Chapter Five
FIVE
It was the frigid morning air that finally pulled Vesper from deep sleep.
She hugged her knees against her chest, shivering as the cold seeped through her quilt and into her bones. Slowly, she sat up in bed.
Her flat was still mercifully dim. The thin curtains drawn across its sole window allowed only a sliver of pale blue light to interrupt the dark.
Vesper massaged the back of her neck and stretched.
For a few blissful seconds, the haze of her mind kept the events of last night at bay. Then it all came back.
Francis Gladwell was dead. Murdered.
The hours after his death were muddled, a blur of camera flashes and shiny black police uniforms. At some point, someone had placed a blanket over her shoulders and directed her to stand at the edge of the maze’s courtyard while an officer took her statement.
By the time another officer escorted her home, it had been nearly eleven o’clock.
Even in sleep though, she hadn’t found relief.
In her dreams, the dead inventor crawled toward her, bloodied and bathed in lurid red light.
Vesper shook the image from her head, and rose.
Her apartment above the Basalton Globe’s office was modest—furnished with a twin bed, a kitchenette, and a shabby armchair.
She knelt at the woodstove in its corner and kindled a small fire, rubbing her hands until feeling returned to them and her kettle was warmed.
She poured a cup of chamomile tea, sipped, then took several breaths in and out.
With the warmth came clarity. What would Tom, her editor, say if he was here?
Speculation without corroboration isn’t journalism, it’s gossip. A real reporter records verified information. Stick to the facts.
Vesper tried to pull out the facts, what she’d seen last night with her own two eyes.
She pictured the Basalton Museum of Art’s atrium in all its splendor; the excitement on Mr. Gladwell’s face as he’d presented his invention.
She imagined the brilliant dragon from his demonstration, remembered the heat on her face.
She even thought about Maximilian Kite, and the brief discomfort that had clouded his face as he’d stood beside the inventor onstage.
The facts. Vesper forced herself to refocus. No speculation, just the facts.
Her satchel was propped against the foot of the bed, but it felt strangely light when she picked it up. A dull sense of dread prickled through her body as she flipped open its front flap and peered inside it.
Her notebook wasn’t there.
Vesper stared, eyes sifting over the rest of the bag’s contents.
Her pens, some loose papers, and her coin purse were all accounted for, but the red leather notebook she always kept with her was gone.
Dread gave way to panic. She looked up, scouring every inch of her tiny apartment.
No notebook. Her strap slipped through her fingers, and the bag landed at her feet with a soft thud.
Her notebook had been a birthday gift from Tom.
Bought new, it was one of the few things in this world that had belonged to her and only her.
It contained two years of notes and rough drafts, everything from musings to random drawings to quotes from every one of her interviews.
She’d never bothered to collect her clippings for the Globe, so her notebook had also been the closest thing she had to a portfolio of her work.
It had always lived in her satchel, a familiar weight against her hip. In its absence, she felt out of step.
She shuffled over to her armchair and sank into its lumpy cushion.
Think. Think.
She’d last had her notebook in the maze when she’d been interviewing Maximilian Kite.
It stood to reason that she’d simply left it there.
A spark of hope rekindled. She would find her notebook.
She would get it back. She slipped into clean clothes, then headed down the stairs and out the Globe’s front door.
By the time Vesper reached the museum, any warmth she’d taken from her apartment was gone.
She shivered as she made her way up the museum’s long gravel drive, trying not to think about how eerie it felt to be back. Just last night, she’d walked this very path on her way to interview a man who was now dead.
She hadn’t expected the museum to be open for its normal business hours this morning—and indeed, its front doors were locked—but as Vesper descended the front stairs and edged around the building, she was still disturbed to see the lingering evidence of last night’s tragedy in daylight.
All around her there were morbid contrasts: abandoned champagne flutes tagged with crime scene markers, decorative ribbons that had been torn and displaced as party guests had hastily left the museum.
The grounds themselves appeared to be vacant.
She’d just started for the maze’s entrance, when—
“Hold it right there, Miss Evans!”
Vesper winced, then fixed a polite smile in place before turning to address the familiar voice. Chief Stettner was marching toward her. He was not smiling.
“Morning, Frederick!”
“That’s Chief Stettner to you,” he said brusquely.
“Of course,” Vesper placated. “Good morning, Chief Stettner.”
The police chief stopped and crossed his arms. “The museum grounds are closed to the public until further notice,” he said.
“That includes members of the press.” He gave her an admonishing look.
“Honestly, I’m surprised at you, Miss Evans.
Returning to the scene of a crime is the behavior of a perpetrator. ”
“Speaking of perpetrators, do you have any lined up?” she asked.
A furrow appeared in the chief’s brow. “It’s been less than twenty-four hours.”
“That’s not a no.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “Chief, what can you tell me about the investigation so far, off the record?”
Chief Stettner shoved his hands into his pockets. “The medical examiner will have to finish his report before we know anything conclusive, but we believe Francis Gladwell’s cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head. We haven’t located a murder weapon yet, but—”
“What about the champagne bottle?” Vesper interjected. “The first time I saw Mr. Gladwell, it was right by his feet. The second time, it was gone. I told an officer when I gave my statement.”
Stettner nodded. “I had my men go through the entire maze with a fine-tooth comb, but there’s no trace of it anywhere. Whoever the perpetrator was, he had the wherewithal to take the bottle with him when he left.”
