Wardens of Wisteria (Wisteria Witches Mysteries - Daybreak Book 1) Read online

  I sighed. “If you want my company so bad, you could ask. Zara, would you please drive around with me on your day off? I’ll treat you to lunch!”

  His eyebrows rose. “Lunch is the furthest thing from my mind.”

  “Then I guess I’d better come with you, to make sure you eat something and keep up your strength.” I grabbed the paper from his hands. “Let’s get this number called in and find out who was in that car. If I hadn’t jumped out of the way in time, they might have made it a double homicide. That means we’re dealing with a potential serial killer.”

  “We might be,” Bentley said, unzipping the white bunny suit. I’d been joking, but he sounded serious, which made me nervous.

  “We might be?” I shot a panicked look at Lund. “Are there other headless bodies popping up around town? Don’t hold out on me, Lund. I don’t appreciate being kept in the dark.”

  Lund said evenly, “This is the first headless body I’ve seen in a great number of years.”

  “But not the first one ever,” I said.

  Lund dismissed my line of questioning with a head shake. “This case is unrelated to anything local or recent. Most decapitations occur during vehicle or industrial accidents. When the victims meet with foul play, there’s typically a sawing pattern on the bones.” He mimed using a hacksaw to saw through material. “Ishmael’s head wasn’t sawed off. It was sliced.” He made a smooth, swift slicing motion with one hand.

  “The attacker must have been powerful,” Bentley said.

  “And the blade must have been extremely sharp,” Lund said. “It went through the tissue and bone in one smooth motion.”

  “Like a guillotine,” Bentley said.

  “That narrows it down,” I said. “There can’t be many people in town who own a guillotine. We’ll check the guillotine registry, find all the local guillotine owners, and question them about their whereabouts last night.”

  They both nodded as though taking my suggestion seriously. For a long moment, nobody gathered under the shade of the tree spoke. Before long, I wondered if perhaps there was a local guillotine registry after all.

  At last, Dr. Jerry Lund broke the silence. “Guillotines work with gravity, slicing vertically. We’re looking for a weapon that cuts horizontally. Greyson was alive when he sat down on his sofa for the last time.”

  “You mean a sword?” Bentley asked.

  “Or a scythe,” I said.

  They both looked at me.

  “A scythe,” Bentley muttered. “A scythe?”

  “Now, there’s a thought,” Lund said. “A scythe can be swung with speed, though I’m not sure about the angle. Even with the victim sitting, his neck was still four feet above the floor.” His nostrils flared and spit flew from the corners of his wide mouth as he grew more animated. “I’ll have to do some tests on a meat dummy.” He rubbed his hands together. “This is so much better than a standard mauling or gunshot wound.”

  “Great,” I said. “If the scythe theory pans out, you’ve ID’d the killer.”

  They both gave me a puzzled look.

  “I’ll give you a hint,” I said. “He carries a scythe and wears a black, hooded cloak.”

  They continued staring at me.

  “The Grim Reaper,” I said, holding out one hand to let them know I was joking. Whatever happened to gallows humor at the crime scene? These guys were not on the same page as me.

  Lund tipped his head to the side. “The who?”

  I grinned. “Don’t pretend you don’t know him. The Grim Reaper. Death personified. History’s most notorious serial killer. Sooner or later, he comes for every single one of us.”

  Lund chuckled darkly at my joke, as I’d suspected he would, once he finally understood it.

  “Because the Grim Reaper carries a scythe,” Lund said, nodding.

  Bentley groaned and clapped his hand to his forehead, which was sweaty and thus made a satisfying slap.

  Chapter 9

  My comment about the Grim Reaper had been a joke, but as we drove away from Beacon Street, I wondered if there was something to the idea.

  Were we looking for a robed skeleton carrying a scythe? Scythes weren’t used much in modern times, but they were as ordinary as toasters back the Middle Ages, when Europe was largely an agrarian society. I imagined the idea of a man carrying a scythe had probably come first, and then the name. The Grim Reaper. But he wasn’t the only personification of death.

