The Mystery of Nevermore (8 page)

I had been sitting in my office, staring at the black computer screen when he came in.

“It’s not meant to be interpreted as a compliment,” Max continued as he tried to fix his hair after taking his winter cap off.

“I know, but seeing as I feel worse than shit—”

“A tapeworm in cat crap,” Max offered helpfully.

“Yeah, sure. Anyway. The
just shit
is a compliment.”

Max turned and pointed at the counter. “I brought you a coffee.”

I looked up with what was certain to be a pathetic smile, because Max suddenly looked so concerned. “Thanks.” I stood.

“Neil?” he guessed. Not that it was hard.

I wished I had some minor aggravation to complain about, like the water heater in my apartment building broke, or the college kids who lived above me had a party until four in the morning. Something.
Anything
. But the reality was, my super was extremely good at his job, and the kids above me were the bookish sort.

“It’s fine,” I said while waving my hand. I eyed the four cups. “Why so many?”

“They released new flavors,” Max explained. “Two for each of us!”

I grabbed one of the coffees that looked like it had my name scrawled on the side and took a sip. Another sugary concoction from Starbucks, but Max loved them. He was trying to sway me in their favor, but I liked my coffee dark and bitter.

Maybe that said something about me. I set the cup aside and reached for a piece of saltwater taffy I left in a bowl on the counter. Bitter coffee and old-man candy.

“—Japan has the cherry blossom flavor,” Max was saying.

“The what?”

“
Sakura
, isn’t it? In spring, they have pink fraps. I want to go so I can try one.”

“I’m sure there’s a better reason to take a trip around the world.”

“Why would you go to Japan, then?” he asked while sipping his drink.

“Me? In the Land of the Rising Sun? Come on. I’d be stricken blind,” I teased lightly.

Max laughed. “What do you need done today?”

I took a deep breath and another sip of my nutmeg-caramel-mocha-soy-whateverthehellthiswas, which did
not
go well with taffy, and then nodded toward the back. “We ought to go through the boxes.”

“Finally?” he asked with a grin.

“Spring cleaning,” I replied.

“Little early for that,” Max remarked.

“I need a fresh start,” I said.

Hearing myself say that was—strange. Had I meant what I said to Neil the night before, about changing the locks? Did he understand what I had implied by that? Did
I
understand it in the heat of the moment?

I guess I had.

“Get a pair of gloves and the clipboard. Start with box one.”

“Yup, I got it,” Max said, leaving with his coffee to do as asked.

I fished my cell out of my pocket and raised it close to pick my dad from the contacts. I knew what he’d say about this. I didn’t even need to hear it.

Not really.

Maybe.

“Dad?”

“Hey, kiddo. Everything okay? I tried calling you yesterday.”

“Did you?”
Uh-oh.

“Around eight.”

I had turned my phone off after Neil left. I wanted to make a point, on the off-chance he tried to call during the evening. “Sorry, Pop. I had my phone off.”

“What’s going on with Mike Rodriguez? A detective called me yesterday about your visit.”

“Mike’s dead, Dad,” I said quietly, glancing up, but Max was far in the back of the shop.

“Good lord!”

“It’s complicated—not really why I called,” I admitted selfishly.

“You have something that’ll top this?”

“Well, no, but…. Neil walked out last night.”

There was a long pause on my father’s side. So much so that I thought the call had been dropped. “Dad?”

“Is he coming back?” he finally asked.

I wasn’t sure and told him as much as I sat on the stool behind the counter. “I don’t know what to do, Pop.”

“It’s your life, Seb. I can’t tell you how to live it.”

“You could give me a few pointers,” I joked. “Shit hit the fan because I told that detective I lived with Neil. I had to. He was questioning me.”

I heard my dad sigh. “I know why you’re torn about this, Sebastian.”

“Do you?”

“You’ve been together for a while. It’s… not easy having your heart broken.”

I felt an unexpected lump form and cleared my throat. Like father, like son. My mother had walked out on my dad and me when I was about six years old. My memories of her aren’t great, but my father’s devastation?
That
I remembered with painful clarity.

The shop door opened, and I heard Max go to greet the customer. I turned my back to continue the call with my dad. “Maybe we just need some time apart,” I said lamely.

