The Sinister Secrets of the Deadly Summoner Read online

  “Paisley Cartwright?”

  Her eyes shifted to Grace. “Yes?”

  “I thought so. The contact said Goth Babe. It’s Pete Willoughby.”

  “How did you get my number?”

  “You know a guy named Marc, with a C, Branson?”

  “No. Oh. Marc-with-a-C. Maybe. Why?”

  There was a sigh over the speaker phone. “This was the last number called from his cell phone. We fished him off Rock Dundy this morning. I think you’d better come to the office.”

  Paisley eyed Grace. Grace returned an I-don’t-know face.

  Eggs on toast arrived in front of Paisley. “Can I finish my coffee first?”

  “Put it in a to-go cup. I’ve got some guys here who won’t talk to anyone but you and Grace. They’re not under arrest, so they might not stick around long.”

  Pete hung up. Paisley scowled. “To-go cup. More blasphemy.”

  Chapter 15

  Grace took 1A around Beverly Airport and through Danvers. It was the long way, but she wanted her clams to settle before confronting any grossness. Pete worked out of the Essex County Sheriff’s Department. The department was primarily involved in incarceration, and had been doing it since witches were arrested and executed in Salem back in the day.

  If Pete were an antique, it would be tough for Grace to follow his provenance. His official rank was Detective Lieutenant, which was a State Police rank. But New Carfax had a deal that the sheriff would provide police services that went back to a time when the High Sheriff was called a Marshall, and Massachusetts was called a colony. Over a couple centuries of reorganizations and back-room deals, a couple troopers were stationed at the Sheriff’s Department for the sole reason of providing protection to unincorporated areas, and, like New Carfax, under-incorporated areas.

  Essex County Sheriff was headquartered at the Middleton Jail. In the parking lot of the austere facility was a quaint sign with six-pointed stars that read “Sheriff’s Headquarters.” Grace followed and parked the Prius.

  Pete met them at the desk. His blue eyes studied Grace and Paisley. He indicated they follow him with an angle of his head. He didn’t have an office, but a cubicle much like Grace’s at work. Pete gestured to guest chairs.

  “I’m guessing you interviewed our recent find last night,” Pete said.

  “Do I need a lawyer?” Paisley asked.

  Pete pursed his lips. “Probably.”

  Grace rolled her eyes. “Just tell him.”

  As Paisley rambled, Pete’s expression remained still. He had a dimpled chin, black hair, and those eyes… When the Goth finally finished, Pete drummed a pencil on his desk.

  “So, technically, if this ever came to prosecution, I could say you were working an insurance investigation.” Pete continued drumming.

  “Technically, if we found the stolen book, case closed,” Grace said. “The company wouldn’t have to cover a loss.”

  Pete hummed to himself, thinking it over. Then he leaned closer. “Here’s the thing. Law enforcement in Massachusetts is hell-bent on knocking out drug trafficking, specifically, Fentanyl, because it’s responsible for ninety percent of overdose deaths. Stanley Polaski Junior and Marc Branson came under scrutiny some time ago. Junior was an orderly at a state facility, and Marc worked as a floating pharmacy technician in the Beverly Hospital system. Although they covered their tracks pretty well, we uncovered a faint paper trail that amounted to drug theft. It wasn’t a whole lot of Fentanyl, but a little goes a long, long way.”

  “You said prosecution,” Paisley mused. “Was Marc murdered?”

  “Not as far as we can tell. But considering his partner in crime went a similar way, and his other confederates are shaking in the interrogation rooms here, I’d say there’s a pretty good chance. Back when we pulled Marc and Junior in for questioning, they gave us names. Really bad guys, enforcers, dealers, guys with records for ADW, possession with intent, carrying concealed, shitbirds, in other words. Guys who we would expect to be running a drug ring.”

  “But?” Grace prompted.

  “No buts about it, no one is sad those guys are off the streets. However, as far as access to medical grade Fentanyl, these guys wouldn’t have it. This is not the stuff that Mexican cartels mix up, or you can get by mail order from China. This is strictly a home-grown operation. We traced the serial numbers of discarded patches to drugs stolen from Beverly Hospital facilities.”

