Chapter 3
Arthur hoped he’d never again have cause to enter the Trident Falls police department, but there he was, standing before the single jail cell in the aggressively beige chamber that smelled of old coffee and dusty paperwork.
A few deputies milled around, mostly ignoring Arthur as he gazed forlornly at Salvatore, who was once again on the wrong side of the bars.
If not for the fact that he was dusted with a substantial amount of glitter, Arthur would’ve had the worst case of déjà vu of his existence.
“I need you to do something for me, dearest,” Sal whispered conspiratorially.
“I’m not baking a key into a cake, if that’s what you’ve got in mind.” Arthur doubted the sheriff would be amenable. Such a tactic might work in the loony-tunes dimension Sal sometimes inhabited, but Arthur was rooted firmly in the real world. Besides, it would be a terrible waste of a cake.
“Of course not!” Sal said, aghast. “Who wants to eat something that’s got metal in it? I might chip a fang. And then what would we do? There isn’t a dentist for miles!”
Arthur bit his lip, hoping none of the deputies were listening all that closely.
There was no need to remind them whose fault it was that Trident Falls found itself without a dental office presently.
Dr. Young had been a fixture in the small town when they’d first arrived, but in clearing their own names after the mayor’s murder, Arthur and Sal had discovered it was the dentist himself who’d committed the crime.
Some in town considered their actions quite heroic, but others held a grudge, irritated that they’d managed to outsleuth law enforcement.
“I need you to bring me my harmonica,” Sal continued. “You know, for the long lonely nights. Unless you want to get yourself arrested, too?” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “We can keep each other warm.”
“Neither of us produces body heat, and you’re not going to be here long.” Arthur’s expression hardened. “Not if I can help it, anyway.”
“Before you go off solving the murder, remember you must find Rumble. She’s all alone out there in the terrible wilderness.” Sal wrapped his fingers around the bars of the cell. “If I must be behind bars, promise you will search for her in my stead.”
Trident Falls was rural, but it was hardly the wilderness.
“I’m more concerned about you.” Arthur hesitated, taking in Sal’s wobbly expression.
“But I’ll keep an eye out for her. I’ll be starting my investigation at the festival.
I can search for clues and Rumble at the same time.
In fact, I’m sure she’ll be waiting at home for you when you return. ”
“Of course she will, now that you’re on the case!” Sal brightened.
“You seem awfully confident about that.” Arthur wondered if being in jail actually relaxed Sal in some strange, twisted way.
He’d been apprehended so often during his long undeath, he must’ve been used to it by now.
So many of his stories involved breaking into, breaking out of, or simply breaking various enclosures, and though it was surely stressful to some degree, Sal always talked so fondly of those adventures.
Hopefully, this would be yet another tale his husband could tell with bravado and not a more harrowing experience.
“You’re a hard-boiled detective, with your little notebook and your keen mind, and Rumble is the very definition of a femme fatale! Of course you’ll meet. You must make sure she doesn’t stab you in the back.”
“She already did that earlier,” Arthur grumbled, recalling the powdered sugar incident. “I’ll be vigilant nevertheless.”
After bidding farewell to Sal, Arthur took the tandem bike back to the festival.
It felt wrong, cycling without Sal’s weight, but Arthur bolstered his spirits by telling himself it wouldn’t be long before they were pedaling together again.
This wouldn’t be like last time. The pet psychic was dead under mysterious circumstances, and because of Salvatore’s dramatic nature, he was once again a suspect.
Arthur was far more confident in Sal’s innocence this time, however, as they’d not been apart since the incident, a fact which the sheriff had obstinately ignored.
Hopefully, even the most rudimentary evidence would exonerate him—assuming the sheriff bothered to collect any.
Arthur stowed the bike and flashed the stamp on his hand at the entry, though no one was stationed there to check.
It was the only sign that something was amiss.
The bright sun shone in a clear sky above milling crowds of sunscreen-coated, sugar-filled people, all intent on having a good time.
No one seemed panicked or worried. Arthur doubted Nora and Quinn would advertise the death of a vendor, but news would spread eventually. It always did.
Unlike the last time Arthur had found himself in the unenviable position of defending Sal’s innocence, he was well versed in his local resources. There would be no wandering about town in a daze of uncertainty. He knew who could help, and, business rivalry be damned, he needed a lawyer.
