Gram Croakies Read online

  He frowned, taking the glass from my hand and giving the seat a long examination. “Hm,” he said. His glance skimmed to the paperback, teacup, and empty plate at that spot.

  The detective moved to the next chair, looking up after just a moment. “This one.”

  I took the glass again and bent over the seat, focusing it on the tiny speck I saw at the very center of the vinyl.

  The “spot” was actually comprised of two things, a tiny, lima-bean-shaped clump of something lying in a pool of liquid. I moved the magnifying glass closer and squinted at the teeny, tiny…

  I jumped back with a yelp, dropping the glass as I stumbled backward, putting as much distance as I could between me and the object on that chair. My horrified gaze lifted to Grym’s finding its match on his face. “Holy alligator pajamas.”

  He nodded. “Do you see why I believe it’s a magical artifact?”

  I nodded, my gaze sliding back to the chair as dizziness swamped me. My heart was pounding so hard in my chest, I thought I might pass out. “Please tell me that wasn’t what I thought it was.”

  “I wish I could, Naida Keeper.” He scrubbed a big hand over his bristly jaw, sending the scratchy sound of whiskers against skin into the painfully silent room. “But I’m pretty sure that whatever killed those women, did it by returning them to their earliest possible forms.”

  “The ultimate anti-aging product,” I murmured in revulsion, as my heart tried to bang its way through my ribs.

  2

  From the Beginning…

  I stood behind Grym and looked around at the row of well-maintained buildings along the street. The neighborhood of tall, slender stone and brick buildings had undergone gentrification a few years earlier, returning a once-proud area back to its former, elegant glory.

  Mrs. Foxladle had lived in her home since well before the restoration. I remembered her complaining about the noise and mess of the work in the early days of the improvements.

  Despite her unhappiness at having her world turned topsy-turvy around her, even Mrs. Foxladle couldn’t argue with the results.

  At that time of night, the streets were quiet, the residents tucked into their homes behind closed drapes, backlit by the soft yellow glow of interior lights.

  Grym rang the bell and a musical chime sang out inside the home. We waited as soft footfalls sounded behind the glossy, pale green door.

  “Who is it?” Mrs. Foxladle’s warbly voice asked.

  “Detective Grym of the Enchanted police, ma’am.”

  “Oh. Just a moment, please.”

  Grym glanced at me as the sound of locks disengaging announced Mrs. Foxladle’s compliance.

  I grimaced. I really wasn’t looking forward to telling the elderly woman that her friends had been found dead.

  She tugged the door open a crack and peered out at Grym. “Hello again. I‘m sorry, but can I see your credentials, please?”

  He tugged the badge from inside his sweater and held it up for her to see.

  “What is this about, Detective?” Mrs. Foxladle asked, worry threading her voice.

  “May we come inside, ma’am?” he asked.

  “We?”

  I took a deep breath at her uncertain query and peeked around the detective’s broad shoulder so she could see me. “Hi, Mrs. Foxladle.”

  Worry leeched from her gaze when she spotted me and the automatic smile I was used to seeing made an appearance. “Naida. I’m surprised to see you here. Have you two decided to join book club?”

  She slid a look from me to Grym and frowned. “Or did something happen at your beautiful store?”

  Too late, I realized I’d be unable to explain my connection to the murders. Mrs. Foxladle was human, non-magic, and she only knew me as a bookstore owner. Any mention of magical artifacts would only earn me a confused look at best, and a suggestion to seek therapy at worst.

  “I requested that Ms. Griffith accompany me, ma’am,” Grym told her in a kind tone. “I know she’s a friend of yours.”

  Though to my ears his explanation felt weak, it seemed to appease Mrs. Foxladle. “I see.” She stepped back, opening the door wider. “Please, come in.”

  I entered ahead of Grym, and he gently closed the door behind us. I stood in the small foyer for a moment, glancing around at the pristine cleanliness of the cluttered space. Mrs. Foxladle had filled her home with beloved items in abundance. Knick knacks perched beside pictures and framed notes, no doubt from young relatives judging by the colorful stick figures adorning the careworn sheets of paper inside the frames.

