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Tempest was hoping for some time alone to have space to think about the related elements that were swirling through her mind but not yet coalescing into anything coherent. But as she stepped through the front gate of Fiddler’s Folly, the only thing she detected was a sweet, buttery scent. One she couldn’t resist. She hadn’t eaten a proper lunch, and the steep walk through the winding hillside streets on her way home left her tired and hungry. She made her way up the sloping incline of Fiddler’s Folly and knocked on the door of the tree house, using the gargoyle that served as both a knocker and a lock.

The small home in the midst of two oak trees hadn’t always locked securely. All you had to do was solve a simple puzzle: if you twisted a pencil in the gargoyle’s mouth, the door would click open. That was back when Tempest’s parents were experimenting with whimsical architectural elements, before anyone lived in the tree house. Now that Ash and Morag lived there full-time, and murders affecting the family had taken place, a proper lock had been installed. Unfortunate, but necessary. Tempest was glad that the gargoyle itself was still in place.

Grandpa Ash opened the door wearing an apron around his waist and a fedora on his bald head. He grinned at her and stepped aside, letting her climb the stairs ahead of him.

“I thought you were out sleuthing.” She breathed in the comforting scent that wasn’t only sweet but also tart. “But the house smells amazing.”

“I’m baking more cardamom shortbread cookies for my next set of rounds.” He still thought of visits as the rounds he did as a doctor. “I already ran out of cookies.”

“And store-bought wouldn’t do.”

He clicked his tongue, and they headed up the stairs. “Of course not. I’m trying to get people to open up to me.”

“Any news?”

“Perhaps.” They reached the cozy kitchen, and Ash pointed to a computer tablet on the breakfast nook. “I learned two things so far that might be of interest. I found the list of people who signed the petition to prevent the library from opening.”

“You sweet-talked someone into giving it to you?”

“It’s public record. Don’t sign a petition if you don’t want your name known.”

Huh. She hadn’t thought about that before. “Anyone interesting?”

A timer dinged and he pulled two baking sheets from the oven, making the kitchen even more fragrant. Tempest wished she could curl up in the breakfast nook and take a nap in a bed of cardamom cookies.

“What’s more interesting,” said Ash, “is who didn’t sign. Martha Hudson didn’t sign her own petition.”

Tempest blinked at her grandfather. She didn’t know what was more surprising. That he knew Mrs. Hudson’s first name—Martha!—or that she hadn’t signed her own petition.

She told him as much and added, “It had to have been an oversight. Like she thought that she as the organizer was a given.”

He chuckled. “I don’t believe so. I think that as angry as she was about the library across the street from her home, and whatever had happened between her and Harold, she couldn’t bring herself to personally condemn a library.”

“Because she’d been a librarian for her whole career.”

Ash touched his finger to the tip of her nose. “She retired young, in her early fifties, to take care of her husband when he was battling cancer. He didn’t make it.”

“That’s why she’s so bitter.”

Ash shook his head. “I wouldn’t necessarily jump to that conclusion. But she’s more complex than simply someone you’re thinking of as the enemy.”

“You don’t think she’s Lucas’s killer?”

“Not enough information.” He pointed at the cookies. “I have more work to do. I should tell you one more thing before you go see your guest. I—”

“My guest?”

Ash frowned. “He didn’t text you?”

“Who?”

“Well, maybe it’s a surprise.”

Tempest raised an eyebrow. “I hate surprises.”

Ash picked up a bowl of cookie dough and spun on his heel. When he came to a stop, the bowl of dough was a small platter of baked cookies. He handed it to her.

Tempest couldn’t resist grinning as she accepted the platter. “Fine. You’re right. I love being surprised.”

Even in his eighties, he really was better at sleight of hand than both her and Sanjay. Not that his reflexes were as good, but he’d been a magician since he was a kid. Even though Ash left India after a family tragedy and switched careers, Tempest knew he still practiced in private. Magic is something that’s a part of you. Tempest didn’t practice as much as she would if she were expecting to be on stage, but she found herself unconsciously practicing the movements she’d done thousands of times. It was second nature.

“Your guest is with Abra in the Secret Fort,” Ash said. “At least that’s where I last saw him heading.”

Tempest paused before starting down the stairs. “Didn’t you say you’d learned one more thing of interest?”

“That petition against the library,” said Ash. “It has less than a hundred signatures. It was going to fail. The new Gray House Library has tremendous public support. There’s no way for it to fail.”

“At least there was no way for the library to fail,” said Tempest, “until a murder happened at Gray House.”