Last Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 3) Read online

  “What’s going on, Ellen?” Maggie asked. Ellen was clearly agitated.

  “They should have told you,” Ellen said to Philip.

  “Told him what, Ellen?” Maggie pressed.

  Ellen looked at Maggie, her eyes wide. Then they relaxed just a bit and she nodded. “Oh, that’s right. You’ve been gone. You wouldn’t know.”

  “Wouldn’t know what?” Philip asked.

  “Professor MacKenzie,” Ellen answered. She shook her head, then looked down and crossed herself. “Professor MacKenzie is dead.”

  *

  “Dead?” Benson’s tone suggested more irritation at the complication than remorse at the event. “Are you certain?”

  “Quite certain.” Warwick nodded. “She was quite dead. Hanged herself. I knew that name was familiar when you mentioned it. A university professor committing suicide is big news, around here anyway. One of the college administrators let it slip he was glad it happened during the summer holiday.”

  “Very nice,” Cameron observed.

  “Academics can be fairly ruthless, I’ve found,” Warwick said. “A lot of back-stabbing and pressure. She probably just cracked.”

  Benson put a hand to her chin and narrowed her gaze at Warwick. “Is that what you think happened?”

  Warwick returned the look, a professional smile creeping into the corner of her mouth. “No. I didn’t think much of that theory then. Now, I think even less of it.”

  “When did she die?” Benson inquired.

  Warwick pursed her lips in thought, comparing her information with Benson’s. “I believe we found our body right after your murder. But she’d already been dead a few days.”

  “So, the question is,” Benson posited, “why did a dead man call someone who was already dead herself?”

  “Answer that,” Cameron said, “and you’ll solve both cases.”

  Warwick didn’t know enough yet to think, All three cases.

  11. Claim Check

  Warwick held open the front door of the late Sarah MacKenzie’s apartment complex. Benson stepped out onto the sidewalk and toward their waiting patrol car.

  “I thought that visit would be more useful,” Benson complained.

  “It’s been pretty well cleaned up now,” Warwick admitted. “The landlord’s eager to rent it out again, and we didn’t know then it’d be linked to a murder in another city.”

  “Pity that,” Benson remarked as she grabbed the car’s door handle. “Too late to process the scene properly.”

  Warwick could only nod as she too slipped into the car. She started the engine. “There’s probably still something in there, but we’d have to know what we were looking for to find it.” She regretted the statement as a possible admission of sub-standard work. “I mean, we did process it appropriately. It came in as just another suicide.”

  Benson shrugged and gazed out the windshield. “So where are we going now?”

  “To test that theory,” Warwick replied.

  “What theory?”

  “That it was just another suicide,” Warwick answered. “Let’s pay a visit to the coroner.”

  *

  The coroner’s office was located in the ground floor of the city morgue. Benson thought that might be a good thing, judging by the advanced years and generally frail appearance of the Aberdeen Coroner, Dr. Andrew Wood. A short trip to the basement freezers when he succumbed himself, an event which appeared, at least at first blush, to be imminent. However, after a few minutes with the slightly built physician, his thin white sweater matching his wispy white curls, it became clear he wasn’t going anywhere any time soon.

  “Elizabeth!” he called out from behind his desk as the two officers walked into his office. He pulled himself to his feet and stepped around to greet his guests. “What an unexpected delight. Who’s your friend?”

  “Lindsey Benson,” the detective introduced herself. “Edinburgh Police Department.”

  “Oh!” Wood exclaimed. “Edinburgh, eh? Must be important to warrant an emissary from our glorious capital city.”

  Benson smiled at Wood’s effusiveness. “I’m afraid not. Just another murder. But it might be connected to Aberdeen.”

  Wood shook his head and frowned. “There’s no such thing as just another murder.”

  Benson had to agree. “Of course. That’s not what I meant, exactly.”

  Warwick decided to jump in before a turn of phrase turned into an argument. “Well, to the extent there can be just another murder, this one wasn’t it. Body parts missing and a stone across his eyes.”

