Sloane left after her first training session ended. She was hoping to leave the hobbit house on better terms with the house spirit, but she had forgotten its name, remembering only that it started with an A.
“Goodbye, Albert,” she said, guessing. Alfred slammed the double doors behind her, unamused. “Hey. At least I tried,” she said and laughed aloud at the absurdity of a house being mad at her.
The sun was bright in a cloudless sky, but the crisp spring air gave Sloane goosebumps. She scanned the street, fastened the middle button on her cardigan, and headed toward Old Main. It was time to make an impression on her suspects. Whoever hired Morris was a Magical or was working with a wiċċan and perhaps a Demon as well, so she needed to be ready for anything. In her head, she chanted the two incantations Dorathea and Elvina had taught her and considered the case.
What if whoever hired Morris was unaware of their actions because they were possessed? She needed to ask Dorathea if that was a possibility. Could there be more than one employer, perhaps even three? Maybe a Magical was controlling the suspect, and a Demon had possessed them both? There was so much she didn’t know about the magical world.
Sloane stepped through the arbor entrance to the Old Main shops. A Different Petal was her first stop. When she opened the shop door, a bird alarm chirped a bright melody. The sweet scent of candles filled the air. A walk-in chiller ran the length of the store’s left side, and gift and card displays were on the right. Lore’s shop rivaled any Manhattan floral boutique.
Sloane heard Lore before she saw her. She was darting around the back, watering houseplants and tropicals and humming loudly. Sloane rested against the stainless-steel counter and waited for Lore to notice her.
“Oh, my! You startled me.” She set the watering can down and took off her earbuds. “I’m so glad you’ve come to visit.”
Sloane dropped her tote on the floor. “Your shop’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. I’ve worked very hard. You know, keeping up to date with the industry. And I love to decorate. When you visit my brother’s office and my father’s fish market, the décor comes from me.”
A computer inside the service area dinged. “Excuse me. Just when I thought my day couldn’t get busier. More orders. But I shouldn’t complain.” She mumbled, “Wish my father could see this.” A printer underneath the cash register spat out several pages.
“Do you get a lot of Internet business?” Sloane asked.
She collected the pages. “Oh, yeah. The flower industry went digital years ago. At least sixty to sixty-five percent of my sales come from national and international orders. I spent a fortune on my website.” She turned the computer monitor to face Sloane. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I never asked what you do for a living.”
“I’m a private investigator.”
“Really? That must be exciting. I’m sure you have a website for your PI work, right?”
Sloane laughed. “No. My cases come by word of mouth.”
Lore shook her head. “Good Lord, you and my dad. But you’re too young to be a dinosaur.”
“Speaking of James, are you guys all right? I don’t mean to pry, but yesterday I was in the fish market, and you sounded like you were arguing.”
Lore gave her an easy smile. “I apologize. Like father like daughter, I guess. Except I’m probably more stubborn. It was nothing, though. Just his finances. It got a bit testy.”
“Is the fish market in trouble?” Sloane asked.
“Heaven’s no. But he would be doing better if he’d advertise more. He refuses to. He’s under the impression his customers are loyal to him.”
“And there are better prices, huh? I heard him complain about the Gildeys’ company trying to ruin his.”
“The difference between their businesses is like whales and fish. The Gildeys provide exclusively to national and international markets. Dad’s just angry because Isobel launched more trawlers after Sean died. He said he had an agreement with Sean. But Sean is dead, and Isobel can do what she wants. It’s her business. Right or wrong.”
Sloane thought Lore was downplaying her dad’s anger. “Do the Gidleys’ extra trawlers affect other fishermen?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure. The point is our father doesn’t have to worry. Quinn and I won’t let him go under. The market is his life. It’s all he has left.”
“These past few months must have been rough on him. First, losing his wife and the business slowing down. Then his best friend is killed. Not to mention the Wests. Is he coping okay?”
“He’s grieving. But he’s tough.”
Sloane rested her arms on the countertop. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time. But if you have a few minutes, could I ask you some questions about Harold?”
Lore looked at her watch and took a deep breath. “Talking about him is hard. But I’ll try.”
“I appreciate it.” Sloane tried to catch Lore’s gaze, but she was reading her new orders. “I came to Denwick to settle the West estate. But I’m also here to investigate Harold’s murder.” She waited for a reaction.
Lore remained perfectly still. “I’m sorry,” she said finally. “It’s hard for me to hear those two things together—Harold and murder.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Detective Hanson told us the horrible man who killed Harold was dead. What are you investigating?”
“We have reason to believe someone hired the killer.” Sloane always said “we.” Most people assumed she had a team or a partner, which worked in her favor.
The comment seemed to surprise Lore. She turned to Sloane, her mouth slightly agape. “Do…do you mean from Denwick?”
