20. THE SCENE OF THE CRIME…NOT
THE SCENE OF THE CRIME… OR NOT
THOUGH IT HAD BEEN THE LACK OF A MODERN NETWORK OF security cameras that had partially doomed Embry in the first place, at about four a.m. on Monday morning, she very much appreciated the fact that one wasn’t installed on the school grounds.
Breaking and entering into Raven’s Head’s campus was easy peasy.
Though the Table had added extra protective wards to the school’s perimeter, the general wards recognized both Embry and Rye without cause for alarm and therefore didn’t set off the extra layer of protection.
If Embry had been expelled, they might have recast them to keep her out, but as she was only suspended, and Rye was a current unpaid semi-employee of the drama department, they were accepted the moment they stepped onto Raven’s Head proper.
The full moon showed the way with its silvery, perfect light, illuminating the dew on the grass as they quietly whispered forward, shoulder to shoulder in black workout gear.
Embry had doffed her silk pajamas for running tights, a quarter zip, and a belt bag (about as fashionable as Oakley’s backpack, but in this case very useful) containing just-in-case potions and other handy items. Oh, and she’d traded her braid for a ponytail.
Meanwhile, Rye wore black sweatpants and an over-washed Henley that was probably once as dark as midnight but was now the color of nearing dawn.
They looked like robbers planning on outrunning anyone who came upon them. Well, except for that fact that instead of wearing black sneakers, Rye had on his demolished Doc Martens. Not the best gear for a decent sprint.
Luckily, campus was quiet, and their movements went untracked.
“You don’t think she’s still in there, do you?” Embry asked, halting soundlessly at the edge of the fence surrounding the stadium track. She stood only feet from where that very last interaction had taken place, and the air felt leaden with all that’d happened.
“No. Lazarus confirmed she was taken to the Ravenwood PD morgue on Saturday.” That made sense. Still, Embry felt as if she were about to walk into yet another nightmare. “They also bagged and tagged anything of interest at the scene. You won’t even know she was here.”
He’d said it as a kindness, Embry was sure. But that was easy for him to say; he didn’t witness Oakley’s lifeless form on the backs of his eyelids with every single blink.
Embry still hesitated. “Then why are we here? If everything has been removed? We’re very good witches, but we aren’t trained detectives. Surely you don’t think we’ll stumble upon something the professionals missed?”
“Of course not. But if we’re retracing the killer’s steps, it’s crucial we start here, at the end.
Then we figure out how they moved about before they put her on display like that.
” Rye cupped her shoulder, squeezed, and then gently nudged her toward the rubber track. “We won’t be here long. I promise.”
With feet as heavy as if she’d worn Docs herself and encased the soles in decorative cement, Embry accepted Rye’s nudge and stepped into the Raven’s Head stadium.
Just as the torches outside the stadium hadn’t been lit, the sodium lights within were off, the moon’s illumination working to shoot beams of silver glow off the metal bleachers, the white lines on the track, and the short blades of football turf.
Oakley had been displayed—Rye had used the correct term here—in roughly the same area that the stage had been for their homecoming court presentation. The pair of witches stopped dead on the track before the disturbance in the grass and glanced around.
“Okay, we’re here,” Embry announced quietly, wrapping her hands around her middle. “What are we looking for, Shaggy?”
A little smile quirked at Rye’s lips. Embry appreciated that he wasn’t going to fight her on the moniker as she needed any crumb of levity available.
“Invisible footsteps,” Rye answered. Then he spun in a slow circle, as if orienting himself, despite knowing his surroundings very well. “Oakley wasn’t killed here, but she was displayed here, for some reason. Why do we think that was?”
“Well,” she replied, “if we want to believe I’m being set up, which it appears I am, the killer chose to put her here because even without the video, it will point to the events that occurred here the night before.
Oakley’s crowning, my disappointment, and the fight that you, Balthazar, Skye, and apparently others witnessed. ”
“I believe you’re right. I also believe whoever did this knew she’d be found quickly.”
“She was found by Alistair,” Embry told him. Her throat squeezed on her friend’s name. “He divined that I’d done something to her and came right here the moment he was awake.”
Embry’s heart ached just saying this part aloud.