  The geniality drained from Wood’s expression. “Oh,” he repeated, but it meant something entirely different. “Again?”

  Warwick shrugged. “Maybe. That’s why we’re here.”

  “We haven’t had any more murders like that, Elizabeth. You’d know that.”

  Benson looked between her companions, her expression betraying her lack of understanding. They didn’t bother to explain to her.

  “I do know that, Andy,” Warwick replied. “And I’m hoping it stays that way. But this might have a connection to us anyway.”

  Wood stood up straighter and tugged the wrinkles out of his sweater. “What can I do to help?”

  “Do you recall an autopsy on a Sarah MacKenzie?” Warwick asked. “She hanged herself. Happened last month.”

  Wood shook his head. “I do a lot of autopsies, Elizabeth. And the staff does even more. I don’t recall it off the top of my head.”

  But the old doctor shuffled to the file cabinet in the corner of his office and pulled open the middle drawer. “Let me see if it’s still here. Our new secretary keeps nagging me about going paperless and scanning and other witchcraft, but I like a good old-fashioned report in my hand.” He thumbed through the files in the drawer. “Ah, here we are. MacKenzie, Sarah Marie.”

  He opened the file and began reading, but didn’t bother the few steps back to the officers. After a moment he looked up with a sardonic grin. “Just another suicide.”

  That broke the tension a bit. “No such thing, doctor?” Benson ventured.

  Wood smiled. “Correct. But, nothing that stood out either.” His younger visitors stepped over to where he stood. “Hanged herself over a door. Terrible way to go really.”

  “Oh yeah?” Benson encouraged.

  “Yes,” Wood answered. “There was a reason they built those gallows. When you dropped through the trap door, your neck would break. That’s what killed you. But slowly strangling to death is a difficult end. People often fail at it because the agony is too much and they abort the attempt. Piece of advice.” He looked up at Benson, then Warwick. “If you’re going to kill yourself, just tie a plastic bag over your head. You’ll fall asleep and never wake up. Simple.”

  “Great.” Benson cringed. “Thanks.”

  “So she must have been very intent on killing herself,” Warwick ignored the coroner’s so-called advice. “She didn’t abort the attempt, so to speak.”

  Wood looked down again at the file to confirm. “No, there was no apparent effort to stop. Simple strangulation by the ligature. Sometimes we see scratches at the throat where the person made some last ditch effort to claw at the rope, but there was nothing like that here.”

  “Did you check her fingernails for DNA?” Benson asked.

  “DNA?” Wood scoffed. “No, ma’am. As I said, it was just another suicide. Why run DNA on her fingernails if it’s just going to come back as her own? We already had her DNA.”

  Warwick cocked her head. “You typed her DNA? Why would you do that? To identify her?”

  Wood closed the file and shook his head. “No, no. That’s not what I meant. I meant, we had no need to do any sort of testing because we already had her body. We could get all the DNA we’d ever want, but what’s the point in a suicide?”

  Good question, Warwick thought. Then she clenched her jaw. She had one more question. She already knew the answer, and hated it. “Where’s the body, Andy?”

&nbs
p; Wood shrugged. “Cremated,” he answered, confirming Warwick’s fear. “Of course.”

  Warwick nodded. “Of course.”

  *

  It was time for lunch. Warwick pointed the car toward one of the business districts near the college and a few minutes later they had parked and were walking to a cheap sandwich place Warwick knew. As they did so, they walked past a local tourist shop with tartans and clan memorabilia in the window. Benson grabbed Warwick’s arms and brought them to an abrupt halt.

  “Look at that.” Benson pointed at a display table covered in pins and other jewelry.

  Warwick nodded at the display but was uncertain what to say. Benson reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out the evidence baggie with the Innes Clan crest pendant. “Those are just like this one.”

  Warwick appraised the pendant in Benson’s hand and the baubles in the window. “Not exactly,” she opined. “The ones in the shop are a bit gaudier.”

  Benson twisted her face up in appraisal, then nodded. “I can’t disagree. They obviously know what appeals to the tourists.” She grabbed Warwick’s arm again and tugged her toward the door. “Let’s see what else they know.”