  “Okay, so Junior and Marc are ringleaders,” Paisley said. “What does that have to do with us?”

  “Hopefully, nothing,” Pete raised his brows. “But I have two potential witnesses, persons of interest, and they are only interested in talking to you two. Like Junior and Marc, they work in the hospital system. Maybe they wanted to take some fat off the top and run the thing themselves. Or maybe with Junior and Marc gone, they don’t have an operation at all. If you’re willing, we can all sit down and have a chat.”

  “They might know where the book is,” Paisley said to Grace.

  And the walking stick, Grace didn’t say aloud. “Okay, let’s have a chat.”

  It was no surprise that Pete brought Beer Belly and Neck Beard into a small conference room. Fear beamed from their features despite some bravado and swagger. Beer Belly gave Pete the eye. “I said we only wanted to talk to the cougar and the witch.”

  “Pete stays,” Grace said, “or we walk.”

  Beer Belly took a hard stance, but Neck Beard was made of less stern stuff. “Come on, Nick, Junior’s dead, and now Marc. I don’t’ wanna go like that.”

  “Shut up, Deacon.”

  “Like what?” Grace asked.

  “By the sea,” Neck Beard, AKA Deacon, said. He closed his eyes.

  “You’d rather get locked up?” Beer Belly, Nick, argued.

  “Hell yes.” Deacon’s eyes remained closed.

  “Tell us about the books,” Grace said. She cast a look at Pete. Oh, well, in for a penny. “And the walking stick.”

  “That ain’t no walking stick.” Deacon’s eyes opened, glaring. “It’s—it’s—I don’t know what. See, Junior had this idea that we could open a legit business. Clamming, down on the New Carfax flats. We’d incorporate, take it to the selectmen to change the ordinance.”

  Paisley caught on. “To launder drug money.”

  “Shut up, Deacon!”

  “Didn’t matter,” Deacon went on. “The clams were gone. But Junior lived down there as a kid, his parents still live there. He talked about this thing that the shellfish constable did. Every night, he took that stick down to the shore. Since the clams disappeared after the constable died, Junior figured it had something to do with that damned stick.”

  “So he stole it from George’s house.” Grace didn’t ask. “But he didn’t know how to use it.”

  A long silence followed, Pete looking confused but unspeaking. It was Nick who said it.

  “That thing, that stick. It was carved up fancy, heavy as hell. It gave me the creeps. All of us the creeps. I didn’t even like holding it. But, New Carfax, you know, wicked creepy place. Creepy as Salem. Creepier. We figured it was magic. It was Marc who said we needed a book to learn how to use the thing.”

  “To bring the clams back,” Grace thought out loud. “Did Junior figure it out? Or Marc?”

  “Junior said he knew some places they might find a book.” Deacon said.

  Grace looked at the two men. “They found one?”

  Deacon and Nick exchanged a look. Deacon stuck out his lower lip. “Maybe. Because the next thing we know, they’re pulling Junior out of the drink. And now Marc. I don’t wanna be next. Rumor is that Junior was…”

  “Eaten.” Nick finished.

  “Where did they stash the stolen goods?” Paisley asked.

  “I’m not copping to possession of stolen property,” Nick said.

  But Deacon talked over him. “Gotta be someplace on the flats. That’s where this all started.”

  Chapter 16

  Pete became sudd
enly busy with the Narcotics division. Despite his confusion over the whole conversation, he now had enough information to pass on. That was fine with Grace. They needed to get back to the mudflats.

  “You must have an idea where they stashed the stuff,” Paisley said.

  Grace kept her eyes on the road. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you’re actually breaking the speed limit. I didn’t think you could do that in a Prius.”

  She took Route 114 this time, a few minutes faster than 1A. Paisley held her breath and closed her eyes as they crossed the tiny bridge over the Ipswich River. Bridges were one of her so-called rational fears. Main Street changed to Andover, and a few miles later, Grace merged onto I95.

  Ten minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot of Judy’s Java.

  “Seriously? You can’t be hungry again.” Paisley got out. “Although I could sure go for another round of cat poop coffee.”

  Grace closed the car door and leaned on the roof. “We are seriously obsessed with food.”