She really wished she could pull aside her longtime friend and politely ask him how in the Goddess’s good name could he have gotten it so wrong and told everyone possible except for her?
If she’d had a similar vision about Alistair, she surely would’ve gone to his room and asked him about it before sounding the alarm. Wouldn’t she?
Embry rubbed at her breastbone, willing the pain to settle and stop crawling up her throat in such a way that made her want to sob again. She blinked over at Rye only to see him nod. Alistair’s betrayal was not new information, apparently. She’d told Daddy; he’d told Rye.
“Yes, but divination is a fickle magic—even if it’s used in a court of law for its accuracy, there’s no guarantee that a nearby diviner would’ve seen a thing or implicated you.”
Embry could’ve kissed him right there for that deduction alone. But she wouldn’t. Because this was Rye. Also, because she suddenly had a good idea.
“But you know what is a guarantee? Football practice.” Embry nodded toward the fancy athletics building in the near distance—the one she’d escorted Oakley to that very first day.
“Even on weeks when they have games, the football team lifts weights every Saturday morning. So if Alistair hadn’t had a vision and alerted the authorities, the football players would have.
Or, well, anyone who jogs on the track on a schedule. ”
Someone like her—who often hit the track for Saturday sprint work after running at Daddy’s measured pace all week.
“So, they put her here in such a dramatic manner because they wanted her to be found as soon as possible.” Rye turned to her with a grin that was, well, wry.
“To point the blame as firmly and quickly at you as possible. Which means we need to trace this person’s steps to the other place we know they went sometime between the close of the school day and the moment Oakley was found—”
“The drama department.” Embry’s wide eyes met Rye’s widening smile.
“Precisely,” he said. “This killer could’ve murdered her and put her on display in the dress she was wearing on Friday night but instead went to the trouble of clothing her in your very memorable and very hideous costume for Into the Woods as an extra jab in your direction.”
A jab that would’ve been immediately recognizable to the football players who did double duty as actors and techies in their advanced stage performance class. Absolutely diabolical.
“So,” she agreed, “we can deduce the killer went to the costume closet before or after they murdered Oakley. If we’re lucky, they were sloppy about it.”
It was a brisk walk to Marlow Theatre from the stadium—only five minutes or so, even with their careful route through the shadows. Rye led Embry to the backstage door and frowned.
“No sign of forced entry,” he said with all the confidence of a real detective, not just one who had once played Hercule Poirot with a magic-enhanced mustache.
Embry squinted at him. “How do you know that? You’re not a professional.”
“I’m not,” Rye conceded, “but I have seen quite a few heist movies and episodes of the numerous iterations of CSI, and can tell you we’d spot scratches, a busted latch, or broken glass. Do you see any of those things?”
“What if this person used magic to open the door?” Embry gestured between them, and very much tried to ignore that they were standing close enough together that Rye’s shoulder grazed hers as they bent over the lock. “I mean, we’re going to have to use magic to open it.”
There weren’t many spells that manipulated metal in a way that wasn’t messy, but Embry had a few in her back pocket. They weren’t exactly made for picking locks—witches weren’t ever common thieves—but in a pinch, they should work.
“Ah, but we’re not.” Rye fished a key on a lanyard out of his pants pocket. When Embry narrowed her eyes in question, he just shrugged. “Being assistant director has its privileges.”
Embry frowned as Rye effortlessly unlocked the door and held it open for her. “How many copies of that key are there?”
“As far as I know, Jonesy and I have the only copies.”
“What about the janitorial staff? Or the grounds crew? Maintenance?” Embry bit her lip—she honestly wasn’t sure if that was technically the same group of people under a different name. “All possible keys to ‘borrow’ on a Friday night, correct?”
“Correct. Perhaps even Headmaster Martinelli herself.” Oh, yes, indeed. “Let’s see what we find in here and come back to that if the manner in which they entered seems important.”
Rye closed the back door as quietly as possible and latched the lock from the inside.
Even on a Monday, it was still too early for Jonesy to come to work, so Embry took this action not as protection against the drama teacher’s notice, but instead to anyone who might have seen them enter—including the killer.
The inside of the theater was dark. Windows were nonexistent in the back of house, which meant their friend the moon was nowhere to be seen. Embry snapped her fingers, and a small tendril of flame welled in her palm. Rye did the same.