voice, “Did you bury Jane in New York?”
Her cousin’s bluntness punched Sloane in the gut, and she took a sharp breath. “Jane was cremated,” she answered in a whisper.
“Then perhaps it might be easier to lay her ashes to rest with her beloved parents and grandparents, where her roots run deepest.”
Sloane stood in silence, unable to respond.
The reverend’s voice boomed as he began reciting the committal. Its volume refocused Sloane’s thoughts on her possible suspects.
When he finished, Lore walked to a table and retrieved a basket of white long-stem roses. She stood at the end of Harold’s coffin as the lowering device guided it gently into the ground. One by one, the funeral-goers tossed a single rose into his grave.
When it was Sloane’s turn, she closed her eyes, thanked Harold for being truthful, and made him a silent promise to find his killer.
The crowd dispersed, and Sloane and Dorathea walked silently along the cemetery’s edge back to Onyx. “I need to go to Harold’s funeral reception,” Sloane said as she tossed her tote in the back. “Our suspects will be there. It’ll be a good time to get some answers.”
“I question the decorum of such a plan.” Dorathea pulled out of the parking lot. “Nevertheless, I will take you.”
Sloane stared ahead, unsure how to behave with her cousin. She was used to investigating cases alone with no one questioning her. But now she needed someone’s assistance. And not only someone but her newfound family. “Just so you know, high-stress situations are excellent times to interrogate. You might want to remember that for your books.”
Dorathea turned Onyx onto a tree-lined street. “I thank you for the tip. But I prefer to have my protagonist read the room in such a situation.”
Sloane chuckled. “All right. Have it your way. Did you see Quinn Reed or Oscar Keane at the service?”
“No.” She turned down another street. “I will tell you, Quinn’s absence surprises me, but Oscar’s does not. He has little to do with the village.”
“Interesting. Why do you think Raymond Keane didn’t attend? Isn’t that strange for a lifetime family friend?”
“Raymond and Elizabeth came from Scotland to attend Alice Reed’s funeral last year, where they announced it would be their last trip back to Denwick. And so it seems it was. They missed Nathaniel and Mary’s funerals, too. Of those in attendance, did you notice anyone acting unusual?”
“Yeah. Both Charles and Fiona seemed to be looking for someone, and I thought James Reed’s impassiveness was strange, especially if he and Harold were close friends.”
“It is not my place to judge. We all grieve in our own ways. But James’s character is usually less staid, indeed.” Dorathea parked along a curb in front of a modest house.
Sloane grabbed her tote and opened the door. “I’m going to hang back and observe before I ask questions. I need you to let me know if any strangers show up.”
“We shall surveil together. But I will suggest again that you leave questions for another day.” Dorathea got out of the car. “You might leave the luggage, too.”
“That’s not happening.”
“In my novels, my protagonist has a holster and pockets to carry important items. I find it hard to believe she could carry such a bag as yours and pursue suspects on foot.”
“That’s why they call your work fiction.”
Dorathea gave a short laugh. “Quite. Maybe I can sharpen her skills by observing your practice.”
They walked up the path to the front door, and Sloane stopped beside a Mercedes SUV in the driveway. “Is this Charles’s car?”
“Yes, indeed.”
She snapped a photo of its license plate with her phone.
Inside Charles Huxham’s house, he and the reverend formed a receiving line in the foyer. When Charles shook Sloane’s hand, he refused to meet her eyes, looking away quickly and turning to Dorathea. “Thank you for coming, Dora,” he said in a hushed voice. “Harold would be pleased to see you. He had missed you these last few months.”
“It is Dorathea, dear.” She patted his hand. “I am very sorry for your loss. And I will miss Harold, too. He was a dear friend.”
“Ahem.” The reverend held out his hand to Sloane.
“Nice ceremony, Reverend.” She shook his hand and stepped out of line. Dorathea moved over.
The reverend grasped her hand. “Dora, we meet again. Three times in three months is lovely. I only wish it was under different circumstances.”
“Please, Reverend, call me Dorathea. And yes, let us pray significant time passes before another friend in our village dies.”
His eyes widened, and Charles interjected, “Refreshments are being served in the living room.”
