Page 62 of Witch and Tell

I looked from Ian to Lalena. They were both right, of course. I could call the sheriff’s office, turn myself in, and tip them off about Byron. Over the course of a few days, they might come to the same conclusion we had. Or not.

However, in the meantime, Beata would orchestrate whatever final details she needed to ensure I was the one behind bars. She had already woven a veil of glamour around the murder that turned heads toward me as Tyrone’s killer. If she planted the room key at the library, I was as good as convicted.

Once I was out of the picture, she would go on to destroy whomever stood between her and whatever glory she sought, whenever she wanted it. The damage she’d done as a young woman was nothing compared to the ruin she could wreak now. My sense of justice would not allow it.

I had no choice. “I’m not going to get the key, Esca lade is.”

That was a lie. This job was all Rodney’s.

Chapter Thirty-three

Itook the long way to the Empress. Butterfly sunglasses in place, streaky black hair fastened under a pink baseball cap, I walked through the back of the trailer park and around the café through the meadow. I furtively crossed Wilfred’s main drag and tried my best to look like a visiting East Coaster named Escalade, fascinated by small-town Oregon ways. Then I darted to the Empress and crouched behind a dumpster. I leaned against its hot steel side and caught my breath.

All this time, Rodney was at my feet. He never failed to sense when magic was in the offing. I still had no idea where he’d come from originally, only that he’d shown up at the library shortly before I’d arrived in Wilfred, as if he were waiting for me. We’d firmly bonded, and I couldn’t imagine life without him.

“Are you ready for your assignment, buddy?” I asked him.

As usual, he looked as if he wasn’t paying attention. He nonchalantly groomed his hindquarters, the sun glistening on his blue-black fur. He’d heard me, all right.

A dozen or so trucks filled the vacant lot next to the Empress. Byron’s van was on the lot’s far edge, away from the street. The driver’s side window was partially open, giving Rodney an entrance. However, I needed to be near him to maintain our connection.

At the sound of boots on gravel, I drew in my knees and kept still. The sides of the dumpster clanged, making me jump and sending Rodney under it as wood debris hit its metal sides. The steps receded, and I regained my breath. Yet another reason I’d need to move.

I poked my head around the dumpster. Rodney G.I. Joed his way out next to me. The coast was clear. Keep ing low, I hustled across the lot and slid under Byron’s van. Near my hip was a fast-food wrapper and a Red Bull can teeming with ants. It was cooler here, at least, even if it smelled of motor oil. Rodney purred at my shoulder.

Rodney, I willed him,go into the van. I pictured Rodney jumping from gravel to the van’s step and scuttling through the window.Look for the key. Again I formed a picture, this time of a room key with its brass tag from the Wallingford Guest House.Got it?

In response, Rodney crawled from under the van. He easily bounded to the driver’s side step with its rubber mat, then up to the window, his claws catching the window’s edge. I breathed deeply and let my mind relax. Now I was in Rodney’s head, seeing through his eyes.

Good grief, the van was a mess. Byron might have organized an efficient criminal enterprise in Baltimore, but he was no housekeeper. From the sight of the wadded sleeping bag and tangled workpants, he’d been living here. A few soda cans rattled in the foot well. Despite the clutter, the van’s energy was thin. No books.

Start looking, Rodney, I urged him. The key.

Someone could come by anytime. Lunch was over, but didn’t construction workers generally start and stop work early?

Through Rodney’s eyes, I surveyed the van’s edges. He made a circuit of the back, padding over dirty socks and a foam pad used as a mattress. He stuck his nose in a half-opened Dopp bag. Nothing there but a razor, toothbrush, and, strangely, a set of gold cufflinks with horses’ heads on them. Their eyes twinkled with diamonds. No key.

The pants, I told Rodney. Check the pockets.

For a moment, my attention came back to myself under the van. I scratched an ankle with my foot to dislodge an ant.Focus, I told myself and drew a breath, taking me back to Rodney.

A wadded pair of Carhartts protruded from under the sleeping bag. With his teeth, Rodney pulled them farther out until the top pockets were within easy reach. He stuck a paw in one pocket and dug around. From Rodney’s body I felt a penny and a gum wrapper.

The other pocket. Rodney walked over the pants and clawed them to the side for easier access. This pocket was completely empty. However, partway down the leg was yet another pocket.

Try it, I urged Rodney.

He clawed the pants free of the sleeping bag, and from the tiny weight moving with the pants leg, it was immediately apparent something was there. Rodney dove his whole head into the dark pocket and pulled it out. The key to Tyrone’s room at the Wallingford Guest House.

This was it! The proof. Byron really had killed Tyrone. From under the van, I was dizzy. Whether it was from the magic I’d expended or from the heat and my cramped position, I wasn’t sure. What I was sure of, though, was that as soon as Byron changed his pants, he’d realize he still had the key, and he’d almost certainly destroy it.

Should I take the key? I couldn’t. If I brought it to Sam, he would only see it as proof that I’d killed Tyrone, that I was trying to frame Byron. Otherwise, how would I have the key at all? It would do my reputation no good if I let on that I broke into Byron’s van to find it. No. I now had proof of Byron’s guilt. I’d leave the evidence. But not where he could find it.

Hide the key, I willed Rodney.

I felt Rodney resist. Worse, he was backing away from the key. Through his eyes I saw its brass tag catch the light on the floor of the van.

Something was wrong. I let my mind relax into Rodney’s body. Then I felt it. Magic shrouded the key, bad magic. Beata’s magic. She was on to the key’s existence—perhaps had known of it all along—and no doubt planned to use it as the final piece of evidence to frame me as Tyrone’s killer.