Chapter 13
Wilhelmina
As Arthur stared at the last entry of the journal, he could practically feel the terror and panic of Lola’s final moments emanating from the ink. As she’d felt the poison take hold, she’d used the last of her strength and time to send a single message. A name.
“Sal, come look at this.”
Arthur’s voice must’ve sounded as strained to Sal as it had to Arthur himself, because Sal didn’t make a quip or dillydally at all. He zoomed over as swiftly as he was able, still hovering as he peered over Arthur’s shoulder.
“What is it?” Sal asked, voice uncharacteristically earnest.
“Lola Lataurelle’s journal. She kept session notes for all her clients—”
Salvatore scoffed, but Arthur pressed on. Now wasn’t the time to rehash whether Lola had been a charlatan or not. Being a liar didn’t make her any less dead.
“Look, the last entry was for Rumble, but she never finished it.”
“Damn right, she didn’t.” Sal puffed out his chest. “I still can’t believe the audacity!”
“Look at the bottom of the page.” Arthur pointed to the single name and read it aloud. “Wilhelmina.”
Sal gasped dramatically, in which Arthur took great satisfaction. It was quite an appropriate reaction for the magnitude of the revelation. “You don’t think she meant the Wilhelmina Young you’re looking for?”
“It’s an unusual name, and it doesn’t seem to correspond to a pet.
” Arthur briefly considered checking government records to determine just how many Wilhelminas lived or had lived in Oregon in the last few decades, but he doubted the Trident Falls records room would be open at this hour.
“But it’s possible they knew each other.
Martha told me she knew Lola—she did her taxes—so perhaps Lola was connected to Trident Falls before this week’s festival. ”
“Oh, well done, you! How you manage to pay attention while Martha’s speaking, I’ll never know.” Sal bobbed up as his facial expression changed to one of excitement. “If Lola’s been here before, do you think she crossed paths with Wilhelmina Young in the past?”
“It’s very possible.” Arthur glanced at Other Arthur Miller to see if he had any input, but the other detective ignored them, absorbed by something on Ambrosia’s laptop.
Arthur’s mind whirled. He couldn’t help but think of the many paths this information could lead to.
If Lola and Wilhelmina knew each other, could the cases be connected?
It wasn’t the wildest theory he’d ever entertained.
“If Lola’s last word was her name…” Arthur began, trying to put his thoughts in a logical order.
“Oh, surely not!” Sal exclaimed. “Both Brody’s parents can’t be murderers. It’s too tragic for words!”
Arthur shook his head. “I didn’t say she killed Lola, but perhaps her disappearance is related to Lola’s death in some other way.”
Lola’s journal raised far more questions than it answered, the most pertinent of which was: what was it doing here in Ambrosia’s yurt-office?
Arthur had seen no notebook at the crime scene, and Lore had told him the sheriff had taken custody of Lola’s possessions.
That had to mean Ambrosia had taken it before Lola was discovered dead.
Maybe Lola had entrusted it to her for some reason, and she was only trying to do her own sleuthing.
If that was the case, though, why hadn’t she volunteered to share it with Arthur?
“Do you hear that?” Sal whispered, interrupting Arthur’s thoughts with a nudge to his ribs.
Arthur paused, still holding the journal. Footsteps approached outside, along with murmured voices. The platinum-level witches were returning.
“They’re back,” Arthur said. “Quick, Other Arthur, we need to put everything—”
As Arthur glanced to where Other Arthur had been investigating Ambrosia’s laptop, he saw the man was gone.
The rustling of the wall of the yurt was the only indication that Other Arthur Miller had fled.
What a coward. Still, Arthur couldn’t help but admire him in a way.
All detectives needed to be ready to make a quick escape at a moment’s notice.
He should have been more prepared himself.
“Quickly, help me organize this,” Arthur said. He didn’t want Ambrosia to realize he’d found the journal, which he stuffed into his jacket pocket alongside an already pilfered potion.
“Organize? Me?” Sal stared at Arthur like he’d asked him to help dispose of a body. In truth, Sal would probably eagerly help with that sort of cover-up. But tidying a desk was beyond his expertise.
“If you dig down deep, I’m sure you can manage a little.
Think of it as a performance!” But as Arthur stared down at the desk, he felt totally at a loss.
By the time they’d arrived, Other Arthur had already moved everything around.