The Big Bad Brew cart had a line, of course, but Theo wasn’t working behind it.
Perhaps he was on a break, or, more likely, Nora had recruited him to help with the murder situation.
As Arthur drew closer, he realized with a start that he recognized Theo’s replacement.
Brody Young was unmistakable, with the same sandy blond hair as his father but a softer jaw that reminded Arthur of the boy’s mother he was supposed to be trying to find.
Brody was living with his paternal aunt, but from what he’d told Arthur, the arrangement was strained, all parties unhappy with the situation.
Brody was relying on Arthur to find his mother so she could resume custody.
Guilt stirred in the depths of Arthur’s stomach.
Arthur must have stared too long, because Brody eventually looked in his direction.
Arthur waved, though it was a halfhearted gesture—one Brody didn’t return.
The boy only scowled and resumed making Italian sodas for his waiting customers, who all seemed disproportionately happy once they’d received their drinks.
With a sigh, Arthur moved on. The disappearance of Wilhelmina Young was a cold case, and he had a very fresh one on his hands now.
It didn’t take a genius to determine which ought to take precedence.
He wove through the crowds until he arrived at the headquarters tent.
Nora wasn’t inside, but Quinn was, bustling around like a bureaucratic bee. She spotted him and flitted over.
“I’m sorry, but we haven’t found the cat,” Quinn said by way of greeting. “Something a little more pressing has come up.”
“That’s why I’m here. The murder.” Arthur lowered his voice, glancing at the other staff in the tent, but no one seemed to be listening in. They were all busy working. He pulled out his notebook and flipped to a fresh page. “I need any details you have.”
“Seriously? I know you solved the last one, but is this really in your scope?” Quinn glanced dubiously at the notebook.
“I am a Very Astute Married Paranormal Private Investigator, I’ll have you know.” Arthur drew himself up in what he hoped was an impressive display of professional demeanor, then added, “Besides, I have to clear Sal’s name.”
“Again?” Quinn sighed, looking as beleaguered by the news as he felt. “Sheriff’s jumping the gun, but I guess that’s to be expected. All I know is who died—not even sure it was murder at all.”
Arthur poised his pen over the notebook, ready to take notes. “No obvious wounds?”
“No puncture marks, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Quinn kept her voice low. “If you want more information, you’ll have to go ask Nora. She’s at the crime scene with Lore.”
“And that is located…?”
“The pet psychic’s tent.”
“Ms. Clark?” someone called from the other side of the tent in a distressed tone of voice.
“I have to go.” Quinn hurried off to put out whatever new fire had sparked, calling over her shoulder, “Good luck, detective.”
Unless Arthur was very much mistaken, she wasn’t even being sarcastic about it.
Arthur walked out into the hot sun, popped open his yellow umbrella, and hurried to where the pet psychic had met her end.
It could have been natural causes—perhaps even heatstroke, considering her unseasonable outfit and enclosed tent.
There was no reason to suspect murder just yet, and definitely no reason to suspect Sal.
Anger bristled in his throat. He would be writing a very stern letter to the editor about the way the sheriff had overstepped.
Hopefully when the time came to replace him, the people of Trident Falls would vote someone else into office.
It was too much to hope, of course, that their little town would do away with the institution entirely, but maybe they could create some clearer boundaries in place of outright abolition.
The tent in question wasn’t sporting police tape, nor was it surrounded by any official deputies as Arthur expected.
Instead, he caught sight of Theodore standing outside the closed tent flaps, arms crossed, looking very intimidating.
Someone had taken down the signs advertising the pet psychic’s rates—$14.
99 Paw Readings. It was perhaps too reasonable a price.
That alone should have tipped Sal off to the illegitimacy of the service, but of course Sal was the sort who wanted to believe, and Arthur couldn’t bring himself to be angry at that. It was one of Sal’s best qualities.
Between the closed-off tent and the barista-turned-bouncer in place at the front, no one ventured close, or even paid the tent much attention. Arthur strolled up with purpose in his posture. It was time for the detective to do a little detecting.
“What kind of sun protection do you use?” Arthur asked by way of greeting.