The sun rose higher and Esteban was about one-fifth of the way around the pond when Weston came stomping out of the castle. The potential for a bad scene was yawning like the Grand Canyon.

  “I don’t believe it,” Weston began, speaking to Manoogin and ignoring Juliet and Raphael. “You’re here because she called with another hunch, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” Manoogin’s voice was mild.

  “What’s wrong with you? Listening to this broad and some freak puppet maker and now a fucking cripple!” Even from a distance it was apparent that Weston’s breakfast had included whisky. The red veins around his flushed nose suggested the habit was chronic.

  Juliet wasn’t fond of being condescended to, especially by an inferior—and Weston was, inferior in intelligence and as a human being—but when someone was actually stunted enough to make a comment out loud, she usually felt pity for their ignorance and limited horizons. However, Weston’s assumption that Raphael’s brains and ears were located in his legs and also apparently damaged made Juliet feel contempt and rage in almost equal measure. Rage had it by a nose.

  She rounded on him. Only a stupid or very drunk person would fail to read the threat in her posture.

  “Go ahead! Stare—but I can read you like a book. You ball busters are all alike.”

  “That is an unoriginal turn of phrase,” Raphael said. His voice could have frosted glass.

  “And I very much doubt that it’s true since I don’t come with illustrations,” Juliet said softly. “But you are easy to read. You are a drunken, shriveled-brained bigot. Why do they let you out in public without a keeper? Stand over there and keep your mouth shut.”

  Manoogin apparently guessed that Juliet was close to doing something painful to his moronic partner and was torn between alarm and amusement.

  “Shut up before they report you,” he said quietly. “You’ve been drinking and I’ll back them up if you say another damned thing.”

  Weston finally got that everyone meant what they were saying. He might still have been dumb enough to push the issue, but Esteban interrupted them. The discarded rebar clanged as it hit a rock.

  “I have something.”

  He had rolled his pants up, but they were splashed with muck as were his lower arms, but he had a hold of a piece of filthy rope and was hauling something heavy from the water. He stopped when he had the graying, bloated mass far enough out of the water that there was no chance of it sinking again. It was a woman in a short dress. Her body was wound tight with rope which secured some kind of cement pedestal to her torso. There were deep scrapes on her face as if she had been dragged. There would be blood traces in the tunnel and probably the basement visible under forensic light sources, even if the cellar had been power-washed. It was amazing what luminol and a UV light could find.

  If the body had been brought out that way. She was sure it had been. No way had she been carried through the castle.

  “Recognize her?” Manoogin asked Juliet, interrupting her thoughts. They were about six feet back from the corpse but her view was unimpeded. “Is that our missing person?”

  The damaged face had ballooned and was covered in pond gunk but it was still recognizable. It was also apparent that her neck was broken. Just like Dolph’s had been.

  “Yes. It’s Stephanie Gillard.” Juliet’s voice was calm though she was full of frustrated sorrow. Carnivorous attractions were dangerous to more than the heart, but most people didn’t find this out until it was too late. She added softly, “You’ll want to check the tunnel and basement for traces of blood. Those scrapes on her face happened somehow and some of the blood might have escaped power-washing.”

  “Yeah.”

  Manoogin and a shaken Weston approached the body. Esteban got out of their way.

  Raphael held out a towel to his friend. It would hardly be adequate for removing the sludge, but Esteban could hose off in the castle courtyard before he changed clothes. That he had a change of clothing was due to Juliet’s foresight.

  “You may not come with illustrations,” Raphael said. “But you are illuminating.”

  “That’s because you see the teacher’s edition. It comes with annotations, glassine cover, and footnotes.”

  Friendship with her own species had been impossible on the job. Outside of it, the relationships worked well. Even when there were dead bodies.

  A tractor started up by the castle, making the point that this was all very real and not a bad dream, however surreal the scene they found themselves in.

