Page 20 of The Hearth Witch’s Guide to Magic & Murder (The Hemlock Saga #1)

Sanderson Fitz shook his head. “We have a day and night porter, but unless a tenant makes a special request, we end service at midnight.” He let them pass into the lobby. “Inspector, she did come downstairs quite a few times that evening—but I never saw her leave.”

Avery held still as if any movement might spook him into silence. “How do you mean?”

“About once an hour from four to nine p.m. She’d be making as if she was leaving for work, then ask me the time and go back up.”

The pale woman’s brow knitted momentarily, and she gave a firm nod. “Thank you, Mr. Fitz.” She turned to face the elevators and stopped, her expression quizzical.

“Eighth floor,” Saga remembered, calling the lift with the press of a gold button.

Avery acknowledged this with a half-nod, her attention homing in on the notebook in Saga’s hand. “Were you able to get all of that?”

“Every word,” Saga raised the pad for Avery’s inspection.

The confusion that flooded over the handsome face was endlessly satisfying. “I don’t wish to be unkind, but your handwriting is absolutely atrocious. I can’t make out any of this.”

“It’s shorthand.” Saga laughed.

“Respectfully, I’ve seen far smaller hands write infinitely more legibly.”

The doors dinged, and Saga led Avery inside, still fantastically amused by the misunderstanding.

“I meant I wrote in shorthand.” She pressed the button for the eighth floor.

“Stenographers and secretaries have used it for centuries. It’s a way of writing so you can copy a lot of information accurately without having to write every letter.

See?” She pointed to a line in her notes and quoted.

“They would have worked it out, Inspector. They always did. God just didn’t have the time, I suppose. ”

“I don’t believe any God had much to do with what happened to Valentina LaRosa that night,” Avery answered grimly. She inspected the notes again in a new light and smiled. “I’d heard of a system like this. I’d even read John Willis’s book on the matter, but this looks so different.”

“Well, there are different systems,” Saga explained. “This is Gregg shorthand. I liked it because it didn’t matter what I was writing with as much, I could eke out a passable version of it for my notes. Even with a crayon once.”

“I would very dearly like to learn it,” Avery confessed, handing the book back to her. “You are a growing wonder, Saga.”

She could feel her cheeks burn, but she just smiled. “As are you, Inspector Hemlock.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Not at all. I just realized I hadn’t known your surname until just now.”

“Really?” She was genuinely surprised. “I would have thought your aunt would have told you.”

“No, just that your tab was being picked up by Blackthorn. We’d all seen you by then.”

“Odd,” Avery observed.

“Is it? You don’t know my surname.”

“It’s Hudson.”

“It’s Trygg.”

The doors slid open to the eighth floor with another punctuated ding, but neither woman moved.

“Saga Trygg,” Avery repeated softly, curiously.

“My dad was from Oslo.” The doors began to close and Saga stretched her hand out to reset them before motioning for Avery to exit first.

Avery’s attention fixated on the numbers of each apartment as they passed. “So, your grandmother is a Hudson—”

“My grandmother is an O’Donnell, my grandfather was a Hudson,” Saga interjected her correction. “My mother and aunt are also Hudsons.”

Avery’s head bobbed as she got a clearer picture of this family tree. “Your uncle is a Lahiri and you’re a Trygg.”

Saga bowed her head in a mock curtsey. “We’re a family of proud families.”

“So it would seem.” There was a moment, brief, but unmistakable, that Avery appeared envious of the idea. She took a deep breath, focusing on the door now in front of them. “Are you ready?”

Saga held up her pad and pencil. “Once more unto the breach.”

Avery stepped forward and gave two firm knocks.

Finally the door opened and a woman in her early thirties peered out at them.

She was fair-haired and tall with a ballerina’s build and a porcelain complexion.

She was dressed suitably cozy for a Sunday afternoon, wearing a pink woolly jumper over black leggings.

Her green eyes regarded them with a skittish mix of confusion and perhaps even fear.

“Miss Walker?” Avery addressed the woman in that same calm disarming way that felt like being wrapped in a warm blanket.

“Yes?” Rachel opened the door a little more, and Saga could already see her posture had relaxed from when she first answered.

