Gossip shouldn’t feel like a responsibility.
I didn’t want to be the one to tell Stephen, but duty came in odd packages, and he needed to know. So, I squared my shoulders and pushed open the touristy saloon-style doors.
Pausing just inside, I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply.
The conservatory would be positively majestic if not for the body lying in the center.
Mr. Jerome Arkwright had noticed a peculiar aroma as he stepped into the conservatory that morning. Usually, he could smell the imported orchids as soon as he entered the wispy glass room, but an acrid odor masked their fragrance.
Few places in Scarabburgh were built for Atlas beetles. Rhino’s Pawn was no exception.
Calvin ducked through the door, taking care not to snag his horns—two on his thorax and one on his head—on the narrow, wooden frame.
A short rhinoceros beetle stood behind the counter, a ring through the horn on his head.
Tansy Cooper was her name. Some girl from down Chapel Street. A young, pretty thing with hair like sunflower petals, and now she’s face down in the best egg-and-cress sandwich in York.
The poor dear.
The high-backed chair beside me screeches on the wooden floor as Pippa takes a seat. Her face is paler than normal,
Pan pulled at his leash, and it took everything in Peter to hold him back. The burly black-and-tan German shepherd was having none of it.
“Come on, boy. We’ve got to stay focused. If we fail, we’re kicked out for good.” Muscles straining, Peter tightened his grip and heaved in the opposite direction.
Archie peered out from the small tent as the sun began to rise. The propane heater did little to break the cold as he and Lily huddled among a mound of sleeping bags and blankets, staring through the small window.
Their equipment was spread around the floor of the tent. Flashlights lay between them.
Through the mist, a faint glow hung over the water. I shifted my hydro-scooter into neutral and flicked the light off. The glow wasn’t Samuel’s spotlight. Besides, hadn’t he mentioned that the constables’ fuel allowance had been cut?
My scooter bobbed in the waves, a bit of salt spray dampening my boots.
Light burst across the room, exploding in a shower of sparks.
Chaimon lowered his pen and glanced up from the treaty spread across his desk. Ah, he’s back.
When the sparks faded, a familiar figure materialized. Dressed in a black coat and matching fedora, his outfit looked out of place in the castle’s study where Chaimon’s sword collection covered the stone walls. Then again, a time traveler couldn’t help obscurity.
I haven’t killed anyone, I swear.
But everyone else thinks otherwise. Even my defense attorney isn’t sold. Now that I’m on the defendant stand, it feels like the whole world has turned on me.
“Blake Lawrence,” Judge McGrath booms, “you are on trial for the murder of your girlfriend, Lillian Torsten. How do you plead?”
No hesitation. “Innocent, Your Honor.”
“You wanted to see me?” I tried not to fidget, but anxiety hit every time I got called into the restaurant’s office.
“Where’s the silverware?” Mr. Jones glared at me, his already small eyes squinted.
“What silverware?” I smoothed the front of my uniform, an ankle-length black dress with a lace-edged white apron.
I checked the numbers again, but they still didn’t add up. Even a mathematically challenged amateur sleuth like me could see the glaring discrepancies. How could candy companies be showing record high profits when the nation was experiencing record low candy sales?
Read it now
“You’d be suspicious if you filled a bin with glass jars then came back two hours later to find it almost empty.”
“Maybe the pickup came early.” I headed for the mail boxes.
“Almost empty, almost.” Mr. Hammond hobbled after me. “They don’t pick up half a bin at a time.”
Recent Comments