Slade contemplated Gaines’s expensive black turtleneck sweater, black trousers, and black running shoes. “Looks like he came dressed for a night of breaking-and-entering and dropped dead on the job.”
“Jeremy had no need to steal anything. He could have afforded to buy whatever he wanted.”
“But you refused to do business with him.”
“True, but there were ways around that. Gaines could have used another dealer as an intermediary. I probably wouldn’t have found out. Dealers work together all the time without revealing the names of their clients.”
“It wasn’t my area of expertise when I worked for the Office, but I’ve heard that the world of collectors who specialize in the paranormal is a very gray market that often slides all the way into the black market.”
“Collectors do tend to be reclusive, eccentric, and secretive,” she admitted. “Dealers who don’t respect that don’t last long in the business.”
Slade studied the body. “Gaines died here, inside your shop, sometime during the night. If he wasn’t stalking you, he must have been after something that he thought you had but which you wouldn’t sell to him if he came through the front door.”
“I honestly can’t imagine what he would have wanted that badly from my collection. He went for the more exotic objects.”
“But if he did want something from your collection, why didn’t he use another dealer to get it for him?”
“Exactly. It makes no sense.” She looked at the body. “This doesn’t look good for me, does it? I mean, what are the odds that one of my ex-clients who just happens to be wearing a lot of black breaks into my shop and drops dead from a heart attack?”
“Not good but fortunately for you, that’s exactly what it looks like, a heart attack or stroke. Got a feeling that’s what the medical examiner over in Thursday Harbor will call it.”
“But you don’t buy it, do you?”
“No,” he said. He got to his feet. “This was death by paranormal means.”
She looked shocked. “Are you telling me that someone actually used talent to murder Jeremy?”
“Talent or a device that generates lethal paranormal energy.”
Shock turned to bewilderment in her eyes. “What kind of weapon can generate that kind of radiation?”
“Certain crystals can be alchemically altered to become weapons-grade. But there are also some very high-level talents who can kill with their own natural power.”
She shuddered. “I’ve heard a few horror stories over the years. Everyone in Arcane has. But I thought the ability to kill with psychic energy was just another Arcane legend.”
“It’s extremely rare. Takes a hell of a lot of power and only certain kinds of talent can be focused in a lethal way. Since it invariably looks like the victim died from natural causes, the murder usually goes undetected.”
“You sound like an expert on the subject.”
“Detecting murder by paranormal means is what I do, Charlotte, remember? Or, rather, what I did when I worked for the Office.”
“Right. Sorry. I’m getting a little frazzled here. I can’t help but point out that if Jeremy was murdered, I’m the obvious suspect. He and I had a history and I don’t have an alibi for half of last night.”
“True, but what you do have is a talent for reading rainbows. Not exactly the kind of ability that your average rogue psychic uses to commit murder.”
She brightened. “And I certainly don’t possess any of those crystal guns you mentioned.”
He opened his senses a little higher and studied the darkly radiant pools of energy on the floor. “Someone does.”
“You’re sure?”
“Down in the tunnels it’s possible for a very powerful ghost hunter to commit murder from a distance by generating certain types of ghost light. But aboveground the killers who are strong enough to kill with their natural energy almost always have to have physical contact with the victim. Whoever killed Gaines did it from a distance of several feet.”
“You can tell that, as well?”
“Yes,” he said.
“What happens now?”
“Standard procedure. I’ll notify the authorities in Thursday Harbor and try to get in touch with Gaines’s family.”
“Are you going to tell them that you think Jeremy was murdered by paranormal means?”
“No. Like I said, the ME will call it death by natural causes.”
“Hang on. I admit, I was not a fan of Jeremy Gaines. Still, it doesn’t seem right to just ignore his murder. There’s a killer running around. For all we know he might still be on the island.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t going to investigate. I just said that it’s unlikely that I’ll find any usable evidence. It doesn’t mean I won’t find the killer.”
“But if you can’t arrest him, what will you do if you identify a suspect?”
“It depends.”
“It depends?” She unfolded her arms and waved her hands. “What kind of cop talk is that? There are rules about this sort of thing. At least there are supposed to be rules.”
“When it comes to crimes committed by paranormal means, the rules are a little vague.”
She gave him a speculative look. “In other words, if you decide that I murdered Jeremy, a lawyer wouldn’t do me much good.”
“If it’s any consolation, I don’t think you killed him,” he said.
She stared at him, her mouth slightly open. It took her a second to get it closed.
“Good,” she said finally. “Great. I mean, that is a huge relief.”
“But if you did kill him, you probably had a real good reason.”
“Thanks. That’s supposed to reassure me?”
“It’s the best I can do at the moment.”
“And to think that I was worried about the two of us feeling a bit awkward the morning after.”
Chapter 8
FLETCHER KANE OPENED HIS SENSES AND STUDIED THE painting on the table. The image on the canvas was similar to the others that lined the walls of the gallery, a vision of a fantastical, otherworldly forest landscape lit by an eerie phosphorescence. The picture should have looked like an enchanted fairyland but the strange canyon just barely visible through a stand of trees gave it a hellish quality. The canyon was filled with a disturbing darkness that was slowly seeping out into a glowing forest world, threatening to consume the luminous scene.
Like the others, the painting would sell quickly enough, Fletcher thought. A day-tripper off the ferry or a visitor staying at a local bed-and-breakfast would respond to the intensity of the picture and snap it up. But it was doubtful that whoever bought it would see the deeper reality that he perceived. The painting seethed with ominous energy.
“The dreams are getting worse, aren’t they?” he said quietly. “I heard you get out of bed and take the meds again last night.”
Jasper Gilbert exhaled and walked to the window. He watched the small crowd of tourists prowl the boutiques and galleries on Waterfront Street.
“These aren’t the old dreams, Fletch,” he said. “These are different. Something bad is happening out there in the Preserve.”
“Take it easy. I don’t doubt your visions.”
Jasper snorted. “Even if the Guild shrinks think I’m a crazy thanks to that last trip into the Underworld?”
“You’re not crazy, and what the Guild doctors didn’t understand is that you’ve always had weird dreams.” Fletcher tapped the edge of the painting with his finger. “But it’s clear your dreams about the Preserve are getting darker and more intense.”
Jasper clasped his big hands behind his back and looked across the way at the entrance of Looking Glass. “Two people connected to the antique shop are dead. First Beatrix and now that stranger they say was stalking Charlotte Enright. What are the odds?”