  “You have been terrorizing the yokels again,” Esteban said, casting a glance at Weston. “I thought you would strike him.”

  “I only intimidate to good purpose,” she replied. “And anyway, he started it.”

  “Well, I’m glad we had breakfast,” Esteban said. “Because I think we’re going to be a while explaining this for the official record. One gets the impression that the lieutenant is not overjoyed to have another corpse on his hands.”

  Juliet nodded, wondering how she was going to make her dream sound like some reasonable form of intuition. Maybe she should make up something about clues she had seen around the pond.

  “Let’s hope Manoogin can keep your names out of this,” Juliet said. “A third body in three days is going to have the press drooling. They’ll be all over it like white on rice.”

  Esteban grunted agreement. He had a colorful history and didn’t really want it revisited. Still, he was there.

  “Greater love hath no man,” she said. “Thank you both. I’ve never been good at field work.”

  Chapter 9

  Her alleged coffee was black and undrinkable. The police station did not run to extraneous luxuries like milk and sugar and Juliet had not yet fallen to powdered creamers and artificial sweeteners. Especially when they likely wouldn’t make the charred beverage any more drinkable.

  Though Esteban had expected some tough questions about their activities, Juliet’s face time and cooperation with Manoogin had paid off. While unhappy with having a third homicide dropped on his plate, the lieutenant was wise enough not to try shooting the messenger. He was also probably confident that if he gave her free rein that she would find a shortcut to the killer.

  Weston, perhaps starting into his hangover but more likely wanting a bit of the hair of the dog, let Manoogin take care of taking their statements. Again, Juliet did most of the talking. She kept it simple, using the word “suspicion” and not “revelation in the form of a dream” or “message from a revenant spirit” to explain her impulse to examine the pond.

  Juliet also explained her thinking that Dolph and Stephanie may have been caught trysting. While one went in to shower, the killer had crept up on the other and broken their neck—a violent act but not beyond what a reasonably fit woman could do if she caught a victim unaware.

  It was doubtful that an autopsy would show who had died first, but she was willing to bet that there would be signs of sexual relations to be found on her corpse.

  “So, a woman scorned?”

  “Probably. Though whether scorned in love or in business, it might be hard to say. It could be that someone wasn’t happy with their assignment on the project.” Though probably no one could complain about that as much as Juliet, unless it was Julia Mannering. Having all her beautiful custom shelves stuffed down in a cellar that Dolph didn’t want opened to the public unless it was for a morgue tour might have been even worse than getting stuck in a castle tower.

  Manoogin grunted agreement with her thinking.

  “Not that I’m complaining, Miss Henry,” the lieutenant said as he escorted them from his cubicle, a meaningless courtesy since there was no way that they could get lost on the way to the door. “But it would be great if next time you could bring me a murderer instead of another body.”

  “I’ll give it the old college try,” Juliet answered and refrained from sighing.

  “Any psychic tickles?” he asked hopefully.

  “I’m thinking about Dolph’s watch.” Juliet was glad when he didn’t ask for her to say anything more. She didn’t know why the expensive timepiece had come back to mind as soon as the body was pulled from the water. Perhaps because the body hadn’t been wearing one either.

  “You know who usually ends up getting arrested in homicides?” Manoogin asked as he held open the door for Raphael. He sounded as sad and frustrated as Juliet felt.

  “Stupid people, I should imagine,” Juliet answered, and got a look of surprise and perhaps a small amount of pleasure for not mentioning the spouse who was so often to blame. In a domestic dispute, the spouse was an easy guess, but this was a different kind of murder. She nodded at Esteban and Raphael, indicating she would be just a minute longer. “People who are stupid enough to think that murder will be a good solution to their problems. Then, being as God made them, which generally means too disorganized and too imprudent to understand their limitations, they fail to carry their killings off without a hitch or five. We have to hope that this is the case here, because I am guessing that there isn’t much usable physical evidence and there are a whole lot of suspects with means, motives, and no provable alibis.”

