Aidan stared at Oscar. “Is something wrong with him?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. He’s . . . I think he ate some of Renee’s cupcakes and now he’s acting like this. I think she might have poisoned him!” I couldn’t keep the desperation out of my voice.
“I’m not a vet, Lily,” Aidan said.
“Please? See if you can tell what’s wrong?”
With obvious reluctance, Aidan stood back and gestured with his hand to enter his office. He shut the door, and we were plunged into the soft lights and hushed atmosphere of his Victorian fantasy world.
Oscar transformed into his natural state, jumped onto a chair, and said:
“Hey! You know what I just found out? ’Pumpernickel’ means ‘goblin fart’! Or maybe ‘fart goblin’ . . . not sure.” He dissolved into peals of cackles. “Could I have that grilled cheese on pumpernickel, please?”
Aidan opened an elaborately carved box and brought out a clear pale green crystal.
“Be still,” he commanded, and to my surprise Oscar obeyed. Aidan placed the crystal on top of Oscar’s muzzle, laid his hands on either side of his face, and concentrated for a long moment.
He picked up the crystal, took it to his desk, and studied it with a magnifying glass.
“He wasn’t poisoned,” he declared after a long moment.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“What a relief,” I said, feeling the tension ease from my shoulders. “Then what’s wrong with him?”
“He’s high.”
“High? What do you mean?”
“Stoned. Baked. Wasted. Stewed. Tanked. Shall I go on?”
“Got it. But . . . is this something he does? Oscar gets high?”
“You tell me. He’s your familiar, if I’m not mistaken.”
“He’s never done it before, at least not since he’s been with me. What is he high on?”
“Must have gotten into someone’s pot stash.”
“Pot?”
Aidan gave me a slow, thoughtful smile. “I know you’ve led an unconventional life, my dear Lily, and you’re remarkably innocent in some ways. But are you telling me you don’t know what pot is?”
“I know what it is,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I just haven’t ever tried it.”
“Never snuck off behind the gym in high school?”
“My abbreviated time in high school wasn’t like that, as you very well know. Besides, I wouldn’t have dared—my grandmother would have killed me.”
“She was strict?”
“In a manner of speaking. We had enough going on just trying to stay alive in Jarod. We didn’t need drugs complicating matters.”
Oscar let out a loud snort, jumped off the chair, and declared: “I have something very important to tell you!”
Aidan and I gave him our attention.
There was a long pause. I was about to ask Oscar if he’d forgotten what he was going to say when he drew himself up to his full three and a half feet, puffed out his chest, and declared: “I’m thinking very seriously about getting a pet. A baby bat, maybe. Or a duck. A duckling! I’m gonna name it Pumpernickel!”
And then he fell back onto his butt and sniggered.
Aidan met my eyes, raised his eyebrows, smiled, and inclined his head. “There you have it. Shall I put on some Bob Marley?”
“So he’ll be all right, then?”
“He’ll be fine. Let him sleep it off.”
“What a relief. Thank you.”
There was an awkward pause. “Lily, I don’t wish to be inhospitable, but I have some work to do, and if I’m not mistaken, you have a boyfriend to exonerate, despite the fact that several eyewitnesses put him at the scene.”
“You heard about that?” Of course he’d heard about that. As Oscar would say if he hadn’t been currently snoozing in the corner, Aidan knew things.
“I know he’s not your favorite person,” I continued, “but I may have to ask you for help. Sailor didn’t kill Tristan Dupree.”
“Of course he didn’t.”
“You believe that?” I searched Aidan’s face for indications that he was being ironic, but he looked sincere. Then again, with Aidan, one never knew.
Aidan looked impatient. “If you’re asking me if I think Sailor is capable of killing someone, then my answer is ‘Yes, he is.’ If you’re asking me if I think Sailor killed this particular someone, then my answer is ‘No, he did not.’ Satisfied?”
“But the question is, how do I convince the SFPD of that?”
“Looks like you have your work cut out for you.”
“Does that mean you won’t help me?”
“If I help you, what do I get in return?”
This was the response I’d anticipated. Aidan’s assistance always came with strings attached. “That depends. What do you want?”
“Sailor. Or Oscar. Your choice.”
“What?”
“Both of them used to work for me, if you recall. Before you managed to wrest them from my . . . influence.”
“Aidan—”
“Nothing in this life comes free, Lily. Haven’t you learned that by now? There’s always a price. And my terms are not unreasonable—I’m just asking Sailor to work for me. I’ll pay him handsomely, and help him to increase his natural talents. Surely he would prefer that over rotting in prison.”
“Um . . . I can’t speak for Sailor. Or Oscar, for that matter.”
“Then speak to him, Lily. I will gladly help Sailor, but my offer is contingent upon the terms stated.”
“I’m going to have to ponder that one.” I would be able to see Sailor tomorrow morning. He was going to just love this. “In the meantime, could I ask for some advice? Or does that have a price tag, too?”
Aidan inclined his head graciously. “As you know, Lily, talk is cheap.”
“Patience Blix and I were just chased by someone who’s a dead ringer for Sailor—during which I lost my Hand of Glory, by the way, but I’m hoping Carlos can get it back for me.”
“Carlos?”
“I told him some of what happened, and he was going to go over to Sailor’s apartment to check it out. He’ll try to retrieve my stuff. I dropped a backpack full of supplies, too. And my keys.”
Aidan shook his head. “You know how I feel about your ‘friendship’ with an SFPD inspector. You’re courting trouble.”
“Yeah, I know. Sailor said the same thing.”
Aidan looked surprised that he and Sailor would agree
