Chapter 12 #2
“What are you doing here?” Arthur stayed light on his toes, expecting Other Arthur to make a break for it at any moment.
“I could ask you the same thing. You’re not supposed to be here.”
“On the contrary,” Arthur said. “We were invited.”
“Invited?” Other Arthur asked, disbelief coating his voice.
“Yes, obviously,” Sal said, a little muffled as he fought the curtain.
“We’re vampires, unable to cross a threshold without an invitation,” Arthur explained. “Ambrosia Celestine gave us express permission to be here.”
“Never met a vampire before,” Other Arthur said slowly, looking him up and down in a detached, almost professional manner. “Wasn’t sure if that whole invitation thing was a myth.”
“If only,” Sal said, finally freeing himself from the curtain. “It would make crashing parties a lot easier.”
“Wait,” Arthur said, realization dawning on him. “You did know we were vampires when you booked your stay, didn’t you?”
Other Arthur shrugged. “Thought it was like a murder-mystery-themed B&B or something. I figured it out once I got there, obviously. Paranormal stuff isn’t really my interest area.”
Arthur narrowed his eyes. Perhaps the young woman he’d hired to build their website had done a better job than he’d thought.
She’d said an awful lot about discoverability and search engine optimization, but Arthur had thought it was made-up business jargon.
If people were stumbling across their B&B by accident, then perhaps they would remain a popular destination even past the busy season.
“If paranormal stuff isn’t your jam, what are you doing poking around the coven?” Sal asked.
A good question, indeed. Arthur eyed Other Arthur with suspicion. “Yes…why is that, Mr. Miller?”
Other Arthur jutted out his chin. “You first.”
“Ambrosia Celestine asked us to catch the person who murdered Lola Lataurelle,” Arthur said, hoping a bit of honesty would coax Other Arthur into the same. “We saw you sneak off in this direction, so we followed you here.”
“I see. Guess I’m not as good at spotting a tail as I thought.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Sal said breezily. “We are creatures of the night, after all. Why, if we couldn’t sneakily hunt people through the dark, we’d all starve—”
“He means that in a general sense,” Arthur cut in hurriedly. “Sal and I drink only one hundred percent ethically sourced free-range blood. We don’t kill people.”
“Unlike you!” Sal pointed at Other Arthur.
“I didn’t kill that pet psychic,” Other Arthur said, rolling his eyes.
“Oh? Then prove it.” Sal continued to point at the man.
“You can’t prove a negative,” both Arthurs said in unison. They glared at each other.
“Do you at least have an alibi for the time of the murder?” Arthur asked.
“None that anyone can verify.” Other Arthur sighed and rubbed his face. “I was doing background research.”
“Background research…” Arthur examined the would-be suspect.
There was something about the whole situation that set him on edge.
Something familiar yet strange. He spoke his thoughts aloud as he circled the other man.
“Your clothes don’t suit you at all, as if they’re a costume.
Or a disguise. You were in another guest’s room before—snooping, not canoodling as I first assumed—and the coven’s platinum pavilion now.
You’ve got a little notebook in your breast pocket.
I can see its outline. And your name is obviously fake. ”
“No one is called Arthur Miller, it’s true,” Sal added, but both Arthurs ignored him.
Arthur finished his revolution, coming to stand before the other Arthur. He fixed him with a steely gaze. “I know what you are,” Arthur said softly.
The other Arthur stared back, unblinking. “Say it.”
“Detective.” Arthur’s voice trembled slightly.
The other Arthur sighed in resignation. “Are you afraid I’ll interfere with your murder investigation?”
Arthur let out a laugh, too loud to be natural. “Not in the slightest!”
But that was all bravado. If Ambrosia had hired another detective to solve Lola’s murder, it could mean she’d also lost faith in his ability to close cases, just as Brody had.
Other Arthur eyed him warily, as if he could see through Arthur’s facade to the nervous, defensive core beneath. “I’m not here about the murder.”
That…made sense, of course. “You booked your room weeks ago,” Arthur said. “So you’re here for something else.”
