“According to the witnesses and the security tapes, he was there. Walked out through the hotel lobby with blood on him, stopping to check his watch, cool as a cucumber. Big as day and bold as brass.”
“But that makes no sense.”
“No, it doesn’t. Frankly, that’s what troubles me the most. I can easily believe Sailor could go after someone he thought might harm you—but I can’t believe he would be so ham-fisted about it. Sailor’s not stupid. If he’d planned to do Dupree harm, why wouldn’t he have caught him out on the street, away from witnesses and cameras?”
“Good question.”
“And if Sailor did murder Dupree, why would he go straight home and wait for the cops to bang on his door? Or if it was a deal where he just went to talk to him, and things got out of hand, why wouldn’t he have told us Dupree attacked first, claim self-defense?”
I nodded, and sneezed.
“Bless you,” Carlos said. “And finally, according to the witnesses, Dupree must have fought back, because Sailor left the hotel battered—cuts, bruises, blood dripping down his face, the whole nine yards.”
My heart flipped. Was Sailor okay? “Was he taken to the hospital? Is it bad?”
“That’s another hinky part: When Sailor was arrested, he didn’t have a scratch on him.”
“He didn’t?” I was relieved for Sailor, but Carlos was right—that was hinky.
He shook his head. “Of course, I hear tell there are folks out there with special talents, maybe the ability to cure a person faster than would be normal. So, the crime happened late this afternoon. Where were you this afternoon and evening?”
“I was in the shop, with Maya. We closed at six.”
“That the usual time?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. What did you do after the shop closed?”
“I went upstairs, made dinner for—” I halted. I made mac ’n’ cheese for my pig would sound weird. “. . . myself, and did a little housekeeping.”
“And afterward . . . ?”
“I was with Ai—” I stopped, remembering how Carlos felt about this particular witchy godfather. But the cat was already out of the bag, so I finished what I was saying. “Excuse me. I met with Aidan Rhodes at the wax museum.”
Carlos gave me a look. A cop look.
“He’s a business associate, Carlos.”
“And what kind of business would that be, exactly?”
“Witchy business.”
“Uh-huh. When was this?”
“I probably arrived at the wax museum about seven thirty or eight.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And you spent the next several hours with him?”
“Time flies when you’re doing witchy business.”
“I’ll just bet it does.” He rubbed his neck. “Okay, it’s not the greatest alibi, but they’ve got security cameras at the wax museum, which can verify your presence. Unless . . . Is this the sort of thing you can do from afar?”
“What sort of thing?”
“Curing Sailor, healing his wounds.”
I sneezed again.
“Bless you.”
“Thanks.” I shook my head. “Lately I can’t seem to even heal myself, much less someone else.”
He gave me a skeptical look.
“Seriously, Carlos, that kind of healing isn’t in my repertoire. My grandmother can cure all sorts of things, usually with the laying on of hands or a brew. But even she can’t cast over serious injuries from a distance, as far as I know.”
He nodded and lapsed into silence. This was Carlos’s way, and although I sometimes had to literally bite my tongue to keep from blathering on in his presence, I had learned to try to respect his silence lest I blurt out something incriminating. I was pretty sure this was what made him such an effective homicide inspector.
We both took a moment, sipping our drinks. I’m not a big drinker, but the Buena Vista’s Irish coffee was sweet, creamy, and delicious. It made me feel warm and cozy inside. It occurred to me that I hadn’t eaten since lunch, and I hoped the alcohol wouldn’t go straight to my head. Clearly, I had work to do.
“Did you find anything interesting in Dupree’s hotel room?” I asked.
“Why would you ask that?”
“Just wondering.”
“As a matter of fact, we found a root and some unidentified powders; sent ’em to the lab. You know, I had asked a friend of mine, a beat cop, to stop by earlier in the day, after Dupree seemed to threaten you at your store. At that time Dupree said he felt sick to his stomach, and my friend said he looked pretty green around the gills.”
“And what does that tell us?”
Carlos shrugged.
“I didn’t hex Dupree, Carlos, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”
“I wasn’t suggesting that, exactly, but I’m glad to hear you deny it. Is Sailor right-or left-handed?”
“Right-handed. Why?”
He nodded. “That’s what I thought. The forensics guys said the blood spatter patterns indicate that whoever attacked Dupree was left-handed. Also, on the hotel’s security footage Sailor seemed to favor his left hand: He carried a pocket watch in his left pocket and opened the door with his left hand.”
“I hate to say it, but that seems . . . a little flimsy, evidence-wise. A lot of right-handed people use their left for some things.”
“I know. It’s just another in a long line of hinky aspects. But despite the fact that we found no trace of blood on Sailor, and no discarded clothes anywhere, the eyewitnesses and the security footage place him at the scene and are probably enough to get a jury to swing guilty. Not to mention, Dupree told me himself that Sailor threatened to kill him this morning. I gotta tell you, Lily, it doesn’t look good.”
“No, Carlos, I can’t believe this. What can I do to prove Sailor’s innocent?”
“Find the killer.”
“I . . . um, okay.”
“Keep in mind that if Sailor didn’t do it, then the person who did looks a whole lot like him.”
Suddenly I recalled Maya’s story about seeing someone who looked just like Sailor in the herbal store; could that have been the person who killed Tristan Dupree? And if so, why? And . . . who was he?
“Need a refill?” Carlos asked. “It might just cure your cold.”
“No, thanks.”
“Okay, tell me everything you know about Tristan Dupree.”
“I don’t know much. I met him fifteen years ago or so, in Germany.”
Carlos nodded. “He’s a Swiss citizen, here on a standard tourist visa. We’ve made inquiries about him in Europe. How did you meet him?”
I thought back to the visions I’d had with Aidan. He was right. It was time to remember. Sailor’s life might depend upon it.
“He worked with my father.”
“That sounds like trouble.”
“You’re telling me.” Carlos had once arrested my father for a crime he didn’t commit, either . . . but still, he could tell good old Dad was bad news.
“Really, Carlos, I’ve been racking my brain ever since Dupree came to Aunt Cora’s Closet, but I barely knew him.”
“And yet he arrived on the Lufthansa flight into SFO yesterday morning, dropped his bags at the hotel, and then headed to your shop to demand you return something you’d stolen from him fifteen years ago?”
“Are you sure he came directly to Aunt Cora’s Closet?”
“We’re working on the timeline. The hotel says he left about forty minutes before I saw him at your place, so it’s possible he stopped somewhere else. I’m not sure how much it matters. Have you figured out what he wanted from you?”
“Not yet.” I thought I heard the box thump next to me. The bar was noisy, though, so it was probably my imagination.
I played with the ring on my finger. The crystals sparkled in the dim light of the bar, casting minuscule rainbows about us. Comforting me.
What bēag had Tristan been after—and what was its significance?
“Nice ring,” said Carlos. “Unusual.”
“It’s called a druzy. Sailor gave it to me for . . .” My voice caught. I cleared my throat. “It’s our engagement ring.”