Vesper massaged her chin, thinking. “How sure are you that blunt force trauma was Mr. Gladwell’s cause of death?”
“I see no reason why it wouldn’t be.” The chief raised a brow. “You know something I don’t?”
Vesper turned the events of last night over in her mind. “I smelled something on him,” she said slowly. “At first, I thought it was champagne, but maybe it was something else. Before he collapsed, Mr. Gladwell was acting strangely.”
“It sounds like he was quite intoxicated,” Stettner offered.
“Maybe…” Vesper chewed her bottom lip. “But what if it was something else? What if he was drugged? What if someone put something in his drink?”
Stettner scratched his chin. “I suppose it’s possible,” he conceded. “But why would the murderer drug Mr. Gladwell, then bludgeon him?”
“It could’ve been a botched job,” Vesper suggested. “Or maybe it was a crime of passion.”
“Point taken.”
“Mr. Gladwell had just unveiled the prototype of an eponymous invention,” Vesper added.
“Based on what he said during his demonstration, it would have allowed people to perform Thaumaric incantations without the need for years of study, which would have allowed anyone to perform sorcery. I don’t have any proof, but my gut tells me that it’s not a coincidence he died the same night he went public with it. Your men should look into it.”
Chief Stettner paused, considering. “We didn’t find any prototype in the museum.”
“Then someone took it.” Vesper began to pace.
A theory was forming. “Someone drugged Mr. Gladwell to incapacitate him, then bludgeoned him with the champagne bottle. Then, somehow, they got back into the museum and made off with the prototype for his invention without getting caught. It’s all connected. ”
“You’ve got it all figured out, huh?”
“I could,” said Vesper. “If you’d let me work this case with you.”
Chief Stettner massaged his temples. “We’ve been over this, Evans. You’re a reporter, not a police officer. You don’t have the credentials.”
“Maybe not.” Vesper didn’t miss a beat. “But I’ve learned everything I know from the best investigator in this city.”
The police chief shifted his weight, looking abashed.
Tom may have been the one who’d taught Vesper about the finer points of writing for a newspaper, but she’d honed her investigative skills under Fred Stettner’s guidance.
He’d taught her how to pay attention to details and patterns, how to push for answers and when to pull back.
They operated differently to be sure, but Vesper could appreciate that she and the police chief always shared a mutual interest in the truth.
“Look, Evans,” he said in a gentler voice.
“I appreciate your enthusiasm, but this isn’t going to be business as usual.
Mr. Gladwell appears to have been connected with some pretty high-profile people, so there’s going to be a lot of eyes on this investigation.
My department needs to show the city that we can be trusted to do this right and find justice for the victim. ”
“I understand.”
“To that end, I’m asking you to let me do my job.” He gave her a stern look. “And I’m asking you not to interfere. I’d like your word.”
Vesper sighed. “You have it.”
Chief Stettner nodded. “Thank you. In exchange, I’ll—”
“Get me an exclusive,” Vesper said dully. This was Stettner’s standard method of keeping her out of his way. When she met the police chief’s gaze again, he looked more sympathetic.
“You should be home resting, Miss Evans,” he said. “Whatever story you’re working on can wait, your deadlines be damned.”
“I’m not here for a story,” said Vesper. That was, at least, a half-truth. “I left my notebook in the maze last night. I was hoping to get it back.”
The police chief glanced toward the maze’s entrance. “I know the one,” he said. “But I didn’t see it in the maze, and I’ve been here for hours looking for that champagne bottle. Even if I had, though, I’m afraid I can’t allow you inside an active crime scene. It could compromise its integrity.”
Vesper pursed her lips. She’d suspected he might say as much.
“Miss Evans.” Stettner lowered his voice. “If I find your notebook, I’ll see that it’s returned to you. I promise you that.”
It was the best offer she’d get. “Thank you, Chief.”
“Have a good morning.” He started to walk away, then seemed to remember something.
“And Miss Evans?” New wariness clouded his expression.
“Watch your back out here. My men caught some Rousers lurking around late last night. Mostly kids, but they can still be dangerous in groups. I know you’re perfectly capable, but…
” Real concern touched his face. “Be careful.”
“I will,” said Vesper. “Promise.”
The police chief tipped his cap, then headed back across the museum lawns.
Vesper watched him go, thinking. The note about the Thally Rousers—one of the city’s local gangs—was a good lead.
Instinctively, she reached into her bag for her notebook before remembering it wasn’t there.
Her heart ached at the loss. If Stettner hadn’t seen her notebook in the maze, it meant someone else had taken it.
For the time being, it was truly gone. She sighed.
Without her notebook, she didn’t have the notes she’d taken from her respective interviews with Mr. Gladwell and with Maximilian Kite, which meant she couldn’t work on her assignment.
Fresh guilt washed over her. That piece was due later today.
The Globe needed it for the front page of tomorrow’s edition.
Without it, and on such short notice, she didn’t even know if she could fill the space with something else in time.
She’d have to tell Tom, and then they’d have to scramble for a different story to replace it, which Ronaldo would still have to copyedit, which meant—
“Funny, I thought I might find you here.”
Vesper stilled. She was almost sure she recognized the owner of that low voice, though she so wanted to be wrong. Slowly, she turned.
Maximilian Kite was standing halfway up the museum’s front steps, his expression smug.
“Good morning, Miss Evans. Looking for something?”
Vesper’s eyes cut from the sorcerer to the object suspended in midair, just above his open hand.
It was her notebook.