Dark Currents
Page 30

He gave me his flat stare. “It was a job. That stupid fucking headless chicken made money for us.”
“What happened to it?” I asked.
Jerry smiled, and this time it was genuine. Creepy, but genuine. “It died. Everything does, blondie. Eventually.”
Ew and double ew. My skin crawled.
“About Ray D—” Cody began.
“I don’t know nothing more about Ray D, Ossifer.” Jerry Dunham dusted his grease-stained hands together. “Look, I did my part. I gave Lord Muckety-Muck the only number I had, the same number I gave those boys. If it’s no good . . .” He spread his hands. “Not my problem.”
“So you knew—”
“Bye-bye, Ossifer.” Jerry waved to us, turning for the front door. “Unless you have a warrant, I think we’re done here.”
In the patrol car, Cody let out a growl of pent-up frustration, his hands gripping the wheel tightly. “He’s lying, Daisy. And he’s involved in this somehow. I feel it in my gut. Did you see those bikes?”
“Yeah,” I said. “That red one was beautiful. But I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”
“Unless I’m very much mistaken, that red one is a 1940s-era Indian Chief,” he said grimly. “I went through a bike-worshiping phase when I was in high school. And I don’t know if you caught a glimpse of the black one, but I’m pretty sure it’s a Vincent Black Shadow. No telling what he had under the other two covers.”
“Still not following,” I admitted.
Cody shot me a glance. “Those are some very, very expensive and highly collectible bikes. No way he came by those on a bartender’s or a carny’s wages.”
“You think he stole them?”
“It’s possible.” Cody’s fingers drummed on the steering wheel. “It’s certainly a popular activity among outlaw motorcycle clubs. But the odds of his finding a Vincent Black Shadow out on the street . . .” He shook his head. “There were only seventeen hundred of them made, every one assembled by hand.”
“So he’s a collector,” I said slowly. “That’s his passion. That’s the one thing he cares about.”
“Right.” Cody nodded. “We can check out the registration. Assuming it’s legit, where the hell did he get the money?”
“Which brings us back to drugs,” I said. “Except neither of us thinks it was drugs the boys were after.”
“Lot of coincidences going on here,” Cody said. “Jerry Dunham and Lord Stefan Muckety-Muck turn up in town right around the same time Ray D disappears? I don’t like it. Not a big believer in coincidence.”
“There’s no love lost between those two,” I said. “Did you see Dunham’s face when he talked about Stefan? It’s the only time he showed emotion.” I shuddered. “Except for the part about the headless chicken dying.”
Cody looked skeptical. “He was just trying to get under your skin. You didn’t believe that bit about the chicken, did you?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Actually, I did. Not that it was the star attraction, no. That, I’d like to know.”
“Why?”
I shrugged. “Call it a hunch. I’m interested in knowing what Dr. Midnight’s one true thing was.”
Cody drove across the bridge that divided Pemkowet and East Pemkowet. The river was sparkling in the sunlight, its surface ruffled with little waves. Sailboats scudded along before the breeze. Darting Jet Skis dodged the more graceful vessels, throwing up rooster tails of water behind them. Seagulls wheeled and squalled overhead. The massive form of the SS Osikiyas, once a passenger steamship that plied the Great Lakes, now a tourist attraction, maritime museum, and a venue for private functions, sat in its permanent berth, its keel resting on the riverbed, presiding benevolently over them all.
It was a very pretty picture, but today, it felt fragile. Vulnerable. I couldn’t shake the memory of the protestors. Only three or four, but if we didn’t solve this case, their numbers would grow.
“We need a break, Daisy,” Cody said in a low, quiet voice. “Before this blows up even worse.”
“I know.”
Twenty-three
Thanks to Jerry Dunham’s lack of cooperation, I had some time to kill before attending Thad Vanderhei’s funeral.
After changing into a black linen pencil skirt with a cream-colored sleeveless top and a little black cardigan, I paid a visit to the Sisters of Selene occult shop to check in with the Fabulous Casimir, finding him unwontedly subdued.
No turban, no wig, no bling—not even false eyelashes. It was more than a little unnerving.
“Hey, Miss Daisy,” he greeted me, attempting to summon his usual flair and falling short of the mark. He just sounded tired. “Tell me something good, girl.”
I shook my head. “Sorry. You?”
The Fabulous Casimir shrugged. “I’ve got a whole lot of nothing, darlin’. At this point, I’m just glad I don’t have protestors on my doorstep.”