Sloane chuckled at her cousin as they walked away. “That was a little harsh.”
Dorathea pinched her brow. “Since his first day in Denwick, that man has importuned to convert me. It has gone on for over five decades, and it is quite vexing.”
Charles’s living room smelled like an Italian restaurant, with garlic, onion, and basil permeating the air. Sloane glanced around. The room was sparse but comfortable, reminding her of her apartment before she inherited Jane’s things.
They walked past Lore Reed. She was tweaking a floral arrangement, and its lilies made Sloane’s nose tingle. She sneezed.
“Bless you, Sloane. Do you need a tissue?” Lore asked without turning around.
“No. I’m fine, thanks.”
“That’s good. Make yourselves comfortable. We’ll have lunch out soon.”
She and Dorathea walked to the back of the living room and stood beside a quaint brick fireplace with a plain wooden mantle. From there, they could see the entire room and the receiving line. Sloane lifted her chin at Lore. “Is she always so hypervigilant?”
“She has been her entire life. It is exhausting. An hour in her company takes a day of recovery.”
“Yeah. I’ve known a few women like that.”
Fiona and Rose Keane walked through the receiving line. Lore hastened them through a door to the kitchen. A few minutes later, the three women returned, carrying chafing dishes and crowding them onto a long table. When Rose noticed Sloane standing near the bar, a smile spread across her lips. In return, Sloane hid the warmth surging through her body behind a casual grin.
“Looks like lunch and drinks are ready.” Dorathea looked out the window. “And just in time. Old Denwick has arrived.” A large group of mourners walked up the front path and began making their way through the receiving line. Sloane was about to suggest they get some food, but then she saw Charles’s mouth open in surprise. A man had entered alone.
“Do you know that guy?” she whispered to Dorathea. “I don’t remember seeing him at the funeral.”
Dorathea’s eyes narrowed. “No. He is a stranger to me.”
Sloane glanced around the room. Rose and Fiona Keane were staring at the man, too.
The stranger unzipped his dark leather jacket and tamed his blond hair, sweeping it back into a knot. He shook hands with Charles, who forced a smile, patted the reverend’s shoulder, and walked into the living room. His hard blue eyes caught Sloane’s, and he held her gaze before checking her out from head to toe and back up again.
What a douche, she thought.
A flash of anger ran through her, and she stepped in his direction. Dorathea wrapped her arm around Sloane’s waist and stopped her, leading her to the buffet table. “Let us eat some refreshments and decide how to proceed with the stranger.”
Sloane broke free. “What’s there to think about? I need to find out who he is.”
Dorathea handed her a plate. “We have plenty of time. And at this moment, you must temper your anger.”
“Listen, forgive me if I do my job and pass on the church-ladies’ pasta.” She handed Dorathea her plate. “And I’m nowhere near angry yet.” As Sloane drew closer to the man, he thrust out his chest. Then, when she was close enough to touch him, she tripped on the rug and fell into his arms. “I’m fine,” she said, trying to regain her balance. “You can let go of me.”
He smelled of hay and leather. “What’s your hurry?”
She struggled, but the man held her tightly while pretending to help her get her footing. He leaned closer, his eyes fixed on her breasts. Then he froze.
Dorathea appeared next to her. “For goodness’ sake, pet. You must control your flare for the dramatic.”
Sloane worked her way out of the stranger’s grasp and poked his motionless body. She looked around the room. An elderly man on the loveseat held a fork of dangling pasta to his open mouth. A glob of tomato sauce had fallen and hung above his white dress shirt. The woman beside him held a fork full of salad before her open mouth. Across from the old couple, two men crouched motionless in the air, their bottoms inches above a sofa.
She turned to the bar. Rose looked like a wax figure pouring wine, the stream had made it halfway to an empty glass. “Jesus Christ, what did you do?”
“I cast a temporal stasis spell. You suspect he might be involved in the murders, don’t you?”
Dorathea slipped her hands inside the stranger’s jacket, patting his chest and sides. Then she slid her fingers over the front and back of his pants, stepped back, and held up the man’s keys. “He is carrying only these. Peculiar, don’t you think?”
