The Fairyland Murders (3 page)

I
arrived at Pixie's twenty minutes after leaving Isabella's apartment. By the time I reached the front door of the worn, tattered building, dusk had turned to night. I pulled my leather jacket higher, tossed my cigarette away, and opened the door. Like in a bad Western fairytale, the chaos inside the bar screeched to a halt, and every tiny, beady eye in the place flew my way.

The scent of year-old moldy beer and stale cigarette smoke washed over me, reminding me of home. I took a steadying breath, glancing around the place, checking for exits or anything that could be used as a weapon if things went south. And they usually did when dealing with fairies.

In the corner a fairy dust–addicted princess snorted lines of dust off the necks of two long-haired, tattooed fairies. Two tables from them sat a group of half-dressed nymphomaniac nymphs, each worse-looking than the former. Not that the gnomes chatting them up seemed to care.

In the air of desperation, I fit right in. In many ways it felt like coming home. Not that I knew what a real home was like. My brief stint with my one and only foster home when I was ten had lasted less than two weeks. Who knew macaroni and cheese was flammable?

I crossed the room to the grim-faced bartender standing on a stool tending bar. Leaning on the bar, I gave him my best smile. He ignored me outright. “Excuse me, barkeep,” I said and waved a hand in his oddly egg-shaped face. Had he not been a fairy, he could've passed for Humpty's shorter and smellier brother. “I'll have a beer.”

In response he spit on a towel and then wiped the beer mug in his hand clean before setting it on the bar in front of me. “That will be twenty bucks.”

I glanced down at the spit-shined empty glass and then back at him. “Let's try this again. I'm going to order a beer, in a bottle, you are going to flutter over to the cooler, pop one open, and then place it on the bar.”

“Not gonna happen, blue boy. We don't serve your kind here,” he said in a surprisingly high voice. Considering only my hair was electric blue in color, not the rest of me, his blue-boy comment felt a little harsh. Not to mention his breath, which was much too minty for my taste. But he wasn't finished being rude quite yet. “I suggest you leave. Now,” he said with menace.

I held up a leather-clad hand, tugging on each finger until my bare flesh-toned hand was free. “Fair enough. But first I need a little information.”

He laughed. “You ain't a cop.”

“No, I'm not.” My calm reply gave him pause. He glanced from me to a couple of fairies behind me. Armed fairies, I assumed, a fairly safe bet in this neighborhood. “You tell me what I want to know and I'm gone.” I turned my head to address the other fairies. “No one needs to get hurt,” I said, rubbing my fingers together to generate an electrical pulse. Silver sparks shot from my fingers, raining down on the bar. Tiny scorch marks smoldered against the beer-stained wood.

“What do you want to know?” he asked, rubbing his cherub chin.

I blew on my fingers and then slowly reached into the pocket of my jacket. The tiny footsteps behind me moved closer. I could smell their fairy scent, a mixture of grease, body odor, and fairy dust. When I merely pulled out a photo of Isabella Davis, a collective sigh rose from the group. The bartender relaxed a bit, offering me a less than hateful frown. “Have you seen this woman?”

“No,” he answered without looking at the picture.

I pushed the photo closer to him, through an oozy pool of old beer. “Why don't you take another look?”

He rolled his beady eyes. “Never seen her. Like I said,” he leaned forward, his breath hot on my face, “we don't serve humans here, even ones like her.”

“She's not human,” I said, watching him closely. This time his eyes flickered to the photograph, widening slightly. I smiled, knowing I had him. “When did you see her last?”

He shoved the picture away. “You want some advice?”

“Not especially.”

“Too bad.” He moved closer until we were almost nose to nose. “Stay out of fairy politics and you just might live to see the next blue moon.”

Before I could decide between punching him in his button nose or questioning him further, his fairy entourage attacked from behind. A very short, thin pool cue bounced off the back of my neck. While the blow hadn't hurt, it didn't endear the tiny varmints to me either. I spun to face the threat, frying the two closest fairies in the process. They dropped to the ground, small limbs jerking rhythmically. The other two still-standing fairies backed up a step, and then another.

“Easy,” I warned as electricity arched from one hand to another as my adrenaline spiked. “We don't need to do this.”

The telltale sound of buckshot being loaded into a shotgun echoed from behind the bar. I willed my anger—and subsequently the electricity inside me—down.

With a curse, I slowly turned back to the bartender and the shotgun two times his size in his puny, tattooed arms. The words
FAIRY POWER
covered his knuckles. Not the most badass tattoo, but I got the point. He didn't serve my kind, whether it was lukewarm beer or information.

“It's time for you to leave,” he said, motioning to the door with the barrel of the gun.

“As you wish.” I picked up Isabella's sticky photograph. “Don't be surprised if you get a bad Yelp review, though.” As parting words went those weren't my best. Mind you, I was far more clever when not faced with getting shot in the face with hundreds of pellets.