At least, Arthur assumed so. Perhaps Ambrosia liked her papers scattered, though nothing about her demeanor or presentation suggested it.
Ambrosia’s voice drifted through the otherwise quiet evening air. “Well, have you spoken with her?”
“No, but—” The other voice belonged to Chet Oakley.
“Perhaps if you simply remind her of the precarious position…”
Arthur exchanged a glance with Sal, who still wore the tent flap around his body.
They were out of time and there wasn’t even a curtain to hide behind.
Arthur dove from behind the desk, tackling Sal to the ground.
Or, he attempted to. Arthur’s plan was to drag Sal to the floor and hide beneath the bed until Ambrosia left again, but Sal was still floating.
The result was that, when Ambrosia strode through the entrance of the yurt, Arthur was clinging to Sal like a koala to a particularly delicious eucalyptus tree, the both of them bobbing in midair.
Ambrosia stopped short, staring. Her shocked expression would’ve been comical in any other circumstance, but Arthur and Sal had been caught red-fanged—metaphorically speaking.
Arthur closed his eyes, wishing he could disappear them both somehow.
This was going to be bad. Panic flared in his chest, making him feel disconnected and slightly blurry.
“What are you doing in my yurt?” Ambrosia said, voice almost a shout.
“We were looking for a place to be alone,” Sal said, somehow sounding unruffled and a little mischievous. He wiggled his eyebrows. “So hard to get privacy when one runs a bed-and-breakfast, you know.”
The lie might’ve worked if not for the mess Other Arthur had made of the desk. Ambrosia rushed over to it, and when her eyes fell on the laptop screen, her shock turned to rage.
This was twice in one night that someone had leveled a furious glare at Arthur, who had done nothing to deserve it. Well, he’d done very little to deserve it. Perhaps he’d done plenty, but still it seemed an outsize reaction to his particular action or inaction, as it were.
“You hacked into my laptop!” Ambrosia bellowed.
“Well, no, we didn’t do that, but—”
“Are you looking at me as a suspect?”
Arthur opened his mouth, then closed it.
He certainly was, now that he’d found the journal, but it wouldn’t be wise to share that information.
He could blame it all on Other Arthur, he supposed, but she didn’t seem likely to believe him.
Before he could decide what flavor of the truth he wanted to tell, Ambrosia had stalked up to them, wagging a manicured finger in their faces.
“I invited you into this space with the understanding that you’d respect it, and me.
” Ambrosia’s voice had gone poisonous. “But you’ve done neither.
Making a mockery of the memorial service, causing a scene, and now this…
Arthur Miller and Salvatore Conte, I revoke your invitation.
You’re no longer welcome on Celestine Coven grounds or at our functions. ”
A weight hit Arthur like a boulder had fallen onto his shoulders.
This was no witchcraft. It was a deeper and more ancient magic, the barbs of which rose within him.
The vampiric curse of fae origin curled around his limbs, urging him elsewhere.
He had the strong sense that more was coming if he stayed, and the weight was only a warning.
Sal must’ve felt it, too, because he abruptly stopped hovering and grabbed Arthur’s hand.
They ran. This time, they didn’t worry about staying silent. There was an urgency in the air like nothing Arthur had ever felt. It was the first time he could honestly say he believed in magic.
Once they were past the wards, the weight lifted. Arthur slowed, putting his hands on his knees to recover. Relief flooded his nerves as the adrenaline ebbed.
“Is that what walking over a threshold feels like?” Arthur gasped.
“No, that was much more pleasant.” Sal straightened up and brushed dirt that may or may not have existed off his clothes. He had the air of a cat that had taken a tumble off a counter and was now acting as if nothing unexpected had happened. “What now?”
Arthur stared at Sal. How could he be so calm about this? Then again, Sal had lived a breadth of experiences Arthur had not. This must be utterly tame compared to some of his more dangerous exploits. Arthur sighed and ran his hands down his face.
A scent struck him, one that felt familiar. The hand sanitizer from the memorial service—Celestine Coven–branded, like everything else—smelled of herbs, most strongly sage. It sparked a memory.
“We’ve got to get to the Dead & Breakfast,” Arthur said. “I’ve got a letter to sniff.”
Sal linked his arm with Arthur and turned in the direction of home. “All these years together, darling, and you still find ways to say the most surprising things.”