Crimes of Magic: The Witch's Artifact



  Crimes of Magic:

  The Witch’s Artifact

  (Case 1)

  by Richard L. King

  Copyright 2014, Richard L. King

  All rights are reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form, (printed, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, filming, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance, by name or personality, to real people, living or dead, is coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication and use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1 - The Beginning

  Chapter 10 - The Middle

  About the Author

  About the Sequel

  Chapter 1

  It was a typical cool and drizzly February day in Portland, Oregon as I locked my car and walked up the steps to my front door. I had just returned from a trip to Powell’s Bookstore where I had found an old book on Celtic magic. Before I could climb the stairs to my apartment, I heard a familiar voice.

  “Hey Professor! Want to ride along on a real-life investigation?”

  The voice belonged to my favorite tenant, Rachel Chase. Rachel, a thirty-five year-old private investigator, had moved in over a year earlier. She would sometimes come up to my apartment for coffee, and we would chat about her latest case or about my research into magic. I had grown to like Rachel. She is interesting and very independent, not to mention attractive. I had never gotten a “ride along” invitation before.

  “That sounds very interesting,” I replied. “Would you like to come up for tea and tell me about it?”

  “Sure, what’s for tea?”

  “How about Sumatran coffee and PB&J sandwiches?”

  “Yummy,” Rachel said, and we climbed the stairs to my apartment.

  Years ago, I had ritualized my late afternoon food cravings to create my own version of teatime. Because of my somewhat unconventional meal schedule, I always get a little hungry around four o’clock in the afternoon, so why not just admit this fallibility and have a small meal?

  We went upstairs to my apartment, which was the entire second floor of my “Portland style” house. I had bought the house ten years earlier, when I retired from the software business at the age of forty. I had done some renovations on the house so that I could have two rental apartments on the ground floor, while I live on the top floor.

  “What’s in the Powell’s bag?” Rachel asked.

  “It’s an old book on Celtic magic,” I replied as I hung my hat and jacket on the coat tree.

  “Is there anything about witches in the book? It might come in handy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re going to go looking for a witch.”

  “Is this the ‘ride along’ you mentioned?”

  “Yes it is. Are you interested?”

  “You certainly have my attention. By the way, the only sandwich bread I have is whole wheat with flax seed. Is that OK?”

  “Sure, I’ll eat anything.”

  I made the sandwiches and brewed the coffee—black for Rachel, with half-and-half for me. We sat at my kitchen table and began our tea.

  “This is good coffee, as usual,” Rachel observed, “and the sandwich is good, too.”

  “Simple but tasty,” I agreed.

  “This case I took today is right up your alley, Professor.”

  Rachel had always called me “Professor” since our first meeting when she signed her lease. I have never been a professor or even taught a single course, but when I explained this to her she said, “You seem like a professor to me, and that’s what I’m going to call you.” She likes to give people and things nicknames, and somehow these names seem to stick. Now both tenants call me “Professor.”

  “OK, give me all the details.”

  “I got a call this morning from a woman who asked me to investigate a witch. I thought since you’re so interested in magic, you might be interested.”

  “I’m all ears,” I said.

  “I think it’s just a standard P.I. case,” Rachel said. “This rich lady thinks that her husband is having an affair with a witch. I’ve investigated quite a few adultery cases, and although they aren’t my favorite, they’re usually pretty easy to solve. I really don’t think there’s anything supernatural going on here, but the client thinks witchcraft is involved. I’m all for anything that gives me an edge in getting new business, and I think you could be my edge here.”

  “I’ll be glad to render any assistance that I can,” I said.

  “Actually, Professor, I think that this will just be a standard investigation, but I thought you might like to tag along. It’ll be fun. You always like to hear about my cases, and this should be a simple one you can jump into from the start.”

  That sounded good to me. Anything that allowed me to spend more time with Rachel would sound good to me. I had been trying to figure out an excuse to do this, and now fate had done the work for me.

  Rachel is a remarkable woman who, although fifteen years younger than I, is very mature and intelligent for a thirty-five year-old. Not that I am an expert on thirty-five-year-old women, or any women for that matter, but once you get past her extroverted persona, you realize that she has a deep understanding of people, their motivations and their foibles. She also has a good heart and a quick mind.

  Rachel is a slender five-foot six with short, dark hair, brown eyes and a bold nose. Her hips are small, but her breasts are slightly larger than one might expect. Her fashion sense is uniquely Rachel. When dealing with the public, she often wears black tights and a dress or skirt a couple of inches above the knee. When she is doing surveillance, jeans and a tee shirt will suffice.

  “I’m game,” I said. “What’s the plan?”

  “She called me just after lunch. By the way, her name is Phyllis Overgarden, and I said I would come talk with her this evening. I was writing a report on my current case when she called, and I didn’t want to jump up and go over right away. I asked if she would rather meet at my office, but she said that she would rather have me come to her house this evening. I told her I would come over about half an hour from now. We should get going.”

  “Well, that’s pretty short notice, but as it happens, I’m at loose ends at the moment, and a break in the routine would be welcomed. Let me grab a different jacket, and I’ll be ready.”

  “Mind if I get a Ziploc to put this half of my sandwich in?” Rachel asked.

  “Help yourself,” I said as I went into my bedroom. I put on a tan raw silk jacket, and put a few things from a dresser drawer into the jacket pockets before I went back to the kitchen.

  “No padded elbows, Professor?”

  I did have a jacket with padded elbows, but I was fighting the stereotype.

  “This is it,” I said, “and nothing black. Do you think I can venture out into Portland after dark without wearing black?”

  “It’s a stretch, but for a middle-aged man, it’s acceptable,” Rachel replied.

  Middle-aged? Am I middle-aged? Well, if I live to be a hundred, then I guess I’m middle-aged, but I would like to think I’m younger than middle-aged. Does Rachel see me as middle-aged? I don’t think I’m that much older than she is. Does she see me
as a doddering old man?

  “Come on, we’ll take Fred,” Rachel said.

  Fred is the name Rachel has given to her silver Honda CR-V. Just as she has named me “Professor,” so she has named her car “Fred.” Should I insist on driving? Would that be the manly thing to do? Or would it come across as old-fashioned, or even worse, chauvinistic? A guy just can’t catch a break these days. Damned if you do; damned if you don’t.

  “Fine,” I said, “let’s go.”