  Dated furniture took up much of the space in the living room. Stacks of books, newspapers, and magazines were piled high on every available flat surface.

  “Please, sit. Make yourselves comfortable. Can I get you some tea? Muffins?”

  “No!” Grym and I both exclaimed too quickly and a tiny bit too emphatically.

  Mrs. F blinked under the force of our refusal.

  I laughed self-consciously. “Sorry. We just had tea. But thanks so much for the offer.”

  Frowning slightly, Mrs. Foxladle lowered herself into a small upholstered chair, her hand falling as if by habit into a basket filled with balls of yarn beside the chair. She pulled out a work in progress, knitted in wide pink, white, and sky-blue stripes, and settled it into her lap without touching the needles stuck into the fluffy yarn. “What’s happened?” she asked me, her gray gaze filled with worry.

  Grym cleared his throat, drawing her attention to him. “Mrs. Foxladle, I’m afraid we have some bad news.”

  Her small, bent fingers tugged the knitting needles from her work and yanked gently on the ball of yarn inside the basket, wrapping the yarn around a needle and beginning to work. “Please just tell me, Detective. I can’t abide dithering.”

  “We received a call from your friend, Celia Pepper’s landlady tonight. She’d knocked on Celia’s door, and it had opened under her knock. When she went inside the apartment to investigate…”

  “She found Celia dead,” Mrs. Foxladle said, nodding. Her small chin firmed, and her hands worked more rapidly over the striped object in her lap. “I knew it.”

  Grym glanced my way, eyes narrowing, and I gave him a quick shake of my head, having no idea what was going on.

  “Ma’am, what do you mean when you say you knew it?” Grym asked her.

  Mrs. Foxladle sighed. “I’ve been telling Celia that man was dangerous. She just wouldn’t believe me.”

  Grym pulled his notebook from his pocket. “What man?”

  But Mrs. Foxladle just kept knitting, her brow furrowed.

  Grym looked at me again.

  I leaned forward in my chair. “Mrs. Foxladle, Celia didn’t die alone.”

  That brought her head snapping up. “He was with her?”

  “No. The book club…” I said, my stomach twisting as I saw realization fill her gaze.

  Her hands fell to her lap, the work forgotten. “No!”

  I grasped one of her hands, finding it cold and soft. “I’m so sorry.”

  A single tear slipped from her eyes. “All of them?”

  “I’m afraid so.” My voice was gentle, my own eyes stinging from the sight of her pain. I’d met a couple of the other women in her book club. They’d been regulars at Croakies. Not as regular as Mrs. Foxladle, but regular enough that I’d had an easy relationship with them. Celia had always been a little stiff but friendly in an offhand way. Bonnie Witherspoon had been cheerful and kind.

  Mrs. Foxladle swiped a hand over her cheeks, sniffling. “How?”

  I looked at Grym. We couldn’t tell her about the artifact. I wasn’t even sure how Grym was going to handle it with his human superiors. There were really no bodies, and there was no way to prove foul play. Even the landlady had only reported a concern about the open door and empty apartment. She’d suspected something untoward had happened, but she didn’t mention murder or even violence.

  “They were poisoned,” Grym told the elderly woman.


  Mrs. Foxladle’s hands returned to their work, her fingers moving rapidly through the stitches as tears slid down her cheeks.

  “Mrs. Foxladle,” Grym tried again, “Who is this man you mentioned?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. She met him online. He befriended her there.” She sniffled angrily. “He was much younger than she was. I told her he was only after her money, but she wouldn’t listen to me.”

  “Money?” I frowned. “Celia didn’t seem like she had a lot of money,” I offered before I thought about it. The woman had always been trying to get me to sell her brand-new books at a discount, and I’d had my hands full dealing with her. She tended to get angry when I refused. She’d even gone so far as to damage the cover of a book once, declaring I had to sell it to her at a discount since it was damaged.