  “Maybe we need hobbies.” Paisley adjusted her sweater dress. “Or maybe we just need to get laid.”

  While not admitting it had been awhile, Grace thought there was probably some truth there. She thought about Pete’s blue eyes, about Jack Stoughton’s big hands and fluid voice. She chased the thoughts away. “First things first.”

  “Clams?”

  It was after lunch. Judy’s bee hive had collapsed into something more like a termite hill. Her shoulders slumped when she saw Grace. “You can’t want more clams already. You’re gonna put on fifty pounds.”

  Paisley hopped up on a counter stool. “Could I get a—”

  Grace pointed a finger at her. “No.” She turned to Judy. “I need a favor.”

  Judy eyed her suspiciously. “Does it have to do with clams?”

  “No.”

  “All right. What is it?”

  “There’s a building all the way down on the mudflats. What is it?”

  “That has to do with clams.” Judy’s suspicion turned up a notch. “That’s our shuck hut. The girls shuck the clams on a long table inside. Why?”

  “Who owns it?”

  “Not me. I guess it belongs to the Ryans and Polaskis, since it straddles their properties. It’s kind of a community thing. We all pay for its upkeep.”

  “Do you have a key?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Would it be okay if I had a look inside? I’ll bring the key back in half an hour.”

  Judy’s face squished into an are-you-serious look. “I can’t just give you the key. I don’t own the building.”

  For a moment, Grace’s heart sank. But Judy disappeared into the kitchen, returning with her coat and keys. “I’ll go with you. There won’t be another run until dinner, anyway. Marv! Take over!”

  Judy crossed the parking lot to the biggest car Grace had ever seen. In profile, it looked like an enormous sausage with wheels beneath and fins in back. As she walked, Judy pulled about a hundred hairpins out.

  “Hop in,” she said. Judy started the car and put the top down. “Gotta get the smell of fried clam out of my hair. It’s making me crazy.”

  All three of them fit on the front bench seat. Judy whipped the land freighter out of the lot with deft maneuvers and tore off down Orchard Street.

  “Hell, yeah,” Paisley said, both hands on the dashboard.

  Judy’s hair streamed behind. It must’ve hung down to her hips, but Grace had only seen it up. She looked at the dark sky, wondering if they were going to get a soaking. Minutes later, Judy roared down the winding drive and parked in front of her house. Beyond the line of trees, blue showed between the clouds.

  They followed the diner owner to the end of the driveway. Paisley stopped short. A bridge crossed the rushing waters of a creek. “Maybe I’ll wait in the car.”

  “C’mon, Paize, it’s just a foot bridge. It looks solid.”

  Judy shook her head. “Not particularly. Not that it’s gonna fall down, or anything.”

  Without a word, Paisley turned back and started marching up hill.

  “Hey, we might find the books.”

  The Goth’s huge pigtails bounced with her steps.

  “Are you going to look for a hobby, or do you want to hand the book over to Jack Stoughton?”

  Judy looked a question at Grace. Grace shook her head. Paisley stopped. Did an about face. At the edge of the bridge, she gave Grace puppy dog eyes. “Hold my hand?”

  “For cryin’ out loud.” Grace gripped Paisley’s hand and half-dragged her over the yard and a half of wooden planks. From the other side of the bridge, a path sloped down. Trees thinned, revealing an unappealing stretch of shore. Rain erased all traces of digging, but there was no making the mudflats look pretty.

  Grace continued to the long building she had seen during her conversation with Bill Mudge. It was made of plywood, held together with about a dozen coats of paint. Judy fished out her keys and jammed them in a padlock. Inside was a long picnic table, stacks of buckets in two corners. It smelled like fish gone bad and the only light came through two small windows.

  “Don’t know why you’d want to come here, unless you had clams to shuck,” Judy leaned on the long table.

  Grace took the place in. Rakes and shovels hung on wall pegs. A pair of boots stood against the far wall. Above, several sheets of plywood lay across the rafters. “What’s up there?”

  Judy squinted. “Nothing. I’ve never seen boards up there before.”

  There was no ladder among the clam digging tools. “We need to get up there.”