  Around the world, humans had been creative in their depictions of an entity who reaped souls. The Greeks used an image of twins, shown side by side, one being Sleep and the other Death. The twins were young men, named Hypnos and Thanatos respectively. Was our chief suspect in the Greyson case a twin named Thanatos? Possibly. But he wouldn’t be carrying a scythe. In ancient Hellenic societies, Thanatos was painted with either a sword or an upside-down, extinguished torch. The torch wouldn’t do much to detach a person from their head, but the sword might.

  I pictured a hooded man standing behind Ishmael Greyson as the young DWM junior agent watched unreleased movies obliviously. The assailant swung a two-handed sword, slicing Greyson at the juncture of his scrawny neck. Blood flew from the sword as it arced, painting a dark-red streak on the apartment’s white wall. One bony hand released the hilt of the heavy sword and swept back the dark hood, revealing a glowing skull with hollow eye sockets.

  A voice came from the car’s speakers, jarring me out of the disturbing vision.

  “That narrows it down,” came the voice, which sounded young and female. “All the way down to, yup, a single vehicle registration.”

  Bentley replied warmly, “Thanks, Persephone. I knew you’d be able to track this one down.”

  My ears buzzed. Did I have Greek mythology on the brain, or was Bentley talking to someone named Persephone? As in, the daughter of Zeus, queen of the underworld?

  There was the sound of typing over the speakers, then she reported back, “I’ve sent the name and address of the car’s owner to your phone.”

  “Don’t keep me in suspense. I’m driving right now, on my way to notify the next of kin. What’s the name of our speeding driver?”

  “Maisy Nix,” said the voice on speakerphone. “That’s Maisy, like Daisy, and Nix is spelled N-I-X.”

  Bentley took in a sharp inhale. The woman on the other end of the phone call wouldn’t have heard him gasp, but I did.

  “Repeat that,” Bentley ordered gruffly, sounding less warm and more like the stone-cold commander of a fleet of starships.

  “Yes, sir. The vehicle matching your description and partial license plate number, 3519, belongs to a local business owner, Maisy Nix. She runs Dreamland Coffee. There are two locations. She might be at one of the locations right now.”

  “Yes,” he said dryly. “I know who that is and where she works. Thank you, Persephone.”

  The call ended, and the car’s speakers reverted back to playing music from the radio.

  “Maisy Nix,” I said. “I believe I know her.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.” His tone was dripping with accusation.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  He stared straight ahead through the windshield. “Maisy’s name has turned up in a few reports. She was on my radar for suspicious activities before the incident at Castle Wyvern. She was one of the leads I was chasing down before I found out... well, everything.” He frowned and chewed his lower lip. “I haven’t given her much thought since then.”

  “I don’t know her that well,” I said. “I’ve only spoken to her a couple of times at Dreamland. They do make the best coffee in town, possibly the whole world.”

  He glanced over at me. “She doesn’t live in your neighborhood.”

  “You know where she lives?”

  “Like I said, I was looking into her, due to her connection to suspicious cases.”

  “You think she’s a shifter, or a gorgon, or a witch?”

  “I think she’s... something.”

 
“Do you think she’s a Grim Reaper?”

  He chewed his lip a bit. “How about Lady Death? Isn’t that a thing? Something to do with dice?”

  “You’re thinking of Lady Luck.”

  “Either way, she does make an impression.”

  “She is tall,” I said, which was an understatement. Maisy Nix was statuesque, beautiful, and commanding, like an actress who might play Wonder Woman.

  “Tall women are strong.”

  “I guess she might be strong enough to do some damage with a scythe or a sword.” I quickly shook my head. I’d liked Maisy. I didn’t want her to be a Grim Reaper or a Lady Death. “But there must be some other reason she was on my street this morning.”

  “Why? Why must there be another reason?”

  “Because she’s a nice woman. She was always friendly to me. Not like someone who goes around chopping off heads.”

  “When I met you the first time, you seemed like a nice woman, too.”

  I made an offended sound. “You’re so rude sometimes, Teddy B.”

  “Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it back.” He clicked on the turn signal. “Let’s see if she’s at the coffee shop now.”