  Manoogin nodded grimly.

  “You do have a succinct way of summing up.”

  “Practice,” Juliet said and went through the door to join her friends.

  Once away from the station and its odor of burned coffee and disinfectant, they agreed that after their less than pleasant morning a sustaining lunch was in order. Raphael knew of a good Italian restaurant in town that served excellent bivalves and had a decent wine list.

  Juliet was not fond of clam sauce, but was always ready to address a plate of Bolognese, so they retired to the candlelit cave with checked tablecloths and muted Italian opera to hide from the heat and discuss events without official ears nearby.

  The dissection of a murder investigation in progress was getting to be old hat. While not exactly commonplace, and certainly not anything she would voluntarily seek out, Juliet had to admit that there was a wonderful sense of camaraderie when the three of them bent their minds to a task. She had never enjoyed that kind of solidarity in her old job.

  “So what is there left for you to do at the castle?” Raphael asked.

  “I need to paint one more tapestry panel and then hang them. There is also one window left to fit with mirrors. The rest is just moving jars up those stairs. And finding a killer, I guess.” Juliet finished her wine.

  “You are going to the open house?”

  “I have to, I suppose, if they hold it. Though at this point I think it would be best to throw a little exorcism before the party. It would probably draw a larger crowd than a mere open house.”

  “I am free tomorrow afternoon. Can you finish up your project if I help you?” Esteban asked.

  Juliet considered.

  “If I go home and work on the tapestry now. It will be a bit damp for transport and I’ll have to be careful, but it can dry hanging as easily as it can flat.” She considered protesting the need for escort but decided not to bother. It would also save her back and knees if she had help carrying the apothecary jars upstairs. And maybe she didn’t need to bedizen her shelves with as many vases as she had first thought.

  “Let us be off,” Raphael said and signaled the waiter for their check.

  After their enormous meal, a somewhat glazed Juliet lurched to Esteban’s car, thankful that he was driving. Maybe clam sauce was better than Bolognese when it came to resisting food coma. She hoped she could fight through the wine and carbs and make a good job of her last tapestry.

  It was not terribly surprising that Garret should drop in to see her that evening. The paints she was using were rather pungent, so Juliet had her door open to the evening air. Mosquitoes could have been a problem after dusk, but apparently they didn’t care for the pungent aroma either.

  Marley mewed at the sound of steps outside and got down off his perch on the chair to saunter to the door.

  “May I come in?” Garret asked, stooping to pet the cat. Garret had recently acquired a pair of kittens and discovered that he was very much a cat person.

  “Please do. You may want to stay back, a little way. Things are a bit messy.” And they were. The shredding of the velvet had gone slightly awry and there was a dusting of red powder on everything in the workshop. She would have to borrow Hans Dillmeyer’s shop vac to get it all cleaned up.

  The thought of a shop vac made her frown and she stayed still, tracking down the thought.

  “Juliet?” Garret asked as she stopped in place, frowning.

  “The wine cellar,” she said and then managed a smile. “Sorry, thinking about the killing. Has Manoogin been keeping you updated? Has he finished ransacking Stephanie’s place? I don’t know that he is going to find out much except that she likes musk perfume and hot-pink dresses.”

  “I haven’t heard anything. He’s impressed as all get out with you, though not so happy at having body number three turn up out at the castle. That’s as many homicides as they had in all of last year.”

  Juliet shrugged. The whole thing annoyed her too. At least he was getting paid for the bother and nightmares.

  “Weston isn’t much help to him,” she said.

  “I gathered that. And he has no love for you either.”

  “I know. Weston has made zero effort to be polite. He also drinks. On the job.”

  “I’ve heard that too.”

  “Garret, do you know anything about roses?”

  “I know they smell good. Why? Are you thinking about the engraving on that watch?”

  Garret was small town, but not stupid.

