Murder of a Hermit, page 13
There was another absent nod from Hope.
‘You’ve made a number of excellent points, Megan,’ Dylan complimented her. ‘But I think that at the present moment, the Baileys are considerably more concerned with this book than they are with the stratagem behind Carter’s cloak. Shall we ask them why?’ Not waiting for an answer to his rhetorical question, he began to open the evidence bag.
‘I’m not sure you should be doing that, Dylan,’ Morris cautioned anxiously. ‘If the item is from a crime scene, then you don’t want to be accused by the police of tampering with essential evidence.’
‘The book has been officially cleared by the police’s forensics team,’ Dylan assured him. ‘They found nothing on it that is of interest to them, legally speaking. There are no useable fingerprints or unidentified fibers or the like. Nate and I, on the other hand’ – his hint of a smile resurfaced – ‘found the book quite interesting. The more so because it confirms your original statement, Megan. Carter was indeed the Hermit.’
‘You mean the Hermit from the Tarot?’ she said. ‘But I called him that based on his appearance at the window, not when we saw him later in the retention pool.’
‘I’m not basing it on his appearance in either instance,’ Dylan replied. ‘I’m basing it on the book. Why else would Carter take the book if not to seek knowledge and enlightenment? He must have valued spiritual growth and the discovery of profound truths. Is that not how you described the Hermit to me, Hope?’
Hope gave him a wary look.
‘What sort of a book is it?’ Morris inquired curiously.
‘It is a book written in Latin,’ Dylan told him.
‘Oh, my Latin is poor.’ Morris shook his head with regret. ‘Very poor. I can only muster a few medical terms at most, I’m afraid.’
Gram – who up to that point hadn’t betrayed any emotion with regard to the book – exhaled quietly. Hope knew that it was a sigh of relief at Morris’s lack of proficiency with Latin. Hope would have been relieved, too, if it hadn’t been for Morris’s next question and Dylan’s subsequent answer.
‘But you have some Latin, don’t you, Dylan?’
‘Yes, I do. Two inattentive semesters at boarding school.’
There was a muffled groan from Summer. Hope silently echoed the sentiment. Two semesters at boarding school – inattentive or not – were more than enough to cause them a heap of trouble.
‘I’m admittedly rusty,’ Dylan went on, removing the book from the evidence bag and letting the bag flutter down to the ground. ‘But I have no doubt that someone here can correct me or assist me, as needed.’
Morris’s brow furrowed. ‘Someone here can assist you? But I just told you that my Latin is woefully inadequate.’
‘I was referring to the others,’ Dylan said.
The furrow deepened, as though Morris wasn’t sure whether he’d heard his son correctly, or if he had, who the purported others might be.
Without providing any further explanation, Dylan shifted his attention to the book. To his credit, he handled the book with great care, as was appropriate for its august age and deteriorating condition. He gently opened the tattered cover. The pages inside were yellowed and heavily foxed with brown spots. There was the distinct smell of mildew, which was only going to grow worse now that the book had gotten damp in the retention pool.
Dylan turned to the brittle title page. He read aloud, slowly but clearly, ‘Cornix cornici numquam oculos effodit.’
There was a tense stillness. None of the Baileys uttered a word. Megan – who had no difficulty grasping the implication of their silence – sank somewhat lower in her lounger and sedulously studied her wine glass.
‘Well?’ Morris asked impatiently after a minute. ‘What does the Latin translate to, Dylan?’
‘Roughly,’ he answered, ‘one crow does not peck another’s eye.’
Morris blinked in surprise. ‘And what does that mean?’
‘In Nate’s view, it’s akin to honor among thieves.’
Both Summer and Hope winced. It was bad enough that Nate had discovered the book and connected it to them. It was even worse that he – with the aid of Dylan – was interpreting the book’s contents.
‘Or more fittingly in this case,’ Dylan said, ‘a witch doesn’t hex a fellow witch.’
FOURTEEN
‘Crows and witches,’ Morris mused. ‘What an odd subject for a book.’
Dylan concurred with a chortle.
‘And this book came from the brownstone’s library?’ Morris said.
Gram’s response was both quick and quick-witted. ‘Well, dear, the previous owner of the property left behind so many things. Aside from a mountain of books and assorted papers, there was also a good deal of artwork and furniture.’
‘We found the old pine table and matching set of chairs that I currently use in the boutique up in the attic,’ Hope corroborated.
‘That’s quite right.’ Gram gave her a grateful glance before turning back to Morris. ‘It probably would have behooved me to take a complete inventory when we first moved in, but time passed by, and there were always so many other things to think about between keeping the shop afloat and raising the girls that I simply never got around to it. Now that everything has been carried back and forth from one room to another and used in all sorts of different ways over the years – just as Hope said – it’s difficult to remember what came from where originally or from whom.’
Morris nodded. ‘That’s entirely understandable, Olivia. Even though you and the girls have been in the brownstone for so long, I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if you suddenly stumbled over something that you had never seen – or really noticed – before. With three floors and the attic and the cellar, it’s bound to happen. That’s especially true with smaller items, such as the books and papers that you mentioned.’