The barrel of the gun followed me out the door and into the street. I swore as I lit a cigarette, my hands shaking ever so slightly. I wasn't afraid of dying, bright blue light and all that. But I hated the thought of death by fairy. The embarrassment of being taken out by some dwarf bumblebee hybrid was almost too much to bear.

“Psst,” a tiny voice called from the darkness. “Hey you . . .” I searched the shadows, trying to pinpoint the speaker's location. “Over here,” the voice came again.

I snapped my fingers. Blue sparks flew from my fingers, illuminating the darkness. In the alleyway between the bar and a fairy dry cleaners stood an orange-winged fairy dressed in filthy clothes, his face pale and sweaty in the moonlight.

“You looking for some info?” he said in a whisper.

“What I really need is to find a woman.”

His eyes widened. “I could . . . probably . . .”

“Not like that.” I waved him off. “I'm looking for a specific woman.” I pulled out the photo, tapping it with my finger. “This woman.” A shot sparked off my finger, catching the edge of the picture on fire. I quickly blew it out.

The fairy took a step back, wiping his nose with the back of his arm. He glanced at the photo and then at me. “What's it worth to you?”

God bless capitalism. Not to mention full-on fairy-dust addiction. If not for those two things, my job would be a hell of a lot harder.

I jammed my cigarette between my lips, reached into my pocket, pulling out my nearly empty wallet, and counted out twenty dollars in one-dollar bills. He watched my every move, twitching with need. “I have twenty bucks,” I said. “All yours.” He reached out to snatch it, but I yanked it out of his grasp. “If what you tell me is true.”

“I swear it, man.” He held up a dirt-stained hand. “I saw that chick two nights ago. Right there.” He pointed to a graffiti-covered pay phone on the street corner a half block away.

I tilted my head, studying him. “What time was this?”

“Eight or so.”

“Was she alone?”

He scratched his whiskery chin. “Not sure.”

“Think harder.”

I swore I could see smoke billowing from his head as he tried valiantly to remember beyond his fairy dust–induced haze. Hard to do when lost in the stuff. “Um,” he said after a full two minutes, “I think so. There was a guy . . .”

“What guy?”

“A little guy. Green wings.” He licked his cracked lips. “I don't think they were together. But he looked real interested in her . . . in what she was doing.”

Not good. Not good at all. Was this her kidnapper? Or worse, Jack the Tooth Ripper? The New Never City PD had long suspected the infamous killer was in fact a fairy. “Did you see where she went after she made her call?”

He shook his head.

“Did the guy with green wings follow her?”

He lifted his trembling shoulders in a shrug. “Sorry, man. I don't know.”

“Thanks,” I said, holding out the money. He took it, careful to avoid hand-to-hand contact, and then skipped away, whistling happily.

I had a bad feeling I'd just lost twenty bucks on bogus info. I tossed my cigarette to the ground, crushing it under my boot before I headed for the pay phone up the block.

Sirens filled the night air as I reached the phone booth. The stench of urine and unwashed bodies tickled my nose. Why would Isabella Davis use a pay phone? Only one reason I could think of: She didn't want her call traced back to her. Dust dealers used pay phones for the same reasons.

Just what was the soon-to-be Tooth Fairy into?

Only one way to find out. Far from germophobic, I thought twice before touching the obviously sticky phone. Pulling on my gloves, I lifted the receiver with a shiver of revulsion. A dial tone greeted me. Apparently, Isabella had found the only working pay phone in the entire city.

Quite a feat.

Shoving fifty cents into the slot, I dialed a familiar if not friendly number. “Fairy Atlantic, how can I help you?” a voice answered in a bored tone.

“Hey, Belle,” I said. “Been a while.”

“Blue? Is that you, sugar?”

I grinned, letting her affected southern charm slide over me like expensive whiskey. “How have you been? Still seeing that Harry guy?”

She laughed, a husky sound that sent shivers of current along my spine. “His name is Dave and you know it. Now, what can I do for the one who got away?”

It was my turn to laugh. “You know as well as I do that we would've never worked. The Blue Belle jokes alone killed any chance of a future together.” Not to mention the third-degree burns I'd left on her thighs after a drunken encounter in an alley outside a nightclub.

“True,” she said with a giggle. “So what do you need?”

“Can you trace this number for me?”

“Of course.” The rattle of fast fingers sliding over a keyboard filled the phone line. “It's a pay phone on the corner of Fairy and Park.”

I grinned. “I know. I'm calling from there. What I need to know is what number was called from here two nights ago about eight at night.”

“Oh.”

“Can you do that?”

Her voice slid two octaves lower. “Honey, the things I'm capable of would amaze even someone as jaded as yourself.”

“I don't think Dave would approve.”