Sloane removed his wallet from her tote. “He had this in his back pocket, too.” She opened it. “According to his ID, he’s Gannon Ferris. Lives in Victoria. And I didn’t need a magical spell to figure that out.”
“Yes, but do you know if this man you so casually accosted is a Demon or a Demon’s conduit?”
“How the hell would I know that?”
“Precisely. And it is a Demon that aims to end our lives.” Dorathea put Gannon’s keys back in his coat. “But he is not one.”
“How do you know?”
“I just used a detection spell on his keys.”
“You need to teach me how to do that.” Sloane took a picture of Gannon’s ID and shoved the wallet back in his pocket. She poked him again. “And I’d like to know how to do the temporal stasis spell.”
“Very well. But right now, we must assume the exact positions we had before and resume time.”
“All right.” Sloane glanced around. “Why didn’t we freeze?”
“The spell does not affect us, pet.” Dorathea returned to her place in the buffet line, and Sloane wiggled back into Gannon’s arms. A muffled noise sounded behind the kitchen door at the same time a snap echoed in the still room.
“Hey, how’d I lose your attention so fast?” Gannon said.
She turned her head back to him as his gaze made its way to her eyes. “You never had my attention.” She freed herself and straightened. “The church ladies sent me over. Their pasta is the talk of the Island. Don’t miss it.” She patted his arm and returned to Dorathea’s side.
“The food smells heavenly, Fiona,” Dorathea said, her voice full of charm. “You have honored Harold well.”
“Lunch is the least I can do. Next time you visit the pub, you’ll have to thank Chef.” Fiona pointed to the built-in bar. “Rose is serving drinks. Have a beverage with your lunch.”
“I will, indeed, dear.”
Sloane nodded and wondered what caused Fiona’s change of heart. Did she close the margins, or did she figure she’d make up the loss soon enough?
Lore and another woman from the funeral walked through the kitchen door with more chafing dishes. “Lore, dear,” Dorathea said. “I am sure Charles is most grateful for your help during this difficult time. Everything has been so lovely.”
Lore managed a smile. “Thank you, Dot. That means a lot to me.”
“Dorathea, dear. And you are quite welcome.”
Sloane regarded her cousin’s uncompromising personality and hid a smile. “I’m going to get a drink. Do you want one?”
Dorathea looked over at Rose. “No, thank you. Go on. I will join you in a moment.”
Sloane walked over to the bar, surprised by a nervousness she hadn’t felt in years.
“Hey, I hoped to see you here,” Rose said as Sloane neared. She stopped unpacking wineglasses. “I brought you something.” She disappeared behind the bar.
Sloane peeked over. “For me?”
She popped back up. “Yes, you. I heard your favorite whiskey is Hyde.” She held out a bottle. “So I bought this and a case for the pub. You ought to have the honors of the first pour.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
Rose looked toward the buffet table as she poured a double shot into a pint glass. “We’re only supposed to serve beer and wine today. So don’t say anything.”
Sloane chuckled. “I’ll do my best to stay quiet and swill it like a beer drinker.”
Rose smiled, handed Sloane the glass, and leaned on the bar. “I heard you chatting with Dora Denham in the buffet line. What was she carrying on about?”
“Nothing really. She was putting names to faces for me.”
“That’s nice of her. No one has seen her since Natty and Mary’s funeral.” Rose looked in Dorathea’s direction. “She and your grandparents were close. I felt so bad for her.”
“They were related.”
“What?”
“Dorathea is family. We’re second cousins twice removed.”
“Are you kidding? All these years, I had no idea.” Rose tilted her head. “Just another surprise for you, eh?”
“Yeah. Two days ago, I didn’t even know I had any family. Oh, and don’t call her Dora. She hates nicknames.”
Rose laughed. “Good to know.” She poured two glasses of wine for an elderly couple and turned back to Sloane. “I’ve always liked Dorathea. Her eccentric outfits. That sexy long hair piled on her head. Is she as mysterious as she looks?”
“No. But she’s as bossy and as odd as you think.” Sloane took a drink. “Mmm. Thanks for this. You know your brother’s whiskey reminds me a little of Hyde. I thought he’d be here today. What’s his name again?”