Gram nodded back at him earnestly.
‘The brownstone has such a large library,’ Megan said, contributing her support to the Bailey explanation for the book in Dylan’s hands. ‘As you know, Morris, I’ve been sleeping in the study because of my leg, and every time that I’m in the room, I marvel at how the bookcases are bursting with so much history and information.’
There was another chortle from Dylan. ‘Yes, you esteem the history and information to such a degree that you hang your underwear from it.’
Megan shot Dylan an irritated – and somewhat chagrined – look, but she couldn’t dispute the actual point, because when they had gone into the study to inspect the cellar the day before, her unmentionables had indeed been strewn about.
Not understanding the reference to undergarments, Morris chose to ignore it. ‘Knowledge can never be too highly valued,’ he told Megan. ‘I’m glad that a young woman such as yourself recognizes that fact.’
Dylan shook his head at him. ‘You aren’t honestly swallowing the story that they’re feeding you?’
Morris was perplexed. ‘What story?’
Although he shook his head again, Dylan didn’t argue with his father. He must have realized the same as Hope that Morris’s credence in the tale was due in large part to his fondness for Gram, and there was no quarreling with that.
Having Morris on their side at least temporarily, Hope figured that now would be the best time to try to regain custody. ‘May we have our book back, please?’
‘But you just said that it wasn’t your book,’ Dylan reminded her. ‘You claimed that it had been left behind by the brownstone’s previous owner.’
‘That’s precisely why it should be returned to its long-term home in the study,’ Hope responded, and she extended her hand to receive the book.
Dylan made no movement toward her.
‘I wonder,’ Morris pondered, ‘what else the book talks about. Can you translate some other parts of it for us, Dylan?’
‘So late in the evening, dear?’ Gram interjected hastily. ‘And in the dim lighting out here on the patio? Dylan could damage his vision.’
‘Oh, I hadn’t thought of that.’ Morris’s expression grew faintly anxious. ‘That’s an excellent point, Olivia, especially with the ink on the paper being so old and faint. Reading it tomorrow in the natural light would be much wiser.’
Gram murmured in agreement.
Dylan smiled. ‘I greatly appreciate Olivia’s concern with regard to’ – he halted for a second, indicating that he was fully aware of the difference between her professed and actual concern – ‘the health of my eyes. In deference to her wishes, I won’t translate any more of the book.’
The Baileys visibly relaxed.
‘But in the limited time that I was able to study some of its pages earlier,’ Dylan went on, ‘I came across several intriguing passages.’
The Baileys tensed once more.
Morris turned to Dylan with interest. ‘What did the passages say?’
Still smiling, he answered, ‘I confess that I didn’t completely understand them. There was something about mermaids. If they weep, they lose their magic nature.’
Dylan glanced around the group in anticipation of a response. No one spoke.
‘And witches,’ he continued after the pause, ‘are not able to weep at all. Which reminds me’ – this time, he looked pointedly at Hope – ‘I’ve never seen you cry.’
‘I will shed tears of joy,’ she replied dryly, ‘when you give me the book.’
Hope extended her hand again. There was a brief hesitation, then Dylan walked over to her and deposited it in her palm.
‘Thank you,’ she said. And without delay, Hope tucked the book safely between the seat cushion and the arm of the settee where no one could reach it but her.
A moment later – without invitation – Dylan deposited himself on the settee next to her. Annoyed at his presumptuousness, Hope would have moved demonstratively away from him, but there wasn’t enough room on the snug rocker, which had been designed to fit a cozy couple. All she could do was shift slightly toward her corner and raise an eyebrow at Dylan.
He pleaded innocence. ‘I thought that after being so generous in returning the book, you surely wouldn’t deny me a seat.’
‘There are plenty of other seats on the patio.’
‘But this one is especially comfortable.’ Dylan leaned back on the cushion. ‘And it rocks so nicely.’ He pushed against the flagstone with his foot, causing the settee to sway back and forth gently.
Although her eyebrow remained raised, Hope didn’t make any further objection. She knew that she had achieved a tremendous victory by regaining possession of the book, and she had no intention of jeopardizing it by squabbling over seating arrangements.
‘Mermaids?’ Morris questioned, having apparently puzzled over the matter without reaching a satisfactory conclusion. ‘And more witches? I don’t understand what kind of a strange book that is.’
Hope’s answer was swift. ‘Folklore.’
‘Folklore,’ Summer concurred with equal speed.
‘Old folklore,’ Hope further elucidated, ‘hence the Latin.’
‘Hence the Latin,’ Summer reiterated.
Morris was thoughtful and rubbed one of his ears, mussing his wispy white hair in the process. ‘Folklore…’ he ruminated. ‘In Latin…’
Dylan gave a quiet laugh that only Hope could hear. ‘The Baileys have all of their stories and explanations worked out in advance, don’t they?’