  Paisley looked between Judy and Grace. She rolled her eyes. Stepping on the board that served as a seat and then onto the table top, she was high enough to get her elbows on the plywood. She kicked her boots around as she hauled herself up.

  “Be careful, Paisley!” Grace felt her heart race. Her fear of heights extended to anyone in a high place.

  “Ha!” Paisley thumped around for a minute. Her face reappeared in a moment, her expression one of triumph. She held up a huge, leather bound book. “Jackpot! Now I won’t need a hobby.”

  As Paisley worked her way back down, Judy eyed Grace. “Like I said. Weird people.”

  Chapter 17

  Back at Judy’s Grace contemplated an early dinner. Paisley was practically dancing around the parking lot. “Let’s get this book to Jack right now.”

  Paisley had found Jack’s book, along with Legends and Lore, both of which sat in Grace’s trunk. She didn’t find a heavily carved walking stick. She did find a place marked in the magical Encyclopædia, the text giving her a start. “I think you’re right.”

  “Can I tell him I found the book?”

  Grace unlocked the Prius. “Sure.”

  “You are mine, Jonathan W. Stoughton,” she said darkly as she slid into the passenger seat.

  It was still too early in the day for L’arts de L’occulte to be open. Grace knocked on the door of the black Victorian. It was answered by a young woman who looked a lot like Paisley.

  “Sorry, the position’s been filled.” The woman had a stark white face, mauve eye shadow and lipstick, red and black striped hair. She wore a corset dress decorated with black roses and thigh-high boots.

  Paisley scowled. Grace piped up. “Grace Longstreet here to see Jack Stoughton. Trust me, he’ll want to see us.”

  The Goth employee shrugged and let them in. “I’ll call him.”

  “Dammit, I should’ve dressed up. How’s my hair?”

  Grace examined the twin explosions of green. “Oh, I didn’t notice the little scarabs on your scrunchies. Nice touch.”

  “Accessorizing is all in the de—hello, Jack!” Paisley, cradling the book, whirled away as Stoughton entered the main floor of the shop. “Look what Paisley brought you.”

  Stoughton’s violet eyes widened in amazement as he took the heavy tome. “You recovered it? I thought it was lost forever.”

  “Case closed,” Paisley said.
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  “I’m impressed.”

  “Um, not quite case closed. Can we talk to you about the book?” Grace caught the Goth cashier sneaking into hearing range. “Privately.”

  “Yes, Jack, can we talk?” Paisley hooked her arm through his.

  He gave Paisley a bemused look. “Certainly. Let’s go to my office.”

  After closing the door, he pried himself from Paisley’s grasp. The two women sat across the workbench from him. “I have to take back what I said about your involvement, Grace. This simply amazes me.”

  Paisley rested her elbows on the bench, her chin on folded hands, and stared.

  “You can thank Paisley. She’s the one who tracked it down.”

  “Yes. Thank me. I am utterly free for thanking at your convenience.”

  Grace took the book and opened it to the marked page. The chapter title read: Sounds and Songs of Summoning. Near the bottom of the page was a curved and carved object. Grace took out her phone, scrolling to the picture of George Ryan and his walking stick.

  Jack looked from one to the other. “I’d say they were a match.”

  “I think so, too,” Grace said. “So what the hell is it?”

  After studying the drawing, the text, for a few moments, Jack sat back. “Well, the images aren’t particularly clear, but I would agree that this is carved from walrus ivory. A scrimshaw instrument. Judging from the illustration, I’d have to say a horn.”

  “That much I figured. But what does it do?”

  Jack shook his head. “Outside of this book, I’ve never heard of such a thing. Inuit shaman use horns and flutes and bells ceremoniously, for blessing a whale hunt for example. But I’ve never even seen a walrus tusk this size, let alone carved into an instrument.”

  As Paisley continued to moon, Grace described the ritual as she heard it from Millie Ryan and the frightened drug dealers.

  “George Ryan, the shellfish constable?” Jack thought for a moment. “He used to be a fisherman. Maybe he encountered an Inuit who taught him the ritual. This kind of magic is primitive, powerful. If you didn’t know what you were doing…”