“That’s what I want you to tell me. Was there any sign of a break in?”
“No. I went to the movie, got home late. I didn’t know they were gone until this morning.”
“And how could you tell they were gone?”
“Just...something didn’t feel right about the shop. I thought I smelled something, like cinnamon? I have some potpourri in the shop, but don’t really like the smell of cinnamon. So I thought maybe a customer had left something behind—a coat, a hat. You know how some people go heavy with the perfume. I’d had some people in to watch me make orbs the previous morning.
“So I walked around, checked the shelves and displays. Checked the work benches, under them. And when I walked in front of the old furnace—the one holding the powers—all I felt was cold.”
“The furnace door was closed?”
“Yes. I grabbed it and opened it, so if there were fingerprints, I ruined them.” He winced. “I guess I should have called you. But I didn’t think they were gone. Not really. Hell, I stood in front of that cold furnace for fifteen minutes before it really sank in.”
“What time was this?”
“Early. I went in early to catch up with stuff left over from leaving early the afternoon before.”
“Rough estimate?”
“Six-thirty?”
“Did you see any signs of break in?”
“The back door was open. I went in through the front, which was locked. My security alarm has been acting weird the last couple weeks, so I didn’t have it activated on the back door—only on the front. But there was still a lock and a deadbolt.”
“Broken?”
“No. Opened.”
“Someone had the keys.”
“No one has keys to the shop. Not back door keys.”
“What about Apocalypse Pablo?” Okay, that wasn’t really his name. His real name was Pablo Fernandez, but everyone in town called him Apocalypse Pablo. Since he liked it, the nickname had stuck. “He comes in to clean for you, right?”
“Yeah. Works the rest of the time at the gas station on the north end of town. He’s...well, you know how he is. Nice enough for a mortal, even if he’s a little...intense. Good with glass, though. Not bad with customers—he’s covered a couple times. I had to tell him to lay off the apocalypse thing after he made a little kid cry. But he only has the front door key. Back door is mine.”
“Do you have copies of the key?”
“No.”
“Would you have left your keys out where someone could make copies of them?”
He frowned and bit on his lip a little longer. “I don’t know. Maybe? I’ve never worried that much about it. Who would go through the trouble to steal my keys, copy only the back door set, then break into my shop? Sure, I carry a lot of inventory, but the glass pieces won’t sell for that much on the open market, and most of them have artist marks and serial numbers.”
“Well, it wasn’t the glass our thief was interested in, was it?”
“No,” he said dejectedly. “It wasn’t. But there aren’t that many in town who even know about god powers, much less where they’re being stored.”
“More than you think. All of the creatures know about you gods. A few mortals. Who did you have in the shop for that last class?”
“Mortals. Tourists.”
“Are you sure they were mortal?”
He frowned and shifted to look at me. “We don’t have a lot of visiting immortals.”
“Sure we do,” I said. “Vamps, shifters, dryads, trolls, you name it, they’ve strolled through Ordinary.”