“Seb,” my dad started.

“Sebastian?” Max called.

“Hold on, Pop.” I turned. “What is it?”

Max pointed. “It’s your detective.”

“My—?”
Neil
?

No.

Calvin stepped into view from around a pillar. “Good morning.”

My heart did a sudden jump of excitement, which was definitely not what I thought I should be feeling. “I, uh, sorry, I’ve got to go, Pop. Can I call you later?” I hastily said good-bye before hanging up and walking down the steps to meet Calvin.

“How’s everything here?” he asked.

I looked at Max, who got the hint and excused himself. “Fine,” I said, looking up. “Free of any ritualistic dismemberments.”

“Good,” he said simply, as if he were expecting that as my response.

“Am I under arrest?”

“No, but if you want to see the inside of a cell so badly, just ask,” Calvin replied.

I was caught off guard by the smartass response.

Then he did something I hadn’t seen yet. He smiled.

“So you can be rendered speechless,” he stated. “I’ll be.”

I didn’t really know how to answer. I squinted a bit to get a better read on Calvin’s expression. Despite the smile, he looked tired. Haggard, but holding it together. “Have you slept? Since yesterday?”

He consulted his watch, like he really didn’t know what time it was. “No.”

To my surprise I asked, “Do you want some coffee?”

“That’d be nice.”

I led Calvin over toward the register and picked up the second coffee Max had purchased for me. “I don’t know what crazy flavor it is,” I warned.

“I’m not picky,” he said while taking it. “Thank you.”

I watched him take a drink. “Not that I don’t enjoy your company,” I said casually, “but why are you here?”

“You called me.”

“I did?”
Butt dial?

“Yesterday.”

“Oh. Right. I didn’t mean to waste your time. It was a mistake.”

“You said you may have an idea about Mr. Rodriguez’s murder. That’s not a waste of my time.”

“Why didn’t you just call me back?”

“I prefer these conversations happen in person.” Calvin took another sip. “So?”

“So
what
?”

He looked more tired. “What did you want to tell me?”

I shook my head. “Sorry. I’m sorry, I… had a bad night.” It could be argued that Calvin was the reason. If he hadn’t talked to Neil—but no. It was childish to pass the blame. The fact was, Neil was a thirty-seven-year-old man that was ashamed of himself.

And me, by proxy.

“I’m sure,” Calvin muttered.

“What?”

“Detective Millett.” He looked up from studying the secret language of the barista on the coffee cup. “I assume you don’t need me to say more.”

I deflated a little. “No,” I admitted. For a beat there was no sound but that of Max using a box cutter. “Anyway. It’s kind of an out-there proposal.” I looked back up, Calvin watching and waiting in polite silence. “Do you know much about Edgar Allan Poe?”

A flicker of something betrayed his stoic features. I wasn’t certain what it had been, but I could tell I now had his undivided interest. “He was a writer,” Calvin supplied. “Poems and short stories, essays, and criticisms. Known for his mystery and macabre. Expelled out of West Point. Married his first cousin, Virginia Clemm. He died under mysterious circumstances in Baltimore, 1849.”

I was surprised but not really sure why. It had been sort of a rhetorical question, but Calvin knew more than I expected, which was rude because who was I to say that he wasn’t the literary sort? Or even someone intrigued by the mysterious death of a mysterious man? I was judging Calvin based off my knowledge of Neil, who wasn’t much of a reader of fiction.

“Ah… that’s right,” I stupidly answered. “Have you read much of his work?”

Calvin took a sip of coffee.

“Specifically ‘The Black Cat.’”

“I have not,” he answered.

“A madman kills his pet black cat by tying a noose around its neck and hanging it from a tree,” I explained. “The guilt from the killing of the first cat causes the man to try to kill a second, but he ends up murdering his wife instead.”

“I’m sure you’re reaching a point.”

I frowned at the interruption. “He kills her with an axe to the head. It’s considered one of his most gruesome tales.”

“With good reason.”

“What color was the cat? Yesterday, at the shop?”

“Right, because you have achromatopsia.”

“You remember that?”