“It’s the only logical conclusion. Morris had pictures of Harold and me. Only someone from Denwick would know about our connection.”
“Pictures? Oh my God…Charlie.”
Sloane raised her brow. “What about him?”
“Nothing. I meant…well, he’s been under a lot of pressure lately. He isn’t acting like himself. Your news will upset him even more.” She bit the nail on her thumb.
“I’m hoping he’ll be eager to help me find who killed his uncle.”
“Oh, yes. Of course, he will.” Lore placed an order on the back counter. “And I am too. What can I help you with?”
“I was hoping you could tell me if everything was all right between Harold and your dad?”
Lore frowned. “You can’t think my dad had anything to do with his murder? They were the Musketeers.” She grabbed a bag of ferns and eucalyptus stems off the cart and tore it open. Then busied herself, unwrapping several bunches of lemon-colored irises. The question seemed to annoy her.
“I’m just trying to understand Harold’s last week here,” Sloane said. “Did he and James spend time together? Was he upset about what the Gildeys are doing like your father is? Have they caused his law firm any financial problems?”
“Well, about Harold and my dad spending time together I haven’t a clue. They usually meet up once a week. But you should ask him.” She shook her head in frustration. “I’ve been at every MCC meeting. My dad is the only person who has mentioned financial trouble. Speaking of the MCC, our next meeting is Friday at the Huxham building. Are you coming?”
“What’s the MCC? And why me?”
“The Main Street Commerce Committee. And of course, you. The West Gallery is yours now. I hope you’re planning on reopening. It would be a huge loss for Old Main if you closed it. Your family business has a loyal following globally.” She pointed toward the chiller. “Could you bring me the large white bucket, please?”
Sloane walked around a wall of planters. There were various sizes and colors of ceramic, metal, seagrass, and terra-cotta. The chiller was full of floral arrangements, smaller bunches, a variety of single blooms and filler greens, and a white bucket full of cornflower-blue hydrangeas.
She handed Lore the bucket. “I hadn’t thought about the West Gallery. I suppose my options are selling it or hiring someone to run it.”
Lore picked through some hydrangeas, adding three of the sizable blooms to each vase. “Of course, you have choices. I’m sure Charlie can help you figure out what to do.”
“Charles? I’m not sure he’s got time for me.”
“Oh, he does. He comes across unfriendly, but that’s only because he’s lost without his uncle.”
“Understandable. Did Harold and Charlie ever have problems?”
“Not any more than other fathers and sons. Harold doted over Charlie from the day he took him in. And when Charlie went to law school, my God, you would’ve thought he won the lottery, a child following in his footsteps.” Lore opened a package of fragile sherbet orange peonies. Their fragrance smothered the air.
Sloane stepped back. “Jesus, those are as strong as trumpet lilies. No offense.”
“None taken.” Lore added the peonies to each arrangement. “You have a very sensitive nose. Most people love their scent.” Lore spun the first finished arrangement. The computer dinged several times.
“Sounds like you just got busier,” Sloane said. “Do you ever get orders from New York?”
Lore looked up and tilted her head to one side. “You know, I don’t recall. But I’m sure I have at least a few over the years. I receive orders from elsewhere in the States.”
“Maybe we New Yorkers aren’t the best at sending flowers. Who knows?” Sloane grinned. “Do you know why Charles was asked to stay away from the Spotted Owl?”
“Who in the world told you that? Ken would never ban Charlie from the pub. They’re best friends.” She sighed. “I shouldn’t tell you this. But the truth is Charlie has a drinking problem. He didn’t want it to affect his relationship with Harold or his work at the law firm, so he tried to stop. But he struggles. That’s why he stays away from the pub.”
“I see. Well, thanks for your time. I’ll leave you to it.”
Lore stepped over to the cash register area, retrieved a business card from a drawer, and handed it to Sloane. “This is my phone number. Call me any time. I want to help you catch whoever did this to dear Harold. To us.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.” Sloane rapped the counter twice, picked up her tote, and dropped the card inside. “One more thing. Where do you live?”
Lore pointed up. “Above the store. You’re welcome to visit me anytime.”
* * *
Sloane stood on the sidewalk, staring at the smaller brick building on the other side of the Spotted Owl. The West Gallery. It had two tinted plate-glass windows and an elegant sign hanging above its door. Harold had placed Nathaniel and Mary’s keys in the box Charles gave her. He had also labeled each key. She found the one marked with a G and unlocked the gallery’s door.
The tinted windows allowed only faint light inside. Sloane turned on spotlights in the gallery’s center. They illuminated a sculpture of a woman’s bust in red marble. She had long, wavy hair twining down her shoulders and cupping her breasts. She walked over to the woman and stroked her face, feeling the marble’s matte finish. A wall hung with a cluster of baroque oil paintings in water-gilded frames floated behind the sculpture.