Hope ignored him and focused on Morris, trying to sound sufficiently convincing so that they could close the subject of the book permanently. ‘Before we in more recent times learned the science behind natural phenomena such as tides and eclipses, people created their own narratives to help decipher the otherwise inexplicable world around them. Dangerous shoals were bewitching sirens attempting to lure sailors to their death. Twinkling stars in the heavens were departed souls watching over their loved ones left behind on the earth. Most of the folklore was transmitted orally from one generation to the next, but some of it was eventually put down in written form and—’
‘And it became our book that Nate found in Carter’s cloak,’ Summer concluded.
After rubbing his other ear, Morris gave a nod, persuaded at last. ‘I retract what I said earlier. It isn’t a strange book at all. On the contrary, from an anthropological perspective, it’s really rather fascinating.’
There was more quiet laughter from Dylan. He stretched in his seat and draped an arm across the back of the settee. Hope shifted a little further toward her corner.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ Dylan drawled. ‘Haven’t you just demonstrated to us that you are a renowned expert on folklore? If so, you should know that I’m not the Big Bad Wolf sidling up to Little Red Riding Hood.’
Hope rolled her eyes. ‘That’s a fairy tale, not folklore.’
Dylan responded by lowering his arm on to her shoulders. Hope promptly pushed it back up to the settee.
‘Instead of proving yourself to be an inveterate troublemaker,’ she remarked crisply, ‘you could help us.’
‘I like helping you.’ The arm returned to her shoulders. ‘What is it that you want me to do?’
Again, she pushed the arm up to the settee. ‘For starters, you can support us when we ask Nate to take down the yellow crime scene tape from the side lawn. When we left the brownstone to come here, the police had just finished adding a second layer.’
Summer pursed her lips. ‘That tape is bad. Very bad.’
‘All right. I’ll support you,’ Dylan agreed, his arm once more sliding down to Hope’s shoulders. ‘But I have my doubts that Nate will remove the tape regardless of our requests. He’s fairly consistent at following police regulations.’
‘We know he is’ – Hope surrendered and allowed the arm to remain in place – ‘but we still have to try.’
‘Why?’ Dylan asked curiously. ‘Do you think the tape will discourage customers from coming to the boutique?’
‘Exactly the opposite,’ Summer replied, pursing her lips harder. ‘We’re going to be besieged by folklore.’
Dylan looked at her with amusement. ‘You’re going to be besieged by mermaids and sirens?’
‘Not magical creature folklore,’ she corrected him tetchily. ‘The folklore of conspiracy theorists.’
He shook his head, not understanding.
‘Sasquatch, Mothman, Area 51.’
Still not understanding, Dylan turned to Hope.
‘The boutique is well known in certain unconventional circles,’ she explained. ‘The moment the police tape went up, the tongues began wagging and the news started to spread through the extended grapevine. Murder at – or adjacent to – the mystic shop. It will bring out every conspiracy theorist with a camper van or a pop-up tent on the East Coast. And probably some from the West Coast, too. It invariably does. That’s why we want Nate to take down the tape as soon as he reasonably can. If the tape disappears before the gossip has been widely circulated, then we won’t have to deal with as many visitors later on.’
‘This has happened before?’ Dylan said.
‘Yes. Not the murder, of course. But because of the boutique, whenever something quirky or mysterious occurs in the area, the conspiracy theorists appear. Some show up immediately; others trickle in over time.’
‘They’ve been coming ever since I first opened the shop,’ Gram told Dylan. ‘Except there never used to be such a large number, and they were all friendly and intelligent and well mannered. I would invite them into the brownstone for nightly dinners, and the girls would play with their children on the tree swing in the garden. We never had any problems whatsoever. Back then, they were simply people who didn’t believe the official government explanations for particular types of events and wanted to uncover the truth for themselves. Now, however, they are people who have no interest in any sort of truth, and their sole goal is to make as much money from each incident as they can. They record endless videos – including through house windows and on private property – and trample over everything and everyone in their way. Many get quite aggressive.’
Morris stiffened in his chair, and he looked at Gram with concern. ‘Why haven’t you mentioned this before, Olivia?’
‘Because there was no reason to mention it, dear. As I said, we never had any problems back then. But now it’s different, which is why the girls – as do I – would prefer to keep the boutique under the radar and not draw extra attention to it with superfluous police tape, if possible.’
‘Of course it’s possible!’ Morris declared solicitously. ‘The tape should only be necessary to protect and preserve the crime scene initially.’ He turned to his son. ‘You were at the brownstone, weren’t you? Have Detective Nate and his colleagues completed their work on the lawn?’
‘I believe they have,’ Dylan answered.
‘That settles it.’ Morris stood up with authority. ‘I will call the police chief. As you may recall, he was on the committee that I co-chaired for the charity festival this past summer. When I explain to him the gravity of the situation, he’ll send someone to take that tape down as fast as you can snap your fingers. Come dawn tomorrow, the police tape will be gone!’
It was Summer’s turn to stiffen in her chair. ‘I’m not sure that calling the chief is such a good idea, Morris. Nate won’t be happy if we go above him to his superior officer and ask to have the tape removed without his knowledge.’
But her argument was in vain. Morris had already decided that the best way to safeguard the precious Bailey flock was to contact his fellow charity festival committee member for a favor. And without any further discussion or deliberation on the matter, Morris marched from the patio toward the house.