He pulled out his cell phone and scrolled briefly before reading out loud. “Complete achromatopsia is a nonprogressive visual disorder, which is characterized by decreased vision, light sensitivity, and the absence of color vision. Affects 1 in 33,000 Americans. Individuals with complete achromatopsia have greatly decreased visual acuity in daylight, hemeralopia, nystagmus, and severe photophobia.”

“I wouldn’t say
severe
,” I muttered.

“I don’t notice nystagmus with you,” he stated, pocketing his phone and staring at me.

Nystagmus was the involuntary movement of the eyes, sometimes called
dancing eyes
.

“My, I’m flattered,” I replied while mockingly holding a hand to my chest. “I had it as a child. It got better as I got older. Only happens once in a while.”

“No color, huh?”

“Nope.”

He nodded thoughtfully and drank his coffee again. “Interesting.”

“Is it?”
Not really.
“I’d say it’s more of a pain.”

“Has this been officially diagnosed?” Calvin asked.

“Of course it has. You think I play blind for attention?”

“People do a lot of crazy things for attention.”

I snorted and crossed my arms. “I’ll give you the number of my ophthalmologist. Can we talk about the cat, please?”

“The cat was black,” Calvin answered. “Is this your theory? Some crazed madman is reenacting stories of Edgar Allan Poe?”

“I, uh, not exactly,” I said.
Was
that my theory? All I knew was the resemblance to Poe’s writing was uncanny and disturbing. “‘The Black Cat’ is often compared to ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’ because of the similar guilt the narrator experiences over his murder.”

“Is that so?” Calvin didn’t sound interested.

“‘The Tell-Tale Heart’ is about—”

“I know what it’s about,” he said over me. “I had English 101 too.”

“Then you’ll find it hard to deny that what happened in my shop on Tuesday morning is exactly like that story.”

“Not
exactly
, unless you found the rest of a body today,” Calvin said.

“Er, no, but the focus of the story is the heart.”

“It was a pig’s heart.”

I threw my hands up. “Look, all I’m saying is, it’s weird.
Really
weird. Have there been any other deaths lately that—”

“You’re not privy to that information,” Calvin quickly answered.

“I’m not asking for case details.”

“You’re a civilian. I appreciate your theory, but let this go. Don’t start thinking you can play amateur sleuth just because you know a thing or two about crime scenes.”

“I’m not!” I protested.

Max dropped a box in the back, and the crash echoed through the shop. Calvin startled abruptly, almost comically, and dropped his coffee. The lid popped off, and the hot liquid shot all over my counter. He was frozen in place for just a second, long enough for me to see the noise had actually,
truly
, frightened him.

He blinked and looked down. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay.” I left to fetch a roll of paper towels from the office and brought them back to soak up the sugary, sticky mess. “Max?”

“Sorry, sorry! It was only books!” he said back.

“
Only
books? Are they okay?” I left the mess and hurried off the steps and down the tight aisles. “Let me see.”

Max opened the box on the floor, motioning to the antiques. “All present and accounted for.”

“What happened?”

“Spider.” He grinned sheepishly.

I crouched down, eyeing the contents. “Go through these next. Make sure the spines and corners are okay. Some of these look like original bindings by the publisher.”

“All right. Sorry, Sebastian.”

I left Max’s side and returned to the register to see Calvin tossing the soiled paper towels in the wastebasket. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll clean it.”

He looked at me. “I’d better go, if there was nothing else you needed to tell me?”

I shook my head. “No, that was it.”

Calvin stepped down and nodded. “I’ll be in touch.”

I was surprised. “Will you?”

He looked to be contemplating his own choice of words. “I’m sure you’ll worm your way into my case again.”

“Gee, thanks.”

That made him laugh, and without another word, Calvin turned to walk out of the shop.

THE REST
of the day at the Emporium was comfortably busy. I didn’t have time to dwell on Neil, which was a relief. What spare time I did have was dedicated to eating my sushi lunch, brought to me by a very well-tipped delivery boy, and fixating on Calvin’s cases.

Or I should say, case.

Because my little fiasco was a closed book. Nothing more than a prank. Right?

And yet, two antique shops in the same week had experienced an event very reminiscent of Poe, and one had ended with a fatality. What if I had caught the individual in my shop planting the heart? Would I have been cut up and put under the floor, just like in “Tell-Tale”?