  “Yes, a rose by another name…. I really need to speak to Rose Campion about this.”

  Juliet blinked after she said this and considered her words. The first thought was immediately pushed away. The watch had said a rose by another name and Rose was a timid creature, older and shyer than Dolph had liked. And she had nothing to do with the project. Not to mention that she was quite petite.

  However, the idea was still a good one. Rose would have gardening catalogues and books. Maybe she could help with finding other names for roses, or have some idea what the engraving meant.

  Garret was used to her sudden mental withdrawals and wasn’t offended by her distraction and soon left her to her dark thoughts.

  After Garret departed, Juliet made a cup of tea and went outside to stare at the moon. Her contemplations were not romantic.

  Was anyone mourning Dolph’s passing? There had been no talk of the artists holding a memorial. Maybe people would prefer to gather round a wassail bowl and drink to his demise. His death had to have brought some unspoken relief to those he was pressuring for sexual favors. Truth to be told, Juliet didn’t mind his being gone. John Donne had said that any man’s death diminishes me, but Juliet didn’t feel any sense of loss, though she objected to murder on principle.

  And then there was Stephanie. Juliet hadn’t known her—hadn’t wanted to know her—but her killing felt … what? Less deserved? More of a loss to the world?

  Dismissing for the time being the question of who might actually regret Dolph’s death and why Stephanie’s murder bothered her more, Juliet again considered the more measurable facts of the case. There were several telling things about the event, not the least of which was the manner of the deaths. It would take someone strong—and angry—to kill that way twice. Could the lack of a weapon mean that the crime wasn’t planned ahead? That the killer simply took advantage of the moment and killed with their bare hands? That wasn’t standard for women killers, but rage could make anyone crazy.

  The autopsy would tell them more, but she was betting that Dolph and Stephanie had died close to the same time. Stephanie was wearing the same clothes she had had on that morning which was suggestive if not conclusive.

  Unfortunately, the manner of death, while indicating someone strong, could not rule out any of the females on the project. A lot of the artists worked in wood or metal or stone and were fit enough to kill in that manner. It didn’t actually take that much strength to give a head a one-eighty—not if the victim were surprised from behind while sitting or lying down.

  “Come on, Marley,” Juliet said, looking down at the warm body twining around her ankles. “It’s too late to see Rose tonight. Let’s hope for a night without dreams. I work better when I’m not tired.”

  Chapter 10

  Rose was whacking away at a bundle of tuberous roots, once in a while slashing at them with a utility knife and setting a subdivision of gray tangles aside. Her nearly full coffee cup had stopped steaming and there was tanbark floating on the oily surface.

  “The cymbidiums finally broke free,” she said by way of greeting and nodded at a broken clay pot. There were two new pots waiting, truly wanton affairs with white draperies and doves that had to be Mickey Shaw’s work. “They don’t mind being a little pot-bound but these were being strangled.”

  “Apparently they’ve been playing in the tanbark,” Juliet answered.

  “They prefer it to regular potting soil.” Rose set the last clump aside. “Would you like some tea? I made coffee but it’s not very good this morning.”

  “Tea and some information. I’ve come to pick your brain about roses.”

  Rose looked pleased.

  “Oh? How nice. There’s still lots of time to order before the fall planting.”

  Part of Juliet’s successful friendship with her timid neighbor was her ability to regulate truth. She didn’t usually lie, but she knew not to burden Rose with too many unpleasant facts.

  “I was trying to do some research online, but apparently there are a lot of different names for roses. Like floribunda and hybrid tea.”

  Rose tut-tutted.

  “It’s so difficult to shop online. A lot of places don’t even have pictures. And almost none of them talk about the scent, which is the best part, unless you are growing them for the hips, of course. Just wait a moment while I find my catalogues,” she said, starting for the door. “I have one that rates them for perfume values. And it lists all the names for the US—hundreds and hundreds of them.”

 

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