  And with that, Benson pushed open the door to MacTarys’ Woolens Shop.

  Lucy MacTary was taking advantage of the pre-lunch lull to straighten the bolts of fabric in the bins that lined the far wall of the shop. When the bells on the door jingled, she turned to greet the two women who had just entered her store.

  “Good day, ladies. Can I help you find anything?”

  Warwick immediately recognized Lucy MacTary. It hadn’t been that long since the string of campus murders. She could still recall the interrogation of Lucy and her husband at their home. She turned away and pretended to peruse whatever might help hide her face while Benson inquired about the pendant. Sometimes it was good when they knew you were a cop; sometimes it wasn’t. The trick was knowing which was which.

  “I was interested,” Benson pointed toward the display in the window, “in the clan crest jewelry.”

  “Oh, aye.” Lucy stepped over to the display table. Warwick slid along the wall toward some seemingly enthralling tweeds. “What are you looking for? A scarf pin, perhaps?”

  “A pendant, actually,” Benson replied.

  “Oh, aye,” Lucy repeated in her saleswoman voice. “Those are very popular. We just got in a shipment of ones with small colored jewels embedded at the bottom. Absolutely gorgeous, they are.”

  Benson shook her head slightly. “No, I’m looking for something a bit simpler. Just silver. And smaller.”

  Lucy nodded and raised a hand to her chin. She had no such pendants on display, but it was obvious she wasn’t going to let that deter her sales pitch. Warwick peered over, but then the curtain to the backroom parted and in walked Lucy’s husband, Alex. Warwick turned sharply away and practically buried her face in the tweeds.

  “I’m sure I have something you’d like,” Lucy pressed on. “Is it a gift for someone with particular tastes?”

  “No,” Benson answered. “It’s more of a replacement for a particular piece.”

  “I see, I see,” Lucy said. “And for which clan is it?”

  “Well, you know, I’m not sure.” Benson reached into her pocket and extracted the evidence bag again. “Do you recognize this?”

  Warwick couldn’t resist a peek. Lucy was reaching for the baggie. Alex was reaching for her.

  “Maggie’s pendant!” Lucy exclaimed. “You found it.”

  “Maggie who?” Benson demanded.

  “Maggie no one,” Alex replied first.

  “Maggie Devereaux,” Warwick said as she finally turned around.

  “You!” Lucy pointed at Warwick. “You’re that police inspector.”

  “Sergeant, actually,” Warwick corrected. “Sergeant Elizabeth Warwick.”

  Benson looked askance at Warwick. “Do you know them?”

  Warwick nodded. “Yes. We had occasion to meet last fall. About an unpleasant business.”

  Lucy and Alex had to nod in agreement.

  “So Maggie lost her pendant?” Warwick asked.

  “Er, no,” Lucy realized to say. Then considered just who she was talking to, and the ramifications of lying to them. “That is, uh…”

  Alex sidestepped the question. “I’m not sure that’s our Maggie’s pendant,” he opined, squinting at the baggie. “Hers was a cheap knock-off from the States. Probably made in China.”

  “Ours are made in China too,” Lucy admitted absently.

  “Hush, love,” Alex said. Then he looked to Warwick. “I don’t think we can help you.”

  Warwick nodded. She knew he was right, or at least that they wouldn’t be helping them any more than they just had. “Thank you for your time. C’mon, Lindsey. Let’s go.”

  Benson looked like she wanted to protest and continue the questioning, but she deferred to her local host. “All right.” She put the pendant away and nodded to the MacTarys. “Good day, then, Thank you.”

  Lucy and Alex returned the nod and watched the police officers step out onto the sidewalk.

  “Who’s Maggie Devereaux?” Benson asked once they were outside.

  “It’s a long story,” Warwick replied. “I’ll tell you over lunch.”

  But she wouldn’t be telling her everything.

