Devil's Own (8 page)

Hughes harrumphed. “Yeah, I figured. From the onset this didn’t feel like one of them easy-to-wrap-up kind of cases.” He shook his head wearily, pursing his lips. “Back to square one.”

“Can I see the crime-scene photos?” Niall knew he was pushing it. As a PI, not a cop, he was in effect a civilian and wasn’t allowed to see evidence from an active police inquiry. But the police department had an understanding of sorts with private investigators. If the cops aided the PI in solving the case, the cops were allowed to take most, or all, of the credit—even if the PI was the one to crack the case. For positive publicity, leeway was given to PIs.

“One of these days, I’m gonna say no. Then what you gonna do?” Hughes was only jibing Niall. Humor laced his tone. He was already on his way out the door when he hollered, “Get me more results soon, will ya, Reggie?”

“Don’t I always?” She might have murmured something far less flattering under her breath, but wisely Niall snuck out of the room before he heard anything inappropriate.

“M
R
. V
ALENTINE
,
good to see you again.” Mrs. Talbot addressed Niall as she sat down in the interview room back at the police station. After Niall and Hughes had a quick bite to eat, Hughes had asked her to come, and Niall was glad she had acquiesced—and without a lawyer too.

Niall nodded to her. “Mrs. Talbot.”

Angelina shook her head, her lips tightening into a white-lined grimace. “Please, call me Ms. Yates. I won’t be a Talbot for much longer.” Her chin lifted proudly, but Niall detected a sign of anger as well. Angelina must not have appreciated being laughed at in such a cruel manner. This Niall understood.

“Ms. Yates.” Hughes sat down next to Niall on the opposite side of the table, but Niall knew only Hughes would be asking questions. Niall was allowed to be here out of courtesy, and he didn’t want that privilege revoked. And he admitted he was beyond curious about the locked room mystery, so he didn’t want to get booted out under any circumstances.

Hughes proceeded to verify Angelina’s personal information first before asking her to recount her story. She did, and Niall listened carefully for any inconsistencies between what she had told him and what she was telling now. There were none. Though being of the upper class and therefore able to camouflage most of her feelings, some reactions belied her schooled countenance. The fury at being made fun of by the Talbot family and the fear from her husband surprising her in the dead of night with a knife while covered in blood were still very much with her.

But then came the first twist.

Hughes opened the case file and placed some crime-scene photos on the table. “What I’d like you to do, Ms. Yates, is take a look at these and tell me if anything weird—”

“Oh my God,” Angelina cried out in shock and picked up one of the photos from the gray table—a picture of the shattered pieces of a porcelain lamp on a rug with the blood-soaked back of Florian Talbot’s head partly visible—and stared at it with eyes widened in utter surprise. “What in the name of…?” She pointed at the picture, half baffled, half furious. “This isn’t my bedroom. Our bedroom. Mine and Florian’s. This is the
wrong
room!”

“W
ELL
,
THAT
was one hell of a curveball,” Hughes commented dryly as he plopped down on the chair by his desk. He had continued interviewing Mrs. Talbot for another half an hour to get each and every morsel of information about the Talbot family out of her. He looked exhausted, and Niall could relate.

“Yeah.” What else could Niall say? Why did this case have to become more and more complicated with every new revelation? Angelina had explained that the room in the picture was on the opposite side of the hall, a mirror image of her bedroom with her husband. Both rooms were situated at the end of the hallway, but apparently, as far as Angelina knew, only one of them had been in use. The other one—the murder room—had been vacant.

And apparently locked while the uniformed officers had peeked into the other room following Angelina’s call.

“So, what? Talbot was killed twice in two separate rooms? And then he went ahead and locked himself in—after his murder?” Hughes shook his head in obvious frustration, damn near tearing off what little hair he had left on his head. “Makes no fucking sense.”

“I have to talk to those people in the house,” Niall said, feeling just as blindsided as his friend. “I know it’s not protocol but—”

“Oh, you’re definitely coming with me,” Hughes growled, glaring at him. “Technically, this was your problem first, so the least you can do is help me solve this goddamn piece of shit.”

Niall suppressed a grin of victory, knowing it wouldn’t be welcomed now, not even in a comradely fashion. “You drive.”

