“No thanks.”
“Oh, this is more than just pure weed. Plenty of special additives in the supply cases here, and I’ve experimented with a little of everything. Some real magical mystery tours! One even let me see with my eyes shut for a week. Made it really hard to sleep.” He held up the smoldering joint. “But this recipe . . . awesome mix! All in the name of continuing education.”
Sheyenne sounded impatient. “Can we get back to the poisonous toadstools?”
“Yeah, we sell that stuff here. How much do you need?”
“I’m more interested in who else purchased it . . . say, around two months ago.”
“Toadstools are a popular item, sells better than nightshade or hemlock,” Jimmy said. “Lots of negativity in the world, like I said. Customers of all types—warlocks, necromancers, amateur alchemists, even a few bartenders. And I remember these two witch sisters who bought some . . . one of them turned into a pig, I think.”
“I know about them,” I said. “They’re the ones who recommended your shop. Can you tell us specifically who else bought the death cap?”
“We’re trying to solve a murder,” Sheyenne added. “It’s very important.”
Jimmy got that slow-motion shocked look again. “Murder?” He drew another drag from the joint and exhaled. “I have records. Like, you know, a ledger right here.” He moved some papers from the top of the display case and pulled out a three-ring binder. “Death cap toadstools are a controlled substance. I have to keep the supplies behind the counter and write down who buys it, but . . . uh, I only get around to tallying it up once a month or so.”
My pulse would have started pounding, if my heart were still beating. This could be the clue we needed. Excited, Sheyenne drifted closer.
Jimmy opened the binder and flipped through pages and pages, lists of ingredients, customers, dates. He found the toadstool page, but instead of the names, numbers, and columns as on the other pages, we saw only a scrawled, barely legible note: My hand looks funny.
Jimmy gave an embarrassed chuckle. “Sorry, man, that was a day I tried a new recipe. Must have lost track . . .”
Sheyenne looked disappointed, and I was afraid she might go into a poltergeist flurry, creating an herbal storm inside the shop. “You better hope you don’t get audited.”
The comment distressed Jimmy enough that he had to take another hit to calm himself. He extended the joint to me. “Sure you don’t want any, friend?”
Sheyenne and I left.
She was quiet as we walked along the street, each wrapped in our own thoughts. By now it was long after dark. “It’ll be okay, Spooky. Even dead ends are progress in a way,” I said. “Narrowing down possibilities.”
“It’s not a total loss,” Sheyenne said. “At least I got to spend time with you.”
I pulled the phone from my jacket pocket. “I’m going to call Robin and let her know where we are, see if she’s heard anything.” I dialed the number, and Sheyenne drifted ahead, preoccupied.
A dark sedan drove up the empty street, pulling alongside me. The car paused as the passenger window rolled down. Probably some lost tourist asking for directions.
In my ear, I heard Robin answer the phone. “Hello?”
“Hi, just wanted to let you know—”
I saw the barrel of the pistol extend from the open window, then the bright muzzle flash.
They say you don’t hear the one that hits you, but I certainly heard this shot—and five more in rapid succession. The bullets slammed into my chest like a half-dozen linebackers, spinning me around. I tucked my head and tried to roll; my phone went flying.
Sheyenne screamed. “Beaux!”
The dark sedan roared off, tires squealing on the shadowy street.
I sprawled on the sidewalk, broken and tattered, like a rag doll owned by a psychopathic child. Then Sheyenne was hovering over me, yelling for help. It seemed like an odd reversal from when I’d hovered over her hospital bed during her last days.
I groaned. I hadn’t felt this bad since I’d been killed.
Chapter 30
After the shooter fled, Sheyenne had the presence of mind to grab my phone from where it had skittered down the sidewalk. She shouted to Robin, explained what had happened, then rushed back to me. “Help is on the way!” She was terrified and distraught; being unable to touch me made the situation much worse for her. “I’ll stay with you—Robin’s coming. We’re going to get you fixed up.”
I lifted a hand, wanting to brush my fingers through her beautiful hair, but that wasn’t going to happen. “I’m fine.” (I’m not good at telling bald-faced lies.) “Did you see who did this? The license plate? The make of the car?”
Sheyenne was crestfallen. “Sorry, I was more worried about you.”
I levered myself onto my elbows. “The good news is, we must’ve stepped on somebody’s toes, or they wouldn’t have bothered to gun me down. That means we’re getting close to something.”
Unfortunately, in the past few days I’d been digging into a lot of old cases, making phone calls, asking questions. Who knew which one had pushed the shooter’s buttons? He, or she, might be my original killer, or Sheyenne’s . . . or it could be a different person entirely.
The Straight Edgers might be infuriated because of the restraining order I delivered or the protective spell we placed over Sheldon Fennerman. I’d been in Basilisk asking questions, and if Ivory was involved in poisoning Sheyenne, she might have gotten nervous, especially after we went into Grandma Wong’s shop. Or, I’d followed Brondon Morris and Harvey Jekyll to their secret meeting in the warehouse. For that matter, the heirs of Alvin Ricketts could have been vindictive now that he’d sold his zombie puppies painting for a large amount at auction.
Sure, I had more enemies than I could shake a stake at, but I had a gut feeling that Jekyll was involved—a conclusion I drew partly from circumstantial evidence and partly because I just plain didn’t like the guy. Even if it turned out he had nothing to do with my murder, I still wouldn’t have minded seeing him screwed in his divorce.
I slowly sat up on the sidewalk. Sheyenne fussed over me and uttered a string of frustrated curses because she couldn’t lend me a hand and help me to my feet. By myself, I managed to stand up again.
I looked at the bullet holes that had torn through my sport jacket. “Son of a bitch, this was my only good jacket.” A private investigator doesn’t require many jackets, but I need at least one without bullet holes.