  “Now?” My pulse quickened, but not from fear. I was excited. Things were really moving along with this case. At this rate, I could have the bug-eyed ghost of Ishmael Greyson on his merry way before dinner time.

  Bentley took a few turns, and soon we were driving through the alley behind the downtown location of Dreamland Coffee. Jackpot. The same car I’d seen that morning, with the 5319 license plate, was sitting in one of the staff parking spots.

  Bentley kept driving. And when we reached the street, he didn’t turn back to park in front of the coffee shop.

  “Change your mind?” I asked.

  “Just wanted to get a positive ID on the vehicle. If we like Maisy Nix as the Grim Reaper, we should get some more information before we talk to her. Right now she has all of the information and we have none.”

  “Assuming she has any information at all. She might have been visiting someone in the area. Maybe a boyfriend.”

  “Maisy Nix is forty-five,” Bentley said. “Ishmael was only twenty-six. He was too young for her, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Some mature women like dating younger men. My mother, for example.”

  He frowned at the street ahead. “It’s odd that you’re always mentioning either your mother or your aunt to me. It’s like you’re trying to set me up. Exactly how old do you think I am?”

  I replied without hesitation. “Fifty.”

  He took his eyes off the road long enough to shoot me a dirty look.

  “I didn’t mean it,” I said. “You don’t look fifty. Except maybe when you’re scowling.”

  “I turned forty-two last week.”

  “Happy birthday. What did you do to celebrate?”

  “After twenty-one, there aren’t any birthdays worth celebrating. What’s so great about getting older?”

  “It beats the alternative,” I said. “Ishmael Greyson won’t be getting any more birthdays.”

  Bentley made a grumpy noise. “This is why I’d rather not discuss personal matters with my partner. I was simply sharing my opinion with you, and now you’ve brought up the murder victim and painted me as the bad guy just because I didn’t order a bouncy castle and throw a block party for my birthday. You made me sound ungrateful to be alive.”

  “Are you?”

  He turned up the volume on the car stereo.

  As we drove, I wondered if Bentley had always been so gloomy about birthdays or if dating the undead, humorless woman who was my mother had changed him in some way.

  There was another incoming call. He answered it. The young woman—whose name definitely was Persephone—confirmed that Greyson’s great-uncle, Arden Greyson, was indeed the owner of the garage apartment and main house. The police hadn’t been in touch with Arden yet, but he had been spotted out on the ocean on his little yellow boat. Probably with his dog and his pointy trident, I thought. According to Persephone, Arden must have left to go fishing at dawn, before the police had showed up at the house.

  “I’ll stop by the marina next,” Bentley said.

  “No need. We’ve got someone there waiting to talk to him when he comes ashore.”

  “Great. Keep me posted. I’m nearly at the victim’s sister’s place now.”

  “Oh, dear,” Persephone said.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing. Uh, nothing case-related. I just feel bad for you that you’re the one who has to give people bad news. It must be so hard.”

  Coolly, Bentley said, “It’s all part of the job.”

  “I know, I know,” she said. “But if you need someone to talk to, I’m around.”

  The detective cleared his throat. “Persephone, I have someone in the car with me.”

  She blurted a curse word, followed by an apology.

  “It’s fine,” he said. “I’ll speak with you later.”

  After the call ended, I could only hold back for so long.

  “You’re having a torrid affair with Persephone!” I squealed.

  “I am not.”

  “She thinks you are.”

  “She’s just a girl. Girls get crushes. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “You’d better watch out for all those pretty young things who work under you. One of them’s going to get you, and put a permanent smile on that grouchy mug of yours.”

  He shot me a deadly look.

  “You won’t know what to do with yourself if you turn happy,” I said.

  “I’m not going to turn...” He sighed. “Thanks for the warning, partner.”

  “Any time.”

  A moment later, we were parking in front of Greyson’s sister’s workplace, a tattoo studio located on the main floor of an old house.

  “Carrot Greyson is a tattoo artist?” I asked.

  “Yes. Why? Do you know anything about that?”

