Chapter 31
“Now that you can do magic,” Bastian said, “can you cast a spell to find the killer?”
“Of course!” Whitby said. “But first I must summon a lifetime’s supply of fish and—oh!—I’ve always wanted one of those cat treehouses that have running water and cat-sized sofas.”
Bastian gave her a withering look. “That’s very catty of you, dear.”
“I’d shrug if I could,” Whitby said.
Bastian paced. They were on a quiet backstreet, away from the main drag. The town had fallen silent in the predawn hours, its streets eerily empty. Whitby sat on a trash can, whiskers quivering in thought, and Bastian’s own mind raced.
Returning to Vernazza to find the killer had seemed like a fine idea—the only viable idea, really—when they were in the boat, but now they were on dry land and Bastian had no clue where to start.
“There must be something you can do,” he said. “You’re the one with all the magic.”
“Not all. Some. And I’ve only levitated a boat. There’s no way I can do something as complex as solve a murder.”
Bastian pushed his fingers into his hair.
“I guess we’re going to have to do this the old-fashioned way, then,” he said.
“Let’s reexamine what we already know. Three people are dead, two of whom worked at Micio Micio.
The other was seen outside Micio Micio hassling one of the victims before she died.
The mayor’s husband is a vampire, and we assumed he was responsible for the murders, but he’s in the custody of the vampire council, which means it would be next to impossible for him to have killed Salvador, and casts doubt on the theory that he killed Luna and Emilio. ”
“Meanwhile,” Whitby added, “Enzo went missing—briefly—around the time Salvador was killed. And Salvador knew something about the murders. He told you as much at least twice.”
“But he was a fraud.” Bastian stopped, thinking. “He knew about you, though. He said the cat’s blood is in your veins.”
“Don’t make me vomit. But yes, perhaps he wasn’t a fraud after all.”
Bastian hopped on the spot. “Let’s go ask him! Oh, silly me, he’s dead.”
Whitby hissed. “We can’t both be catty, it doesn’t work.”
Bastian flapped his hands. “What do you suggest, then?”
“We find where Salvador lived, and we break in. There may be something in his apartment that will lead us to the killer.”
A smile crept across Bastian’s face. “I always knew you were the brains in this outfit.”
—
“A fine time for a stroll, young man!” Aunt Agata said, beaming from outside her store.
The street was quiet and a single light cast the shopkeeper in an ocher glow.
She sat in the same wicker chair by the door, her bare feet up on a stool.
The knitting needles flashed and clicked in her hands as she continued to work on the orange garment.
“Salutations,” Bastian said, doffing an invisible cap to her as he approached with Whitby.
Aunt Agata beamed wider, her cheeks glowing pink. Perhaps she could sense that he was genuinely pleased to see her—who else would know Salvador’s address?
“You’re up past the witching hour,” he said.
“When you get to my age, sleep feels like a waste.” Clickity-clackity…“Don’t you just love this time of night? Everybody is off dreaming while all sorts of secret things take place beyond their bedrooms. It’s pure magic.”
“Yes,” Whitby said. “Magic does seem more possible during the dark hours.”
“Easier to catch prey, too, I’m sure,” Aunt Agata said.
Bastian scoffed. “The only prey Whitby catches these days is her own tail.”
The shopkeeper clucked a laugh.
“Judgy,” Whitby grumbled, tail twitching.
“Now, then,” Aunt Agata said, rearranging the yarn in her lap before resuming knitting, “what is it I can do for you?” Bastian’s eyebrows rose and she laughed again. “Nobody stops by Aunt Agata’s for the conversation alone, especially this late.”
Bastian smiled. “You got me. The truth is, we were hoping you could tell us where Salvador lives.”
Aunt Agata’s eyes crinkled. “Don’t you mean lived?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Salvador Silvestri is dead, caro, didn’t you know?”
Bastian’s eyebrows rose again. There really were no limits to the shopkeeper’s powers. Salvador’s body was still warm, and yet Aunt Agata already knew of his demise.
“How did you know?” Bastian asked.
The shopkeeper’s mouth pursed. “I have my ways. And trust me when I say that this town’s better off without that nuisance. Few shall mourn him.”
Bastian wondered what exactly Aunt Agata’s “ways” were.
Snooping? Idle gossip? Or perhaps she had seen the deaths with her own eyes.
The woman was certainly invested in the town.
If Luna, Emilio, and Salvador did something that Aunt Agata perceived as an affront to Vernazza, would she take action? Seek reprisals?
Watching the knitting needles, Bastian pictured them stabbing flesh. Opening arteries. Tearing at Luna’s throat in a ruthless attack…
Bastian shook himself. He was overtired and grasping at straws; seeing killers where he should be seeing an innocent retirement-aged shopkeeper who had been nothing but welcoming of him.
“Do you know why anybody would want Salvador dead?” Whitby asked. “Aside from the fact that he was a nuisance?”
“I would need three hands to count the reasons somebody would murder Salvador Silvestri.”
“Do you have any theories about who did it?” Whitby asked.
Aunt Agata’s head tilted and she dug the tip of a needle into her hair, scratching an itch. “I prefer knowing things. Guessing never helped anybody.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
Her unsympathetic stance stunned Bastian. He supposed Salvador was an acquired taste.
“Apartment four,” Aunt Agata said, pointing a needle, “Via Sacra. It’s just up that way.”
Bastian made prayer hands. “Grazie.”
“I’d be careful in there, though, caro. Heaven knows what sort of state the place is in.”
“Thanks for your help,” Bastian said. He started to walk up the hill, Whitby trotting along beside him.
“If I were forced to,” Aunt Agata called after them, “I’d put money on the commissario.”
“The commissario?” Bastian turned to frown at her. He’d had his own suspicions about Zappa, but he was surprised to hear that the shopkeeper did, too.
Aunt Agata shrugged as she clicked the knitting needles. “He thinks he owns this town, and he’s spectacularly intolerant. He’s even meaner since he got sick.”
“Sick?” Bastian asked.
“Distal muscular dystrophy. It’s been getting worse for years. Pretty soon, he’ll have to give up his title, and then what does that leave him?”
Bastian paused as he considered her words.
Muscular dystrophy was often debilitating.
The commissario was a man who prided himself on physical strength; that was obvious to anybody who met him.
The condition would be an awful diagnosis for anybody, but for somebody like Zappa, it would be devastating.
“How horrible for him,” Bastian said.
“And everybody else,” Aunt Agata said. “It’s made him even less forgiving. I wouldn’t put it past him to take matters into his own hands if he thought somebody was guilty of some unpardonable crime. Especially as, well, he hasn’t got much to lose now, has he?”