Other Arthur nodded his approval at Arthur’s reasoning. “Correct. I’m here investigating Ambrosia Celestine and her coven for fraud.”
Sal, now wearing the curtain like a toga, let out a low whistle. “Hang on.” He held up a finger, face contorted as he thought. “That must be pretty easy to prove. I don’t know why I sounded impressed just now.”
If Other Arthur found Sal’s antics amusing, he didn’t show it. He seemed entirely humorless. Arthur was appeased to know that in this, at least, they were unalike.
“You’d be surprised,” said Other Arthur. “She covers her tracks well, but there are too many reports of fake magic to ignore.”
“Who do you work for?” Arthur asked. This man was a detective, but what kind? Would the FPI send someone to investigate magical fraud? The first bubbles of panic formed in his throat at the very thought.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you who my client is.
But I’m a private detective. I’m not with law enforcement.
” Other Arthur seemed oblivious to Arthur’s anxiety.
“For some reason, the FPI has ignored complaints about this coven. I can tell you that my client’s family member lost their entire life savings buying into this scam potion-selling business.
I’m just here to collect proof of illegal activity for my clients.
I expect they’ll be in touch with the FPI at that point, but that’s not my purview. ”
Relief bled from Arthur’s shoulders. He wouldn’t relish the arrival of the FPI if Other Arthur was successful, but hopefully by the time the feds opened a case, the coven would be gone from Trident Falls.
This was certainly a complication, and if Other Arthur’s story was true, it meant he had no reason to kill Lola Lataurelle, leaving Arthur with no suspects, yet again.
“Show me your PI license,” Arthur demanded.
Other Arthur produced his wallet and handed it to Arthur, who could read it well enough in the dark to see he was indeed a detective.
“Hang on,” Arthur said, giving the wallet back. “How can you see in here without a flashlight? You’re human.”
“Being human doesn’t have anything to do with it,” Other Arthur said, pulling a necklace from beneath his loud tropical-print shirt. “Charm of improved eyesight.” There were flowers and an animal bone wound onto the necklace cord.
“You’re a witch and a detective! That’s derivative,” Sal scoffed.
“I’m not a witch,” Other Arthur said. “Bought this from a stall at the festival. Who knew it would actually work?”
Arthur surveyed Other Arthur with increased respect. “I don’t suppose there’s room for one more private investigator behind that desk?” Arthur asked politely.
“You don’t need my invitation.” Other Arthur gestured to the office space.
Together, they searched the desk. Arthur hadn’t forgotten Chet’s reaction to his questions, or his suspicions about Ambrosia herself being a little too insistent he’d prove her innocence with his investigation.
He probably wouldn’t have snuck in here had it been just him and Sal.
He had Other Arthur to thank for that, and now that they were here… might as well make the most of it.
The papers with boring business details Arthur left to Other Arthur.
Those would serve his purposes better, since fraud was almost always proven by the little financial details, just as Martha had suggested.
Arthur turned his attention to the rest of the desk, searching for anything that might point to the platinum members’ movements on the day Lola was killed.
As he lifted a stack of invoices for yurts, Arthur’s fingers brushed soft leather. It was a journal. Perhaps Ambrosia kept a diary. He flipped it open to find the pages lined and filled with curling letters.
Alberta, Great Dane, female. Digestive upset when she eats her favorite treats, which leads to emotional confusion (why would something good hurt her? She can’t understand).
Each entry listed a name and a breed, followed by details of the animal’s troubles.
This was the record of a pet psychic, exactly what Lore had said the sheriff was missing.
Ambrosia had no reason to have this. Flipping to the front of the journal, Arthur saw the signature of its owner in the same handwriting. Lola Lataurelle.
“Got you,” Arthur whispered. He hastily flipped to the most recent entry. Midway down the page, he found what he was looking for.
Rumble, black American shorthair.
There was nothing else to the entry. Sal’s tirade had probably prevented her from scribing whatever imagined symptom or fortune Rumble had.
But at the bottom of the page, in a shaky hand that smeared the ink in places, as if it had been written in a hurry—perhaps in the throes of oncoming death—was a single word:
Wilhelmina
The same name as Brody’s mother.