  I’d just put the book on the shelf that morning. It had been in pristine condition. But there’d been no way for me to prove it, and I’d figured it wasn’t worth losing a good customer, so I’d given her the discount she’d asked for. I realized that being frugal didn’t necessarily speak to Celia’s financial situation, but nothing in her life seemed to scream money to me. Her clothing had been old and well-worn. Her small car was in good shape but it was a small, very basic model, probably very inexpensive. And her apartment had been unassuming, in a part of town that wasn’t known for its wealth.

  “Celia was tight with a dollar,” Mrs. Foxladle said, her lips pursing. “She pinched every penny until it squeaked.”

  “Did she keep a lot of money at home?”

  Mrs. Foxladle glanced at Grym. “A few hundred dollars maybe.”

  He nodded. “Did she tell you anything about this man?”

  “Only that he was very handsome. She lamented that she wasn’t younger and prettier because she was afraid he’d lose interest.”

  “How long were they seeing each other?” I asked.

  “Not long. I’d say they only went out a couple of times.”

  “Had he met any of the other ladies in your club?” Grym asked.

  “Not that I know of.” Her voice wobbled and she frowned over her knitting.

  I wondered if it was starting to sink in that she’d lost five of her friends.

  “What about the other ladies?”

  Her head came up and her eyes filled with confusion. “What?”

  “Did you know of anyone else who might have wanted to harm your friends?”

  She seemed to melt right before my very eyes. Her hands stilled on the knitting, her shoulders drooped, and she collapsed in on herself. “I can’t believe they’re gone.”

  I squeezed her hand. “What can I do for you?”

  She shook her head, reaching to snag a tissue from a small box on the table. “Nothing, hon. I just need some time. I’ll need to contact Celia’s son, and Bonnie’s daughter. The others…” Her voice trailed off as she seemed to realize how much there was to do when you were the one left behind. She scrubbed a hand over her brow. “I need to tell their other friends what happened.” She glanced up and gave me a tremulous smile. “Thank you for coming, hon. I appreciate hearing it from you.”

  Her dismissal was clear. I nodded, giving her hand one last squeeze, and stood up. “If you need anything at all.”

  She patted my hand. “I’ll call. I promise.”

  “Thank you for your help,” Grym told the elderly woman. He reached down and took her hand, giving it a squeeze. “I’m going to do everything in my power to find the person responsible for this. You have my word.”

  She nodded, sniffling. “Thank you, young man.”

  We left, waiting to hear her engage the locks before stepping down onto the sidewalk. The night was quiet, the air moist from the earlier rain. The moon was lost behind a thick bank of charcoal-colored clouds and a shiver slid down my spine.

  I rubbed my arms. “I feel so badly for her.”

  Grym sighed. “Telling the survivors is the worst part of my job.” When I didn’t respond, he dropped an arm around my shoulders, giving me a quick squeeze. “She’s a very strong lady, Naida. The business of putting things in order will keep her on her feet until she remembers why getting on with life is important.”

  I sighed. “That’s really the secret, isn’t it? To life? When something knocks your legs out from under you, the hardest thing is remembering why you shouldn’t just fold into a blubbering pile of remorse and sadness and give up.”

  He grimaced. “I wouldn’t have put it quite that way…but yes. Basically.”

  I caught a movement out of the corner of one eye and turned as we reached Grym’s dark sedan at the curb.

  The street was empty, the long line of brick and stone buildings appeared shrouded in sadness. The shadows seemed filled with menace. Sorrow filled my chest, making it hard to breathe.

  There were five women who were no longer enjoying books, tea, and each other. My gaze skimmed back toward Mrs. Foxladle’s home. And one more who wouldn’t enjoy those things for a while.

  The soft sound of wings beat the air above me and I looked up to find an owl skating across the sky, its distinctive form made ominous by the thick gray background of storm clouds.

  I shivered violently. For just a beat, panic had risen to choke off my breathing.

  The owl reminded me too much of the Quilleran witch who’d nearly taken Lea and me down one dark night in the midst of another case.

  Then I smiled at myself. Margot Quilleran was locked away, unable to hurt anybody. And the owl I’d seen above had been much too small to be her anyway.