“If he knew I was still talking to you, I'm fairly sure his approval wouldn't be the main issue.” She cleared her throat, all teasing humor gone, replaced with complete professionalism. The main reason we'd broken up. “Okay, two numbers were called from your location during that time frame.” She rattled off the numbers, both New Never City area codes. “The first number is for a business a mile away, it looks like some sort of clothing shop, and the second . . .”

“Yeah?”

“This is bad, Blue. Real bad,” she said. “The second call was to the police.”

“Any idea what it was about?”

Silence filled the line.

“Belle?”

She swallowed hard. “According to the cops who contacted us shortly after they arrived at the vacant pay phone, the caller had screamed once and then the line went dead.”

“Thanks, Belle,” I said and then hung up, wondering what the hell the twins had gotten me into. From the look of the small rust-colored puddle on the ground under the phone, the answer wasn't one any of us would like.

A
fter hanging up with Belle, I grabbed the Fey Train to Easter Village and the first mysterious number called from the pay phone. The number to a clothes store, Belle had said. When I arrived I wasn't so sure. A group of well-endowed mannequins dressed as wicked witches and slutty princesses sat in the window. Either I'd found the latest drag queen hot spot or a costume shop.

One could never be too sure in the Village.

I opened the door, stifling a sneeze as a year's worth of stale air filled my nostrils. Not a drag queen shop, then; too much dust, not enough glitter.

“Welcome to Barry's Costume Shop. How can I help you?” asked a small man with furry, catlike ears affixed to his bald head with what looked like electrical tape.

Beat staples, I supposed.

I shrugged, doing my best impression of an unassuming and nonthreatening guy with bright blue hair and a matching goatee. Not too surprisingly, the cat man backed up a step, but his shopkeeper smile stayed firmly in place. Guess the costume business wasn't much better than the PI one.

I squinted at the name tag on his lapel. “Barry, a friend of mine . . . Isabella . . . she called you two days ago, around eight at night. She might've rented a costume. . . .”

His once warm smile slipped a few degrees. “No refunds.”

I grinned, reaching in my jacket pocket for my wallet. “Of course not. I just need a little information. That's all.” I pulled out a wad of bills fortified mostly with lint. Thankfully, I'd stopped at an ATM on the way here, pulling enough cash for a small bribe. A very small bribe. “Can you help me with that, Barry?”

He nodded slowly, his eyes on the cash.

Sometimes bribery was an art, a game of wits versus greed. Other times it was easier than flagging down a passing pumpkin coach. Barry apparently fell into the latter half, and after palming nineteen dollars and seventy-five cents, he was eager to please. “Yes, of course I remember her.”

“Good. Good.” I smiled. “What can you tell me about her call?”

He rubbed his bald head. “Well, she had quite a voice. Husky, with a hint of vulnerability.”

I rolled my eyes. “Why did she call you?”

“Oh,” he pursed his lips. “She needed a costume, of course.”

I swallowed back a sharp retort. “Of course. What kind of costume did she want?”

“I don't recall offhand, but she needed it right away.” He ran his finger over his lip. “For a party, I think.”

I tilted my head. “A party?”

“That's what she said.” He smiled. “She even gave me an extra twenty to deliver it by five yesterday afternoon.”

“Wait,” I said, bubbling with electricity. “She gave you her address?”

He frowned. “How else would I have delivered it to her?”

Good point. “So you saw her yesterday? When you delivered the outfit?” which meant up until five o'clock yesterday Isabella Davis was safe and sound and the blood at the pay phone wasn't hers. Relief filled me.

He shook his head. “She told me to leave it on the stoop.”

I frowned. “And you did? Weren't you worried it would get stolen?”

“Of course not.” He grinned. “No one steals from a church.”

“A church? She asked you to leave the costume at a
church
? Don't you find that a little strange?”

“Not in my business.”

I glanced around the shop, noting the large selection of whips and fairy wings. “Guess not. Do you remember what church you delivered it to?”

“I wrote the address down on her receipt. Let me look for it,” he said as he crossed the shop and vanished into a back office.

An array of colorful wings, hats, and at the very back of the store, rows and rows of fake fairy wings filled the aisles. One pair in particular caught my eyes. They were bright pink with silver and gold glitter, like something a kid might make during arts and crafts.

“Beautiful, aren't they?” Barry asked, appearing at my side, a piece of paper in his hand. He waved it at the pink wings hanging on the wall. “Those are our top sellers during Pride Week.”

“I'll bet.” I shot him a small smile. “Did you find what I need?”

“Oh yes.” He shoved the paper into my gloved palm. “My records are impeccable, unlike my memory.”

My fingers curled around it as my eyes scanned the receipt, taking special note of the type of costume Isabella had ordered. I smiled. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” he said, bowing low. “And if you're ever in need of a costume, please think Barry first.”

“You can count on it.” I glanced down at the paper again. A quiver of heat rushed through me, the same kind of electricity I always felt when I was about to solve a major case.