She moved behind the installation. The wooden floors creaked under every step. “Jesus Christ,” she said aloud, standing in the Wests’ office area. Their desk, chairs, file cabinets, and even the knotted Persian rug on the floor were identical to those of Jane’s. Except for the clean and organized desktop, she could have been standing in her Bronx apartment. Sloane stared at a picture of Jane as a teenager, then picked up a black lacquer pen. It vibrated in her hand, just as Jane’s hairbrush had, and she wondered whose vibration it was. Nathaniel’s? Mary’s?
She tapped the pen’s tip on the desk and then pointed it at Jane’s photo. “You hid us from your family but wrote them hundreds of letters. Why? Why did you run if you weren’t running away from them? You were getting away from someone else, weren’t you? And you hid me. Were you running from my father?”
A scrabbling sound came from the back of the room, and she turned, holding the pen like a knife. “Who’s there?” There was a loud thud against the floor. It came from the other side of the room. As she stepped from the center spotlights, the space became darker. She turned on her phone’s flashlight and searched the back of the gallery.
A painting had fallen off the wall.
Sloane discovered a door on the back wall. It was ajar. The room behind was full of installation tables and shelves, with boxes stacked along the walls. She checked the exit door. It was locked. “Who’s there?” she yelled again.
Silence.
Sloane searched behind boxes, old easels, cans of paint, and canvases. Then after a few deep breaths, she returned to the painting on the ground, rehung it, and straightened the art on either side that hung askew. The group of watercolors drew her in. Each was a shadowy nightscape with bold brushstrokes of indigo, charcoal, mahogany, wine, and black. The images were intense, dark, and the colors saturated. She searched for the painter’s name and found a JW in the left corner. Jane West. These were not the bright Impressionist paintings she thought Jane preferred.
The Wests still hung her art in their gallery. Why did Jane hide from them for so many years? Or did she? Did she leave their New York apartment in the dead of night? Teleport and hide outside their windows, watching them?
Sloane became aware of the pen vibrating in her hand again. She closed her eyes and said, “Onwreon.” Her third eye opened, and she focused on the veil of color until it cleared.
In her vision, Nathaniel appeared, sitting at his desk. The pen lay on a piece of stationery. He looked up at Mary, who held an envelope against her chest. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Mary reached up and pulled a gold pin from her hair. Long black and white strands cascaded over her shoulders, and she began to spin, moving faster and faster until her hair and dress swirled into one like the dancers in the Degas.
Sloane reached out to touch them.
Nathaniel smiled at Mary and spoke softly, “Dearest Jane, we have received your invitation and are overcome with joy to meet her.” The pen lifted from the paper and wrote his words across the page. Without warning, he jumped to his feet, and Mary stopped spinning. The pen fell onto the desk. Sloane peered into the vision, searching for what they saw. Maybe they had heard something? Nathaniel and Mary had disappeared into the back of the gallery.
“Hello. I’m so happy someone’s here,” a voice called from the gallery’s front door.
Sloane’s third eye slammed shut, and she dropped the pen.
A woman stood inside the doorway. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I saw the lights on. Has the gallery opened up again?”
Sloane caught her breath. “No. It’s not. I’m just checking on things. And I’m about to leave.” She walked toward the woman, waving her out.
“I’m so sorry. Should I keep checking back?”
“Sure, you do that.” Sloane locked the door. She was drained as if she had pulled a three-day surveillance. She sat at the desk, replaying what she’d seen. Her mind raced. Not only had she been able to detect Nathaniel and Mary with a spell, but she had also discovered new evidence. Jane had invited her parents to come to New York. She was coming out of hiding. Introducing them to her daughter. Is that what triggered a Demon? If a coven of three is strong, a coven of five Wests would be indomitable.
“I need a drink,” Sloane said out loud.
Immediately, she heard Jane’s voice in her head. “Don’t mask your feelings with alcohol, pet.”
Sloane scoffed. “Why mess with the longest relationship I’ve ever had besides you, mother?” Sloane locked the gallery and headed next door. Besides a whiskey neat, she needed to clear up a few things with the Keanes.
* * *
Late-morning light pooled inside the Spotted Owl’s front door, but the stairwell remained dark. Sloane stepped carefully to the bottom.
“Guid mornin’, lass,” Ken said as she rounded the corner. He polished glasses alone behind the bar, shoulders thrown back, perfect posture.
“You already know my footsteps?”
“Aye, a landlord’s business.” He smiled. “Fancy a swallie to get the day goin’?”
“Why not. Give me a shot of Oscar’s neat.” Sloane lifted her chin at the door leading to the kitchen. “You’re risking Rose catching you in the act again.”
