“You seem very chipper today.”
“I know. I woke up feeling terrific, and everything has been perfect this morning. Perfect coffee. Perfect toasted bagel. Every light was green on the way to work.” I gave up a huge sigh of contentment. “It’s going to be a good day.”
Glo showed up a couple hours later. She was all in black, including lipstick and nail polish.
“You look like goth girl,” I said to her.
“I’m in mourning. The 8 Ball died.”
“Gee, that’s awful,” I said. “Sorry.”
“Yeah, condolences,” Clara said.
“I sort of expected it,” Glo said. “He’d been leaking for a while. And to tell you the truth, I’m not so sure he was magical. Still, it’s sad. I paid two bucks for that 8 Ball. You’d think for that kind of money he would have lasted longer.”
Glo took a tray of almond croissants out to the shop and unlocked the front door. Jennie Bell came in for a blueberry muffin, and Mrs. Kuzak bought a loaf of rye. I moved on to cookie dough, and I heard Nergal’s voice at the counter.
“Hey,” Glo yelled back to me. “Guess who’s here?”
Nergal smiled and gave me a finger wave when I came to the counter.
“I felt like a cupcake this morning,” he said.
“Red velvet?” I asked him.
“Yes. I’ll take two. And a lemon chiffon.”
“Wow, you must be having a good day.”
“A suicide, an accidental overdose, a gang-related shooting, and Quentin Devereaux was found on the side of a road. And it’s only nine in the morning.”
I gave Nergal his three cupcakes in a little box and pulled him aside. “Tell me about Devereaux.”
“He was gutted, but all of his organs had been shoved back in. And that wasn’t the way he died. It happened some time after death.”
“His last thoughts?”
“?‘Be sure to drink your Ovaltine.’?” Nergal gave me his credit card. “Sometimes last thoughts don’t make a lot of sense.”
I gave the card back to him. “No charge for the cupcakes,” I said. “I owed them to you.”
“Thanks. It was nice seeing you again. Let me know if you ever want to see an autopsy or go out to dinner or something.”
I returned to my cookie making and was about to slide the first tray into the oven when Rutherford knocked politely on the side door, and let himself in.
“It’s gone,” he said. “Poof! Gone!”
He was pacing back and forth, wringing his hands. Everything was perfectly ironed and in place. His hair was slicked down. His pants had a razor-sharp crease. His tie was expertly tied. His expression was sheer panic.
“I went to check on our guest, Mr. Hatchet, last night. I had to make sure he had enough oxygen, and he wasn’t there. Nothing was there! The door was locked. The vault was locked, but nothing was there. How could that happen? I went back this morning to see if anything had changed, but it hasn’t. It’s all gone.”
“And?” I asked.
Rutherford stopped pacing. “It had to be magic. There’s no other explanation. Mr. Ammon and I were the only ones who knew the combination. Mr. Ammon is in the hospital. He’s hooked up to tubes and things. He never left. And I’m pretty sure it wasn’t me who opened the vault. I guess I could have had a moment, but I don’t think that’s it.”
“You think it’s magic?”
“Yes. So of course I thought of you and your friend. She could have put a spell on the vault.”