  12. Research Assistance

  Maggie broke the plane of her flat almost as dazed as when she’d dropped from the hotel room window in Edinburgh. Sarah MacKenzie dead? Why? How? Did she take the Dark Book? Is that why she killed herself? If so, who had the Book now?

  And that didn’t even count the extra confusion occasioned by the dashing young academic from Canada.

  She’d spent the afternoon wandering around campus and the surrounding environs, considering what she’d learned and trying to tease out what it could possibly mean.

  Finally home again, she had several questions she wanted to look into. Luckily, research was her strong suit. So, after removing her shoes and using the facilities, she clicked her laptop on and went to the kitchen to make some tea. Research could take a while. She knew the importance of fortifying it with caffeine and comfort.

  She poured the boiling water into a small brown teapot and added a silver ball full of loose Earl Gray tea. Then she returned to her computer while the tea steeped. She’d settled on three main areas to investigate:

  First, Sarah MacKenzie’s suicide. When did it happen? Where? How had she killed herself? Was it really suicide? (Of course it was, she thought, but it seemed the detective-y thing to ask.) Had she gotten ahold of the Dark Book and tried the magic only to have been driven to suicide by the ensuing nightmares? Did she really leave the note in the Ancient Book Collection? Was it some sort of suicide note?

  Second, the murder in Edinburgh. She figured enough time had passed for most of the details to have leaked into the press. Who was the victim? Had they identified the killer yet? Had they arrested him? The why of it all, how it related to the murders last fall, and the location of her Book—those were almost certainly not in the papers. But she might be able to glean something from the details that were published.

  And third, Philip Harmon. She wasn’t stupid. She was going to google his ass.

  She sat down at her desk and grabbed the mouse she kept plugged into the laptop when it was on her desk. She was about to click on the internet browser when she noticed she had new email. Despite having spent a good portion of the day with and thinking about Philip Harmon, she couldn’t help but wonder whether the email might be from Iain.

  She clicked on her email. The answer was definitely no.

  The sender’s email address chilled her blood almost as much as the subject line:

  [email protected]

  Do exactly as I say

  Maggie stared at the screen for several moments. She knew she needed to open the message, but she was in no particular hurry to do so. She also noticed there were no emails from Iain. But her disappointment at tha
t—and her irritation at her disappointment— was subsumed into her curiosity and apprehension at receiving a potentially threatening email from a dead woman.

  She stood up. She was going to need that tea. And maybe something stronger.

  A few minutes later, after introducing the good Earl to a certain Mr. Walker, Maggie sat down and again regarded her email account.

  Do exactly as I say

  Maggie frowned. Could that be more ominous? She shrugged and took a sip of her fortified tea. Well, yes, probably, she admitted to herself.

  She took another sip then clicked on the message to open it. The message was short and sweet, unadorned by any salutation:

  I know everything. Do exactly as I say.

  1. Stop looking for the Book

  2. Don’t use the magic

  3. Find Sinclair

  Maggie took a long drink, rolling the flavor in her mouth before she swallowed.

  “Everything, huh?” she asked aloud.

  Ordinarily she might not have been impressed. It was just an email. On the other hand, she’d never received an email from a dead person before. And more important than that was the sign off. Not a name. A phrase.

  Be traist.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” she said.

  In more ways than one, she knew.

  *

  Maggie lingered over the email as long as anyone could over just nineteen words. In the end, she was genuinely unsure whether she’d follow any of the advice. But she knew one thing: she still had research to do, its importance only increased by the email from The Great Beyond.

  She finally opened her browser and set to work. If reports of Sarah’s death hadn’t been Maggie’s priority research topic before, the email cemented its primacy. She quickly surfed to the sites for Aberdeen’s main newspaper and television stations. She started with the TV stations because, as she quickly confirmed, the stories were short and few. Although the suicide of a local professor was newsworthy when it broke, it didn’t rate much follow up coverage. There was one story, from the day her body was discovered. A field reporter was standing in front of a random university building—nowhere near Taylor, Maggie noted with some disdain—reporting, mainly, that the police hadn’t released many details. The clip lasted thirty seconds and included less information than Ellen had provided at the coffee shop.