Avery reached into her coat and produced the black book once more to flash her credentials. “Beg your pardon. Detective Inspector Hemlock, I’m with special investigations. I’ve been looking into Miss LaRosa’s death. Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?”

It was brief, and likely a trick of the light, but from the corner of her eye, Saga could have sworn Avery had merely held up a notebook.

A black leather notebook. Perhaps a few scribbled notes, but nothing more.

But the way Rachel acknowledged it with such recognition, respect even, it couldn’t have been.

“I’m sorry, I’m confused. I thought Val was in a car accident.

” Rachel glanced back and forth between the two of them, lingering on Saga quizzically.

Saga didn’t blame her. Between her pink hair combined with a personal style somewhere between glam punk and cozy, her appearance didn’t really communicate any sense of authority, let alone “law enforcement.” Perhaps she should have asked Avery if she could have changed into something more official looking.

Avery gave a meaningful look around the hallway, as if suspicious of nosy neighbors. “Would you mind if we stepped inside?”

Rachel needed no further prodding and immediately stepped back to make room. “Of course.”

Saga followed after Avery, walking through the small entrance to a sitting room illuminated by a tall window on the opposite wall with a grand view of the city.

It was beautiful. Impeccably decorated, albeit a bit more monochrome than she cared for.

Yet for all its aesthetic, something about it simply felt off.

No, not off. Wrong. It was possible the feeling stemmed from the abundant use of pure white, which often reminded her of the hospital.

Or perhaps it was a nagging notion that it seemed far too posh for a nurse’s salary.

Or her judgment might simply have been clouded by the knowledge that this place very well could hold answers to the mysteries around Valentina LaRosa’s death.

It was at that moment Saga realized she’d not been paying attention to Rachel and Avery, and she raised her pencil and pad to hear the tail end of Avery’s explanation.

“A few key pieces of evidence don’t quite align with the coroner’s initial assessment.”

Rachel’s face crumpled. “What sort of evidence?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to share those details.”

“Right, of course,” Rachel acknowledged, her voice sounding weaker. She surveyed around the room helplessly as she stepped farther inside. “Do you need to search the apartment…or…um…”

“We would like to ask you a few questions first, if it is not too much trouble.” Again, Avery’s voice was gentle.

Rachel considered the room again as if it might give her advice on what to do before she sank into a large armchair. “Sure…”

Avery casually took the love seat across from her, giving Saga a look that indicated she shouldn’t follow.

Saga realized that from her position she was out of Rachel’s direct eyeline. It felt vaguely voyeuristic staying where she was.

“How long have you known Miss LaRosa?”

“About four years,” Rachel answered, her arms now around a decorative cushion with tassels. “We’ve been sort of living together for the past two.”

“Sort of living together?”

“Val specialized in end-of-life care. A lot of her patients required twenty-four-hour attention. So, unless it was her day off, she’d usually spend most of her days and nights with them.”

“And how long had she been staying with her patients even on her nights off?”

Rachel’s fingers had been playing with one of the terra-cotta tassels in a soothing gesture, but now they froze. Her lower lip quivered before she stammered, “H-how did you…”

“She’d recently been somewhere sunny, but your complexion shows no signs of such a holiday.

The doorman mentioned she’d been gone for a few weeks.

She also at one point had your name tattooed over her heart.

” Avery said this part slowly, watching the other woman very closely.

“But it appeared to have been recently modified, and in a hurry. Circumstances would suggest some kind of schism.”

“She changed it?” Rachel asked incredulously.

“It now reads, ‘Rache ist sü?.’”

A sardonic laugh escaped the willowy girl. It was a strange, strangled sound, half choked by what might have been a sob fighting its way up her throat. Her eyes were glassy, and her fingertips trembled as they rested over her lips.

Avery spoke her next question very carefully. “Does that mean something to you?”

“Yes, it means something,” Rachel blurted.

“It means she was still as immature, impulsive, and reactionary as the day we met. It’s like all sense of logic was poured so intensely into her work that there wasn’t any left for any other part of her life.

” She shifted in her seat, leaning forward over the pillow that was now in her lap.

“You want to know why she got that tattoo in the first place?”

It was then Saga realized that Rachel had failed to look at her once since they’d sat down—like she’d forgotten she was in an interview and not merely talking to a concerned stranger.