Autumn Bones

that have been in the Cavannaugh family for generations.” Her expression began to swim into focus. “As I’m sure you’re aware, the Cavannaughs are one of the original founding families. It’s my maiden name, of course.”

“Of course.” I echoed her. “Whatever he was asking, you didn’t agree to it, did you?”

“No.” Amanda Brooks frowned. “You know, the Cavannaughs were here before there was a Pemkowet. We trace our ancestry back to the lumber days of Singapore.” She glanced toward the river, her expression veering back toward uncertainty. “I can’t imagine why I’d even entertain the idea.”

“Don’t,” I said bluntly. “I’ve got a bad feeling about that guy. Whatever he wants, don’t give it to him.”

Under ordinary circumstances, Amanda Brooks would have reacted with indignation if I’d dared to speak to her that way. Today, she simply cleared her throat. “Yes, well. As I said, I can’t imagine why I would.” Her gaze sharpened to its usual level of piercingness. “Now, about this orgy—”

Back on track, the infernal cobwebs cleared away, she delivered a scathing fifteen-minute diatribe on public health hazards, risks, liabilities, negative publicity, and my general irresponsibility in allowing such a thing to occur. I was relieved enough to see her back in form that I just sat and nodded in agreement, waiting for the tongue- lashing to end before explaining what had happened at Rainbow’s End and promising to do my utmost to ensure that nothing like it ever happened again.

As soon as she was finished, I beat a quick retreat. In the lobby, Stacey gave me the traditional Pemkowet High mean girls farewell, flashing devil horns at me with her right hand. Since she wasn’t on the phone, she stuck out her tongue, too.

Nice.

On the off chance that he ever asked her out, I debated telling her that the GQ- looking lawyer was a hell-spawn.

I decided against it.

Seven

Having faced down the dragon in her den, I went to the station to write up a report on the orgy. Since I was there, the desk clerk, Patty Rogan, gave me a stack of yesterday’s reports to file.

I browsed through them first, looking for signs of eldritch involvement. That’s how I had come by my unique role in the department in the first place, which led to Hel’s invitation to serve as her liaison to mundane authorities. Nothing jumped out at me in the first few reports—a minor fender bender, an altercation outside a bar, a citation for public urination—but the fourth one intrigued me. Some irate tourists had come in to file a complaint about being pickpocketed after playing a shell game that a pair of kids was running on the dock.

“Did you take this one?” I asked Patty. “The shell game?”

“Yeah.” She smiled. “I thought that one might interest you. There are a couple of others like it.”

I flipped through the paperwork and found them. In all three instances, the complainant had won money at the shell game, only to find nothing but dry, brittle leaves in his or her wallet afterward. “Anyone check it out?”

Patty nodded. “Oh, sure, but the kids running the game were long gone.” She raised her eyebrows. “If they were kids in the first place.”

“Right.” Since I’d been going through the files, other members of the department had gotten more savvy about spotting eldritch signs. The dead leaves were a dead giveaway. “Give me a call if you get another complaint.”

“Will do.”

I took a stroll down the dock anyway. No sign of the kids this morning, but I stopped by a few of the restaurants and bars along the river and asked the managers to call me if the kids returned. My phone buzzed with a reply from Jen, offering to meet me for lunch at Callahan’s Cafe at twelve thirty. After sending a confirmation, I swung by the Sisters of Selene, Pemkowet’s local occult store, to pick the Fabulous Casimir’s brain.

Technically, I guess Casimir is a drag queen, although his cross-dressing has to do with the shamanic tradition, too. Either way, he cuts an imposing figure. He’s over six feet tall without the wig, and the towering Marie Antoinette number he was sporting today put him closer to seven.

He caught my eye as I entered. I waited patiently while he finished ringing up a purchase and the store emptied for a moment.

“Hey, Miss Daisy.” Casimir fussed with a display of charmed crystals that the last batch of tourists had disturbed. “Whatever went down at Rainbow’s End last night, I hope you know none of my people were involved.” He gave a little shiver. “From what I heard, that was no love spell.”

“No, I know,” I said. “It was a satyr.”

“A satyr?”

“A satyr in rut,” I clarified. “Any thoughts?”

Casimir’s lips pursed. “I deal in magic, not mythological beasties.”

“Okay,” I said. “How about obeah? That’s a kind of magic, right? Do you know anything about it?”

His long-fingered hands went still. “Not really, dahling, no. It’s a little outside my geographic purview.” Beneath heavy makeup and false eyelashes, his eyes were shrewd. “Mind if I ask why? Because I don’t think that had anything to do with the shenanigans at the club last night.”

I shrugged. Sinclair hadn’t given me permission to discuss it, so it was best to honor the eldritch code.

“Never mind.” Casimir tapped his carmine lips with one fingertip. “I can guess. Is it causing . . . problems?”

“No,” I said honestly. “I’m just curious.”

“Curiosity killed the cat, girl. There’s a time and a place for gathering knowledge, and it ain’t necessarily during the early days of a young romance. Romance is fragile, Miss Daisy.” He shook his finger at me. “If you want my advice, don’t go looking for trouble or you might just find it.”

“I’m not!” I protested.

The door chimes rang as another group of tourists entered the store, and the Fabulous Casimir turned his fabulous attention toward them. Checking the time on my phone, I decided to pay a visit to Mr. Leary before lunch.

“Daisy!” Casimir called after me.

I paused in the doorway. “Yeah?”

“I didn’t mean to put you off, honey.” Beneath the mask of white makeup and strategically placed beauty marks, the expression on his face was serious. “If your young man finds himself in trouble, I’m sure we can figure out a way to help him.”

I smiled. “Thanks, Cas. No one’s in trouble. You’re right—I’m just being nosy.”

He made a shooing gesture. “Then go on—get out of here!”

I drove across the bridge from Pemkowet to East Pemkowet, a distinction that many find confusing for good reason, since the communities are intertwined. In terms of tourism, they’re joined at the hip. In terms of governance, they are actually two separate entities, and there’s a little bit of rivalry on the local level, too. I have fond memories of taking part in the annual Easties vs. Townies battle that goes down every Halloween night, complete with water balloons and eggs.

Once upon a time, East Pemkowet was a little more down-to-earth and homespun than its sister-city across the bridge, but in the past ten years, it had become a haven for upscale dining and boutique shopping. Driving down Main Street, I couldn’t help but notice the improvements, which included some pretty ambitious street- and landscaping. Well, except for Boo Radley’s house.

That’s what we called it in high school, anyway. I don’t know what it was called before To Kill a Mockingbird came out. It was the oldest house on Main Street, a rambling Tudor Revival with crumbling white stucco and dark exterior woodwork, the kind that looked like it was integral to the structure, not just a veneer.

According to local legend, Clancy Brannigan, the last living descendant of Talman Brannigan, owned the place. I’d never seen him, but the cashiers at Tafts Grocery claimed there was a standing order for a weekly