“Oh?”
“I’m making a career change. Turns out I need a short-term job to pay the bills while I get things going in a new direction. A friend told me that the chief’s job here on the island was open so I took it.”
“I see.” It was as if all the energy in the room had gone suddenly flat. So much for the little frissons of excitement and anticipation that had been flickering through her over the course of the past five days. Slade had no intention of hanging around Shadow Bay for long. She cleared her throat. “This isn’t a permanent move for you, then?”
“Not if I can help it,” he said. “I figure I’ll be here six months at most. I’ll need that much time to get my new project up and running. You?”
“After Aunt Beatrix died, I had planned to close Looking Glass and ship the stock to my Frequency City store but I changed my mind. I sold that store and moved here, instead.”
“What made you do that? Weren’t things going well for you in Frequency City?”
“Very well,” she said. She wasn’t boasting. It was a fact. “I made a lot of money with that store. But I’ll make money with this one, too. The power of online marketing, you know. In addition, I plan to turn Looking Glass into a destination antiques shop. In my line it’s all about reputation, and when it comes to paranormal antiques, I’m one of the best in the business.”
“I believe you,” he said. “I always knew you’d be successful at whatever you decided to do.”
“Really? No one in my family had a lot of hope. Whatever gave you that impression?”
He moved one hand slightly. “Probably the way you tried to fight off that bastard who manhandled you that night out on Merton Road.”
“Wasn’t like I had a lot of options that night.”
“Most people freeze when they face serious violence. They can’t function. You were fighting.”
“And losing,” she pointed out dryly.
“But you weren’t going down without a fight. That’s what counts. That’s why I agreed to take you into the Preserve that night. Figured you were owed that much after what you’d gone through.”
“Oh,” she said. “I was scared to death that night, you know.”
“It was the logical response to the situation.”
There was a muffled clunk from the far side of the shop. Charlotte heard a faint, ominous buzzing noise. She realized that she could no longer see Rex.
“Your dust bunny,” she yelped. Alarmed, she rushed out from behind the counter. “Where is he? What’s he doing?”
“Rex is not my dust bunny. We’re buddies, that’s all.”
“Yeah, yeah, I understand. That’s not the point. The point is that you are responsible for him while he is in this shop. Now where is he?”
“He may have gone behind that fancy little table with the mirror.”
The buzzing sound continued. Charlotte heard more thumps and thuds.
“That dressing table is a genuine First Century Pre–Era of Discord piece,” she snapped. She hurried across the room to the exquisitely inlaid dressing table. “It was designed by Fenwick LeMasters, himself. The inlays are green amber and obsidian. The mirror and frame are original, for goodness’ sake.”
“Who is Fenwick LeMasters?”
“Just one of the finest furniture craftsman of his time. Also a very powerful talent who could work green amber. Collectors pay thousands for his pieces. Oh, never mind.”
She peered over the top of the dressing table and saw Rex. The dust bunny had trapped a vintage action figure in the corner between a First Generation cabinet that reeked of the old-Earth para-antiquities it had once contained and a Second Generation floor lamp. Rex was batting the toy unmercifully with his paw as if tormenting a mouse or some other prey. The foot-high plastic figure wore long, flowing plastic robes marked with alchemical signs. The toy was armed with a small, fist-sized crystal.
The unprovoked assault had activated whatever energy was left in the old, run-down amber battery inside the figure. The action doll repeatedly raised and lowered one arm as though to ward off Rex. The buzzing noise came from the odd little crystal weapon. Each time the arm shifted, the toy weapon flashed and sparked with weak, violet-hued light.
“Stop that,” Charlotte said to Rex. “Sylvester is a very valuable collectible. Fewer than five hundred of them were made.”
Rex ignored her. He took another swipe at the figure.
She started to reach down to retrieve the action figure but common sense made her hesitate. Dust bunnies could be dangerous when provoked.
She rounded on Slade, instead. “Do something about Rex. I’m serious. That figure is worth at least a thousand dollars to certain Arcane collectors.”
Slade came to stand beside her. He looked down at Rex and the hapless Sylvester doll.
“That’s enough, Rex,” Slade said quietly. “You don’t want to mess with Sylvester Jones. According to the legends the old bastard could take care of himself.”
To Charlotte’s relief Rex stopped batting the figure. He sat back on his rear legs and fixed Slade with what Charlotte concluded was the dust bunny equivalent of a disgusted eye-roll. He sauntered off to investigate a pile of vintage stuffed animals.
“Whew.” Charlotte scooped up the action figure and examined it closely. “Luckily I don’t think he did any damage.”
Slade looked at the toy. “Never saw one of those. When were they made?”
“About thirty years ago. The designer was Arcane, obviously. Most of the customers who bought the original Sylvester Jones action figures for their kids assumed the character was supposed to be an Old World sorcerer. But everyone who was connected to the Society recognized him at once. Sort of an inside marketing joke.” Satisfied that the action figure was unharmed, Charlotte set it on top of the dressing table. “Luckily Sylvester seems to have survived.”
“Sure. This is Sylvester Jones, we’re talking about.”
Charlotte smiled. “True. Legend has it he was a hard man to kill.”
“Tell me about the breakin,” Slade said.
“Right.” She dusted off her hands. “As I explained to Myrna when I called the station this morning, I
“I can understand why it would be hard to tell if something was missing. This place is crammed with junk.”
Charlotte glared. “That’s antiques and collectibles to you.”
“Right. Antiques and collectibles. Tell me about the breakin you think you had,” he said.
“He came through the back door. I’m positive I locked it last night when I closed up.”
“No one locks their doors here in Shadow Bay.”
“I do. I’m from the city, remember? At any rate, the door was unlocked this morning when I arrived. And there are what look like muddy prints on the floor.”
“Oh, good,” Slade said. “Actual clues. That should be interesting.”
“You’re not taking this seriously, are you?”
“In the five days that I have been chief of police here the most serious crime I’ve had to deal with involved the supposed theft of Hoyt Wilkins’s bicycle. It turned up the following day. Astonishingly, it was still leaning against the tree where Hoyt had left it when he realized he was too drunk to ride it home from the Driftwood Tavern.”
“I heard that two nights ago you also had to break up a fight at the Driftwood.”
“Breaking up a bar fight is not the same thing as conducting an investigation. Mostly it involves trying not to get slugged while you separate the drunken idiots involved.”
“But wait, there’s more,” she announced triumphantly. “Yesterday you arrested those two hot-weed runners who anchored their boat in the marina in order to hide from the Coast Guard.”
“Both of those guys were too stoned on their own product to notice that they’d been arrested. All I did was throw them in jail until the authorities from Frequency could get here to collect them and the weed,” Slade said.
“Still, it sounds like a busy first week on the job. Why am I getting the feeling that you’re already