“Cas, have you ever heard of Dr. Midnight’s Traveling Sideshow?” I asked him.
He pursed his lips. “Maybe.”
I perused his shelves idly, reaching high to pick up a shrunken, tallowy claw that was labeled as a genuine Hand of Glory. Turning it this way and that, I examined it. “What was their one true thing?”
“Girl, don’t go touching that nasty thing!” Casimir swooped down to take it away from me, stretching to put it on an even higher shelf. “You of all people ought to know better than to go messing with the black arts. It is not safe for you.”
“Dr. Midnight?” I pressed him.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “All I ever heard was rumors.”
“Rumors of what?”
Casimir shrugged again. “Rumors that they had a genuine attraction. Like you said, something real.” He rubbed his forefinger and thumb together. “Something worth the mundanes paying to see. But that circus never came to town, and what it may have been, I cannot say. That’s all I know, Miss Daisy. I swear. You know I’d tell you otherwise.”
“How about the Masters of the Universe?” I asked.
The Fabulous Casimir looked blank. “The He-Man cartoon? Oh, please. Only that Prince Adam was obviously a total closet case in every sense of the word.” He gave a discreet cough. “Not that I’m old enough to remember it, of course.”
I smiled. “No, of course not. Thanks, Cas. If you do hear anything about either, let me know, okay?”
“I’ll ask around.” He shook a finger at me as I left. “No matter how bleak it looks, you stay away from temptation, Daisy Johanssen! I mean it.”
“I will,” I called over my shoulder, bells tinkling as I exited the shop. “I promise.”
Temptation.
What the hell did that mean, exactly? There were always the Seven Deadlies, which I struggled with on a daily basis, always trying to control my temper. But behind them lurked the greater presence of my birthright.
I could invoke my father, Belphegor.
I could claim my birthright.
My tail twitched at the mere thought of it, swishing back and forth beneath my linen pencil skirt. Until this case came along, I’d never really chafed at the lack of material powers that came with my half-breed status. Oh, sure, I’d entertained a few revenge fantasies in my teen years—what adolescent hell-spawn wouldn’t?—but I always knew it would be wrong. And I always had my mom there to guide me. But what if I could claim my demonic birthright and put my powers to work in the service of good?
It was a heady thought, and I was pretty damn sure it was a dangerous one, too. I wished Casimir hadn’t put it in my mind. As much as I loved Pemkowet, it wasn’t worth risking a breach in the Inviolate Wall to save the town’s reputation.
So I pushed the thought aside, got into my car, and drove to Cuypers and Sons to attend Thad Vanderhei’s memorial service.
The funeral home on the southern edge of Appeldoorn was a gracious old family-owned establishment. I’d cut it closer than I intended, and the chapel was already quite full. I recognized the Vanderhei family in the front pew, and Chief Bryant’s bulky, uniformed figure a few rows behind them, as well as a thickset couple who might have been the Huizenga boy’s parents. It was hard to tell from behind. Otherwise, there was no one I recognized, except . . .
I narrowed my eyes at a tall man alone sitting in the rearmost pew. He was good-looking with high, rugged cheekbones, longish black hair caught back in some kind of silver clasp.
He looked familiar, and yet not. He wore an impeccably tailored black suit, a black shirt, and a black satin tie, and, oddly, a pendant on a silver chain over it, some kind of smoky quartz crystal. He was sitting quietly, calm and collected, his eyes half-closed.
And . . . there was a glamour over him.
With an effort, I made myself see through it. His skin took on an otherworldly pallor and his features came into sharper focus.
I slid into the pew beside Stefan Ludovic. “What the hell are you doing here?” I asked under my breath.
Stefan’s eyelids remained lowered. “Much the same thing you’re doing, I imagine,” he murmured. “Do you mind being quiet? It’s difficult to concentrate this close to the fringe.”
“You’re tasting them?” I whispered in horror. “What happened to not feeding on the unwilling?”
At that, his ice-blue eyes opened. “I am siphoning off a measure of raw grief,” he said with soft precision. “It is an ancient compact, and a service for which a wise and experienced funeral director knows to be grateful. In this instance, I am also sifting through it for unexpected strains of guilt or denial.”
I regarded him. “Since when can a ghoul spin a glamour?”
“Since never.” Stefan touched the pendant that hung from his neck. “The charm is in the stone. It was a gift from a dear friend long ago. Now, if you wish me to share my findings with you, I suggest you heed my words and keep silent.”