  I was letting my emotions rocket out of control, setting me off balance.

  I climbed into Grym’s car and buckled myself in as he pulled away from the curb.

  “Do you want to go home? Or would you like to come with me to talk to the landlady? I want to ask her about this man Mrs. Foxladle mentioned.”

  “I’m in.” What can I say? There was no way I was going to miss that.

  3

  In Search of Motoroil

  The manager of the Enchanted Glenn Apartments opened the Office door when Grym knocked, her long, thin face drooping downward like melted wax on a hot summer day. “Yes?”

  Grym showed her his badge. “Ms. Wexille?”

  “Yes. Is this about the missing resident in Building four?”

  “Can we come in, ma’am?” Grym asked firmly but politely.

  I watched the woman carefully, noting the nervous slide of her gaze toward me and then back to Grym. “Who’s that?”

  “This is my associate, Ms. Griffith.”

  I offered her a smile. “Hi.”

  The wax around her eyes melted some more, giving her a hound dog look. “Can’t we just talk right here?”

  The way she kept glaring at me made me wonder what she thought I was going to do to her. I didn’t think I looked like a contract killer who targeted apartment managers.

  “If you’d be more comfortable, we can talk down at the station,” he told the woman, his tone a little less polite and a little firmer.

  She twitched, her lips melting downward at the corners. “No. That won’t be necessary.” She stepped away from the door, leaving it open a crack in reluctant invitation.

  Grym and I shared a look, and he shook his head.

  Following him inside, I stayed by the door, closing it behind us. Grym stood in front of the manager’s desk, which took up most of the front living area. It was clearly an office-slash-living quarters for the woman. Aside from the oversized wooden desk, the room contained a couple of recliners and a super-sized television on a black glass stand. The walls had a few, unexceptional paintings that looked like they might have come from a doctor’s office.

  Ms. Wexille dropped wearily into her desk chair and indicated the chair across from her. “Sit, Detective. Tell me how I can help.” Her tone made it sound less like she was offering help, and more like she was demanding to get it over with.

  Grym didn’t seem put off by her tone. He probably encou
ntered it a lot. I waited until he’d begun questioning her about finding the book club women before sending a swirl of keeper energy through the space, just in case.

  The pale brown gaze inside the melting skin caught on the ribbon of energy, watching it slide around the room, before skimming back to me with a glare.

  Interesting.

  Ms. Wexille wasn’t human.

  I met her glare with a smile and a shrug.

  “Ms. Wexille, why did you go to Mrs. Pepper’s apartment tonight?”

  Still glaring at me, the manager shrugged. “She owed me for some repairs that had been done in her unit. I went to collect.” She grimaced. “I guess I won’t be getting reimbursed for those repairs now.”

  Nice, I thought. “Why do you say that?” I asked, curious. If the woman didn’t know the book club ladies were dead, why would she make such a statement?

  Wexille shrugged. “I’m just guessing she skipped town.”

  “Her phone and purse were still in the apartment,” Grym told the woman. “There’s no sign that she took any personal items with her.”

  I was a little surprised he was sharing that information, but I figured he was trying to catch her in a lie.

  Wexille skimmed me a speculative look. “I didn’t search the place.”

  “Tell me what happened when you arrived at Ms. Pepper’s home,” Grym instructed. He sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. He stared at the manager until she pulled her glare from me.

  She shrugged. “I already told the other cop this.”

  “And I need you to tell me,” Grym said, his tone cool.

  She sighed. “I knocked on the door, and it swung open. I was surprised because Mrs. Pepper had always been a stickler for locking everything up. She acted like she was living in the projects or something.”

  “Go on,” Grym said.

  “I called out to her and nobody answered, so I walked inside. I kept calling her name, but nobody ever answered.”

  “Why did you call the police?” he asked.

  “Something didn’t feel right. The table looked as if they’d all left in a hurry. Given that and the open door, it felt like something bad had happened.” Her gaze skimmed sideways, avoiding Grym’s.