Chapter 10 #2
Arthur rather thought it was nice to have something to do with his hands during a potential awkward lull in conversation, so he took a spritz of hand sanitizer from the bottle at the end of the refreshments table—a subtle herbaceous scent—and selected a few pieces of fruit.
He came to stand by Sal’s side as they surveyed potential suspects.
That was everyone here—especially now that it seemed Nora and Quinn had left.
Some he recognized as vendors they’d seen working the festival, and Hailey chatted in the corner with a few coven members whose names he didn’t know.
It was a sea of witches he’d need to ingratiate himself with, a task Arthur didn’t relish one bit.
“Oh no, it’s Martha Wimbledon,” Sal groaned.
Sure enough, through the crowd, Martha approached.
Arthur turned to Sal to ask if he thought they should interrogate her, but his husband had vanished.
Salvatore was allergic to any mention of math, so Arthur didn’t begrudge him his quick exit.
He scanned his likely escape route to see Sal deep in conversation with the witch who’d given Arthur the sample potion on the first day of the festival.
Well, she was probably worth questioning, at least.
“Good evening,” Arthur said as Martha grabbed her own plate for food.
“Oh, hello, Arthur!” Martha’s smile was brief but warm. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Did you know the deceased?”
“Not really.” Arthur glanced down at a piece of honeydew that had been speared with a toothpick.
Was that a Celestine Coven logo on the colorful paper around its tip?
These witches really were ahead of the game in marketing.
He hesitated before continuing, but he supposed there was no more need of undercover antics now that he was officially on the case.
“I’m here at Ambrosia Celestine’s request to help solve the murder. ”
It was bad form to talk excessively of how the deceased had perished at a memorial service, but Arthur couldn’t avoid it.
“That’s great news,” Martha said. “You figured out what happened to George Roth. I bet you’ll crack this in no time. Have you looked at the financials? That’s how they got all the big names in organized crime—”
“How did you know Lola?” Arthur asked to head off a lengthy lecture about the history of the mafia, though he made a mental note to take Martha’s advice later. Just because she wasn’t Sal’s idea of a thrilling conversationalist didn’t mean she couldn’t have some good ideas.
“I mean…I did her taxes.” Martha blinked. “I was also an occasional client of hers. She was a gifted psychic. I brought Al Capone—that’s my corgi—to her whenever he was having emotional issues. She always helped us communicate and work it out.”
“Ah, that’s…nice to hear. I’m sorry for your and Al Capone’s loss.
” Arthur suspected Sal would regret skipping out on this conversation once Arthur reported it to him, if only to learn that Martha’s dog was named Al Capone.
It was the sort of fact Sal would find disproportionately delightful.
Then, the rest of what she’d said caught up to him. “You did her taxes?”
The question caught Martha mid-bite of a cheese-and-salami cracker. Once she could talk, she said, “She’s…she was based out of Oregon. Nothing all that exciting, though she did try to claim a Disney cruise as a business expense once. Maybe she gave Mickey Mouse a tarot reading.”
“Did she ever talk about unhappy clients?” Arthur asked.
“We never discussed specifics like that.” Martha shook her head sadly. “Everything seemed normal with her business, as far as her tax forms were concerned. But if there was something going on, I’d bet it was either love or money.”
“It always is, isn’t it.” Arthur sighed. “Thanks for your help, Martha.”
Their conversation turned to less dreary things, and Arthur finally got to ask her about quarterly taxes—an inane practice that seemed predicated on being able to accurately guess one’s income.
Martha offered to help him with the accounting software during her business hours, which lifted a little of his anxiety.
Perhaps with her aid, he could at least cross one thing off his ever-expanding list of essential tasks.
When things veered too close to organized crime, however, he glanced around and spotted the perfect way to disengage. He had a lot of people to interview this evening, so he couldn’t get trapped talking to any one person for long, and Martha did tend to ramble.
Chet, the witch who’d run the introductory seminar that morning, was walking toward the tent. Arthur quickly excused himself from Martha and intercepted him. They’d spoken a little about Lola earlier, but Arthur had more questions.
As if by magic, Sal appeared at Arthur’s side just in time.
“Good evening, Chet,” Arthur said politely.
“Well, if it isn’t Paisley Sunset! And Ringo Moon.”
“Ah…yes, I suppose we ought to reintroduce ourselves.” Arthur exchanged a guilty look with Sal. “This is Salvatore Conte and I’m Arthur Miller, no relation.”
Chet stopped walking, glancing at the front of the enclosure. He looked a little annoyed for a moment, then schooled his features into an unreadable mask. “You’re the two detectives Ambrosia hired?”
Hired was a bit of a stretch, considering there had been no talk of payment for his services, but Arthur nodded, setting his pen to paper. “We are. I’m afraid I didn’t get your last name earlier.”
“Oakley. Chet Oakley, but I’m not a suspect. You can check with Ambrosia.” Chet made as if to walk away.