“I’ll go, and you could tell her about this,” Oliver said, gesturing to the tether, “if you want.”
Felipe’s brows rose, but he shook his head and swallowed. “No, I don’t think I’ll tell them. I wasn’t even going to go to Sunday dinner this week. Louisa and I got into a spat yesterday when I stopped over. Me being murdered would be the told-you-so I had coming, even if she wouldn’t say it to my face.”
“Is that where you were right before—?”
“Yeah, and if I had choked down my pride and stayed a little longer, I might still be alive.”
Shadows fell across Felipe’s face as he turned to stare out the window at the people passing along the sidewalk. A near miss. Would the killer have lain in wait for Felipe to return or would he have snuck out while the coast was clear? Oliver couldn’t imagine what it must feel like to know death could have been escapable, though he knew from talking to the dead how often a mundane decision saved or spelled death. But would they have been together now if Oliver had come to ask Felipe to dinner after he returned from visiting his wife? If he had met an empty apartment, would he have mustered the courage to try again? He would have much rather had Felipe alive and enjoying his life, even if that meant never being together.
“Will your daughter be there?”
“No, she’s in Philadelphia.”
“At some point this week, we could take the train and go see her.”
When Felipe turned back to him, his umber eyes glistened at the edges as he tried to blink the moisture away. “Thanks, Oliver, but I don’t know if I can face her knowing it’s the last time.”
“Well, the offer stands if you change your mind. You might want to drink your tea before it goes cold.” As Felipe sniffed and took a long sip, Oliver added, “I do have a bit of quid pro quo for going.”
“Hmm?”
“I want to go to the library this afternoon and see if we can find anything about how someone could be magically strangled.”
“Done, though I did research before and turned up next to nothing in regards to past cases. Just a clergyman with a thing for choking.”
“Oh...”
“But we could still go and talk to Mr. Turpin. Maybe he can tell us something about Father Gareth.”
Oliver nodded slowly. “Gwen said he has access to the special collections, so he might be able to tell us who might have powers that align with Sister Mary Agnes’s injuries.”
“Good thinking. The priest certainly isn’t working alone, and I’d much rather know what or who we’re up against sooner than later.”
By the time Felipe finished his tea and wiped off the last of the bagel crumbs from his trousers, Inspector Galvan was back.
***
Pushing open the librarydoor with Felipe at his back, Oliver drew in a long, contented breath. The cool air hit him first followed by the smell of leather, paper, and wood polish even before the shelves came into view. There were few places in the Paranormal Society where Oliver felt more at home than in the library. It was the one place he was guaranteed relative quiet, minimal smells, and magic beyond Gwen’s telekinesis and preservation spells was not allowed in order to prevent damage to the books or other patrons. Gwen told him there had been an incident decades ago involving a dozen shelves, two arguing patrons, and a small tornado, which caused Mr. Turpin to create that rule. No matter how it happened, Oliver appreciated it.
The library and archives were what made Oliver finally realize the building had relied on magical construction of some sort. The library was three floors of maze-like shelves at least eight feet high complete with catwalks, dead ends, and nooks where one could work. Or hide. On the main floor sat the front desk where Turpin guarded the entrance to the special collections and the staff room, the latter of which dipped into the floor below if the stairs were any indication. Oliver was certain there was no way the library and archives could fit into the profile of the building they saw from the street along with the training rooms, apartments, and various specialty rooms they relied on. Whatever magic allowed the Paranormal Society to stay hidden unless it was needed also allowed its unorthodox expansion.
When Oliver and Felipe walked out of the entrance hall lined with portraits of the society’s early founders and famous magical practitioners, Oliver spotted Mr. Turpin on his favorite stool. The old man reminded him of paintings of Ben Franklin. He had unfashionably long white hair that receded into a bald pate and a naturally downturned mouth befitting his curmudgeonly demeanor. Hearing them enter, his eyes brightened a fraction upon seeing Oliver, then narrowed at Felipe. As Oliver opened his mouth to speak, Mr. Turpin’s keen gaze flickered from Oliver to Felipe before focusing on the air between them. Turpin cocked his head at Oliver as if asking a silent question, but Felipe reached the counter first.
“Mr. Turpin, we’re working on a case and hope you can be of assistance,” Felipe said, flashing the older man a winning grin.
“That is what the library is here for.”
Oliver swallowed hard. If Felipe noticed Turpin giving Oliver the eye, he didn’t show it.
“We need to know who at the society or larger New York area has the ability to manipulate air or has telekinesis, besides Miss Jones.”
“No,” Turpin replied impassively, returning to his ledger.
“No? What do you mean no?”
“No, Inspector Galvan, I cannot tell you the specific powers of anyone at the Paranormal Society or within our records. It is against the rules. Do you know the havoc that could be caused if someone gained access to those records and managed to target specific types of magic users? What if someone decided they wanted to bottle your healing or what if they decided to blackmail Miss Jones into floating money out of a bank? It is too dangerous to give out that information willy-nilly. If you want to find out a person’s abilities, you’ll have to ask them yourself.”
“But that will potentially tip off a murderer,” Felipe gritted.