But then came the second twist.

Before they could get back on their feet, Regina rushed toward them, which in itself was uncharacteristic. As the King County ME, she wasn’t required to hand-deliver her findings to the detectives, especially not to ones she had already seen once today. She didn’t look happy, though, so it clearly wasn’t a social visit, Niall concluded.

She was out of breath as she started speaking. “Unbelievable. Guys, I’m so sorry. I should have looked at the body myself right away. Nell wouldn’t have known Florian Talbot from the temp cashier at the local grocery store. I take all the blame for this grievous oversight.”

Niall and Hughes exchanged curious and worried looks at the remark before staring at the ME with the same question dangling on their lips. It was Hughes who eloquently said, “Huh?”

Reggie sighed, and it was easy to tell how furious she was with herself. “Your stiff. I finally managed to find the time to check on him myself. And the guy on my slab is physically way too young to match up with the official records. In short, he’s
not
Florian Talbot.”

“T
HIS
SHOP
looks great, considering there was a fire here a month ago.”

Gus looked up from the wooden box on the sales desk where he was busy organizing pamphlets about the upcoming Beltane festivals arranged around town. Autumnsong strolled in like he owned the place, the bell above the door pinging as he entered. Like before, his clothes were too tight and too black, and his black feather boa seemed to be a regular part of his look. His black, gelled hair stood up in rigid spikes, and he wore makeup on his eyes and lips.

“Autumnsong,” Gus greeted the young man politely but not warmly.

The boy walked up to the counter, chuckling and swishing his hips. “I love how you don’t like me.” Gus remained silent, part of him wishing the guy would just be gone, but another part of him was curious about this unexpected visit. “Ooh, can I have one of those?” Autumnsong pointed at the pamphlets.

“Sure. Help yourself. They were donated by the Beltane event organizers anyway.” He shoved the wooden box closer to Autumnsong, who eagerly started to flip through them. “I didn’t think you’d be interested in Beltane festivities.”

Autumnsong looked up through his startlingly long black lashes. “Why? Because I’m not Wiccan like you? Why couldn’t I enjoy a festival of the start of summer, pretty flowers, and unabashed sex?”

Gus shook his head, stifling a chuckle in his throat. “Figured you’d have an agenda.”

“Oh, you think you know me that well… Gus?” Autumnsong batted his eyelashes in a lurid spectacle of flirtation.

Annoyed, Gus wasn’t having any of it. “What can I do for you today? Would you like to purchase something? We have a wide assortment of supplies for all neo-pagan faiths.”

Autumnsong quirked an eyebrow. “You admit Satanism is a neo-pagan faith?”

Gus gritted his teeth. “No.”

“I would’ve expected such hostility from representatives of Christian denominations, but not from you.” Autumnsong didn’t sound pissed or offended, simply amused. “But I digress. So, what’s on sale today?”

“Herbs, essential oils, and incense sticks. They’re over there.” Gus pointed toward the opposite wall, which was filled with cubicle-shaped shelves with tiny bottles, bowls, sticks, and pouches filling each and every one. “Twenty percent off this week.”

“You’re a good businessman, I see.” Autumnsong glanced in the direction of the items on sale but made no move to rush over.

“I try.” Gus looked around the shop. There were a couple of female tourists browsing the jewelry and amulet section, and two teenage girl witches checking out the literary section on the other end of the shop. In short, not enough folks about to distract him from his irksome guest.

“You’re open long hours,” Autumnsong commented, seemingly innocently, but Gus had a bad feeling. “When do you take lunch?”

“Around one,” he replied reluctantly, not comfortable with or good at lying. “I usually eat in the back. I make my own lunches. Easier, quicker, and cheaper that way.”

Autumnsong perked up and clapped his hands, his eyes sparkling. “Excellent. I wanna take you to lunch today. It’s almost one now. Oh, this is beautiful! How much for this?” He picked up a rose quartz pendulum, the stone silky smooth and pink.

“That’s a chakra pendulum piece,” Gus stated automatically. “Nine ninety-five.”

“Mmm, I love it. I’ll take it. Do you gift wrap?” His big brown eyes gleamed with an excitement that made Gus uneasy.