“Oscar. He doesn’t have time for anything but his distillery.” She looked over Sloane’s shoulder. “Crap.” She grabbed the whiskey bottle and shoved it at Sloane. “Here, put this in your bag. My dad’s coming. Beer, remember?”
Sloane nodded, shoved the Hyde in her tote, and turned to the foyer, rubbing the spot on her hand where Rose’s fingertips had brushed. There was no love lost between sister and brother, she thought. Did it have to do with the pub? Ken said Rose was the next owner. Was Oscar angry? No. Ken said Oscar’s whiskey was doing well. Was Rose angry? Was the pub in the red?
Ken Keane and James Reed left the receiving line and headed for the bar. After giving Rose a kiss on the cheek, Ken helped himself to a pint of ale and held one out to James.
But James’s eyes were fixed on Sloane. “My God, you do look just like your mother. Lore told me you did. I just…we had no idea sweet Jane had a child.”
“James, meet Sloane West,” Ken said. “Sloane, this is James Reed.”
“Nice to meet you,” Sloane said.
James’s smile faded as he looked past her into the foyer. “What the hell are they doing here?” he asked in a low growl.
An elderly woman and a younger man around Ken’s age entered the living room. They were dressed like money. Tailor-fitted funeral blacks, and not the kind bought off the rack. She had red-soled, black high heels. And he hid behind designer sunglasses.
Ken patted James on the shoulder. “Today’s not the day, old friend. Isobel’s coming to Friday’s meeting. Ye can say yer piece then.”
James shook off Ken’s hand and squared his shoulders. “I’ll say my piece when I want. Harold would’ve approved. And if your father and Nathaniel were here, they’d understand.”
Ken lowered his voice. “Today is for Charlie and all of us to say our goodbyes. Let’s respect that.”
“I could care less about Charlie,” James said with a scowl.
“You don’t mean that,” Ken said.
James ignored him. “Isobel Gildey plans to ruin every business on Old Main. She’s starting with mine. And she’ll come after yours next. Mark my words. But she’ll get her way over my dead body.” By the time James finished, he was shouting, and Lore had hurried over. She grabbed her father’s arm and led him away through the kitchen door as if he were a child throwing a tantrum. Another man, stockily built and blond, set down his plate and followed them. Quinn. She remembered the son’s name. He must be Quinn Reed.
Dorathea approached the bar and slipped an arm around Sloane’s. “A word?” She led her to the middle of the room. “I gather you’ve met James Reed.”
“Yeah. Is he acting out of character?”
“James? No. He has always been an ill-tempered hothead.”
“So who’s the woman who set him off?”
“Isobel Gildey. She’s with her son, Andrew.” Dorathea stared at the Gildeys. “They are the first European family to settle the Cowichan Valley. Denwick’s founders. Very wealthy and connected. Sean Gildey, her husband, died a few months ago.”
The other guests lined up to shake hands with the Gildeys. Isobel was a tall woman. Her silver hair hinted at her age, but the skin on her face and neck didn’t show much wear. Andrew appeared less pretentious except for his tinted glasses.
“Did Harold do legal work for them?”
Dorathea chuckled. “The Gildeys employ law firms with more than two solicitors.”
“Do they own a business on Old Main?”
“They own all of Old Main except for the land the four families own.”
Lore and James returned from the kitchen with the other man, and Sloane tilted her head toward them. “Is that Quinn Reed?”
“Yes, he’s Old Denwick’s doctor.” Dorathea stared at him, a hint of fondness in her eyes. “When he and Jane were young, they were very close.”
Lore returned to the buffet, and James stormed off toward the bar. But Quinn stayed by the kitchen door, watching his sister and father.
“Dorathea, who is this lovely young lady by your side?” a voice asked from behind.
Dorathea turned and faced the woman. “For goodness’ sake, Isobel. You would be daft not to know.”
“Well, from across the room, I thought she favored—” Sloane turned around, and Isobel fell silent, locking eyes with her, tapping a gloved finger on her chin.
“Jane West? Yeah, I know.” She held out her hand. “I’m Sloane West, her daughter.”