  “You said the person who made the two blood streaks might have an artistic flair. Is she a suspect?”

  “It’s a homicide investigation, Zara. Everyone’s a suspect.”

  “Even me?”

  “That would be quite the twist, wouldn’t it?”

  I held up one hand. “I didn’t do it. I swear.”

  “How can you be so sure? You’ve admitted that you allow spirits to possess your body.”

  He actually had a point. I said nothing as I mulled it over. A spirit had made me sleepwalk at least once before. I’d even sleeptoasted. Had I sleepmurdered?

  “It wasn’t you,” Bentley said. “I don’t know what happened in that apartment, but I know in my heart that it wasn’t you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You’re a good person. Good people aren’t perfect, but they don’t murder, not even when they’re being influenced by someone else.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Partner.”

  We got out of the car and prepared to interview the victim’s sister.

  Chapter 10

  The studio was named Time Traveler Tattoos. I’d expected it to have a pun name, like many of the small businesses in Wisteria, which included such gems as Open Toad Shoes, Salt and Battery Seafood, Doggy Style Pet Groomers, Stalk Market Flowers, Hairforce One, and the Shady Lanes Bowling Alley. I was surprised by Time Traveler Tattoos’ intriguing name as well as its eye-catching logo, which featured a woman in a flapper dress and steampunk goggles riding a strange flying contraption.

  Bentley and I walked inside, and were cheerfully greeted by the owner and tattoo artist, Carrot Greyson. The young woman, who had dyed orange hair the color of freshly pressed carrot juice, stared at me with big, bugged-out blue eyes.

  Bentley introduced us by name.

  “Zara Riddle?” Carrot asked. “You must be Zinnia’s niece.”

  “I am.” I was glad Bentley had warned me that Zinnia had worked with Carrot at City Hall.

  The orange haired wom
an cooed, “You look exactly like her!”

  And she looked exactly like her brother, except female and still alive.

  Before I could say anything awkward, Bentley took her by the elbow and said in a low and serious tone, “We need to sit and speak privately, Ms. Greyson. I’m afraid there’s some bad news.”

  “B-b-bad news?” Her large eyes glistened.

  Bentley signaled for me to stay where I was, in the lobby, and whisked Carrot through the doorway into some back area. The old house was deadly quiet. If other people worked at Carrot’s tattoo studio, they weren’t in yet that afternoon.

  I stayed in the front waiting area, in what must have originally been the home’s mudroom. Ishmael’s ghost hadn’t made an appearance, but I kept an eye out for him as I surveyed the place.

  The interior of Time Traveler Tattoos had a bold, red-and-black scheme, starting with the checkerboard floors, then extending up the walls in alternating stripes of red and black. There was a shiny red sofa next to the front door. I took a seat on the end of the sofa. The red fake leather squeaked under me.

  I checked out the reading material on offer. It was all tattoo magazines. I picked one up, but couldn’t focus on the page long enough to read, so I held it loosely on my lap while I gawked around. The reception area’s front counter was sleek and black. The counter was lined with a tidy row of glass apothecary jars. The jars held candies, but only red ones. There were red jelly beans, red licorice whips, red jawbreakers, red saltwater taffy, and red gumballs. My mouth watered for the candy, but I stayed where I sat. I wasn’t a customer. I was an unwanted guest bearing very bad news.

  I crossed my legs, smoothed down my gray wool skirt, and tried to look professional in case the victim’s sister happened to glance my way.

  Carrot Greyson had certainly created a welcoming tattoo studio. It was just edgy enough to increase the thrill of being tattooed, yet it was also homey and relaxed. She had a trio of ferns growing in a macramé plant hanger, and a small box of children’s toys tucked under a side table. The boldly striped walls were decorated with black-framed prints from various eras. There were illustrations of airplanes from the early days of aviation, portraits of white-wig-wearing aristocrats, and a number of patent applications for perpetual motion machines and time traveling contraptions. My gaze swept from one delightful illustration to the next until I landed on a drawing of a jaguar. The print was the twin of the one I’d seen that morning at Ishmael’s place, next to the spatter of his blood.