He laughed and poured her drink. “Dinna fash yirsel. Me wee lass isnae ’ere.”
Sloane tossed her tote against the stool and sat. “For what it’s worth, I find your accent charming. Not sure what’s wrong with your wee lass.” She smiled. “Is Fiona here?”
Her name had no sooner left Sloane’s mouth when Fiona appeared, walking toward them.
“Hello, Sloane. Are you okay? You look like something’s upset you.”
“I’m fine. Just an eager customer at the West Gallery. She thought I had reopened the place.” Sloane knocked back half her drink. “Do you have a few minutes to spare before your lunch crowd arrives?”
“Of course, we do,” Fiona said.
“Great. You know I came to Denwick to settle the Wests’ estate.”
“Aye,” Ken said.
“I’m also here to investigate Harold’s murder. But I didn’t want to say anything until after his funeral.”
Ken picked up his towel and grabbed another glass. “I thought an angry stranger killed Harold?”
Fiona rested an elegant finger on her chin. “That’s what Charlie said. And the man’s dead, right? You had to—well—it was self-defense.” She adjusted the sangria silk scarf holding back her dark coils.
“Yeah. Morris is dead, but he didn’t act alone. We know he was a hired hitman.”
With one hand on the bar, Fiona steadied herself, grasping Ken’s shoulder, her long fingers digging into his shirt. “My God. Do you think it was someone from here? That’s impossible. We’re all family.”
“I know it’s hard to believe, but can you think of anyone who might have wanted Harold dead?”
Ken halted his cleaning. “Maybe one of his clients?”
“We’ll check his case files.”
Fiona let go of Ken. “I’ve never seen Harold cross with anyone in town, except—” She hesitated.
“Except whom?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say cross. But he and James Reed had been strained.”
“Did they have a falling out over Lore and Charles?”
Surprise flashed across Ken’s face. “Nah, I don’t think Harold meddled with them. James might have thought he did. But I never heard them argue over it.”
Fiona tapped her long fingernails on the bar. “I disagree, love. There was tension between Harold and James. It could have been because of Charlie and Lore.” She looked at Sloane. “James would glare at Harold and Charlie whenever Lore was around.” She looked back at Ken. “Don’t you remember James and Harold’s row in the pub?”
“Aye,” Ken said, frowning. “But you don’t think that was about a teenage breakup over thirty years ago, do ya?”
“Not at all, love. But I’m trying to answer Sloane’s questions honestly. James was upset about something, and so was Harold.”
“What about Charles’s drinking? Did it create problems in his relationship with Harold?”
Ken hesitated and placed the polished glass on the back shelf. “You’ve found out quite a bit, eh?”
“It’s my job.”
“Aye. They had difficulties with it. Charlie has tried to give up the drinking, but the gambling’s been harder for him.”
“Gambling?”
“Oh, yes.” Fiona lifted her chin at a corner table. “He even brought it in here. Sat right over there with his bet maker.”
Ken patted Fiona’s hand and said, “I made them leave immediately. And Charlie did without a fuss. And he hasn’t been back since. But the disrespect for us and our business stung.”
“And the disregard for Rose, expecting her to serve a criminal. The man even showed up at Harold’s reception,” she said.
“Did Harold ever mention Charlie’s gambling?”
“He was furious,” Ken said. “He said Charlie was out of the firm if he didn’t give up the betting and the booze.”
“When did Harold tell you that?”
Ken shrugged. “Well, he didn’t say it to me.”
“He told me,” Fiona answered. “He came to the pub a few days after your grandparents’ accident. Grief had overwhelmed him.” She looked at Ken and back at Sloane. “I shouldn’t say this, but he had had too much to drink and told me many other things.”
“About Charles?”
“No. He was upset with James, and I think he was still grieving Alice’s death.”
“James’s wife?”
“Yes. A beautiful, gentle soul. Kind. Easygoing. They were very close. Like I said. We’re all like family. Anyway, I stopped serving him and made him eat. When it was time to close, Chef walked him home.”
A group of customers came into the pub. “Looks like the lunch crowd is starting. I’ll be off.” Sloane placed a ten-dollar bill on the bar. “Could you tell Rose hello for me?”
Fiona answered, “Of course, we will. Let us know if you need anything else.”
On Old Main, Sloane sat on a bench under a Garry oak. The sun was bright despite the tree’s massive canopy. She didn’t know Ken or Fiona Keane well enough to be sure if either one was lying, but she did have a gut feeling they had told her the truth, mostly. Still, she wondered if they kept as many secrets and lies as Jane had.
Could the Keanes be involved with a wiċċan? Had Dorathea obtained permission to use the detection spell on them yet? She was at a standstill until she could detect their suspects. But then again, maybe Chen’s information on the suspects’ financials would reveal something.