“Sorry, we only gift wrap during the winter holidays.” That was a lie, but he wanted the boy gone. Gus vowed to make peace with the Goddess at some later date.

Autumnsong chuckled as if he knew the truth. “Fine. Ring it up, my good man.” Gus held back his snappish words, rang the charge, and accepted the cash. “Keep the change.”

Gus was ready to throw the junk change back in the boy’s face, but that would have been rude. After all, Autumnsong had done nothing wrong, just showed up. The only crime he had committed—in Gus’s eyes—was his satanic faith. And that was no reason to treat the man like a second-class citizen, or worse yet, like trash.

Especially since Gus didn’t know for a fact whether Autumnsong was indeed a Satanist. He could have been just an expert on the faith, like a scholar.

Swallowing his pride, he said, “I’m sorry for my behavior. It’s inexcusable.”

Autumnsong laughed. “If it’s inexcusable, why are you apologizing? Besides, I’m not interested in such mundane trivialities. I like you more when you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” Gus denied, lowering his voice so the other shop patrons wouldn’t hear him.

“All right, dislike then.” Autumnsong winked in a companionable way. “So, lunch? The sooner we do this, the sooner I’m out of your hair.”

“You promise?” Gus demanded, his lips tight as he bit his teeth together.

“I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.” Autumnsong actually made a cross sign over his chest and brought up his hand in a Boy Scout pledge gesture. “Come on, Gus. I hate to dine alone.” He pouted a bit, going for that sad puppy-dog look. Amazingly, it worked wonders for him. That particular appearance must have given the twink many an opportunity at manipulating people like Gus into doing his bidding.

“Fifteen minutes, and then we can go,” Gus finally acquiesced with a low, resigned grunt, dissatisfied with the entire situation. But Autumnsong had promised to be on his way after lunch, so… silver lining?

“W
HAT
ARE
we doing here?” Gus asked, suspicious about Autumnsong’s motives.

The art gallery spread around them, spacious and echoing, with paintings hanging on the walls and statues rising on pedestals. Considering the number of famous classical artists and popular local artisans, the place catered to a clientele Gus couldn’t afford to emulate unless he won the lottery. The walls were natural white and the lights bright, so the only splashes of color came from the art.

“Joining the free buffet, of course.” Autumnsong winked and headed for a buffet table by one of the walls.

Gus frowned, looking around mystified. There was no cocktail party going on, no art launch, no gallery opening, no artist’s release party. Yet there was a table filled with finger foods, ready and available. Gus had an unpleasant feeling they were crashing someone else’s hoedown uninvited, which made his cheeks catch the fires of embarrassment.

He hurried to Autumnsong, who was busy checking out the menu and stacking nibbly foods on a white ceramic plate. “We shouldn’t be here,” he hissed at the boy, angry.

Autumnsong stared at him in bafflement. “Whyever not? As far as these people know, we’re legitimate buyers.” Livid, Gus was about to argue that point when Autumnsong shrugged and said casually, “Besides, there’s someone here I want to introduce you to.” His gaze veered past Gus, and a flirtatious smile rose on his luscious lips. “Tia, darling, how wonderful it is to bask in your bright, divine presence again.”

Gus tried not to let his cringe show as he turned around.

The woman Autumnsong had addressed so
flamboyantly was surprisingly imposing, with a tall stature, a straight posture, and an air of importance. She had let her long hair go gray naturally, and she had raised it in a simple updo above her head. She wore an elegant charcoal trouser suit that gave her a business look, but the colorful jewelry in her hair and around her neck and wrists added an artistic touch Gus liked. She carried herself well, and Gus found himself in awe of this formidable woman.

“Kin, how nice to see you again.” The lady’s low, dulcet voice made Gus shiver pleasantly. Kin? Was that Autumnsong’s real name? Or was he family? Gus was perplexed, but it wasn’t uncommon for neo-pagans to choose a descriptive name.

“Tia, I’d like to introduce you to my new good friend Gus Goodwin,” Autumnsong said with a wicked smirk, gesticulating toward Gus. “He owns and runs The Four Corners, you know, the neo-pagan shop in Tacoma. Gus, this is one of my oldest and dearest friends, Tia Delaney, owner and proprietrix of this here Delaney Art Gallery.”