and some twenty houses later, we had confirmed that no one in the vicinity had seen anything. Well, that’s not strictly true. There were a number of people who’d noticed a bunch of cars and motorcycles congregating in the cemetery around nightfall when our showdown with the Palmer ladies had occurred, but since the gathering dispersed without incident, no one had bothered to report it.
After that, nothing.
I let Cody handle the last few inquiries and took the time to check in with Sinclair.
“I heard,” he said without preamble when he answered his phone. Of course he’d heard the news. The whole town had probably heard it by now. “So what’s up? What’s going on? Do you think it’s related?”
“Other than the fact that someone stole the decayed corpse of Pemkowet’s most infamous murderer, I don’t know what’s going on.” I shifted on the passenger seat of Cody’s truck. Yep, still tingling. “Do you?”
“It was definitely . . . stolen?” Sinclair asked.
“Looks that way,” I said. “Although Hel summoned me last night to warn me that Pemkowet’s dead are restless and may rise, hopefully but not definitely in incorporeal form, and that if we don’t get your grandfather’s duppy contained by Halloween, the gate between the living and the dead may never be closed. Any thoughts?”
He drew in a sharp breath. “Daisy, I am so, so sorry.”
“Yeah, me, too,” I said. “It’s not your fault. We all made mistakes, and ultimately, it was my responsibility. So what about Grandpa Morgan?”
“Hell, I’ll try.” Sinclair gave a harsh, broken laugh. “Do you think I can fake sincerity well enough to fool a duppy?”
“I don’t think you have to,” I said. “You’re under my protection and Hel is willing to fight this. She gave me a spirit lantern.”
“A what?”
Thank you! So this wasn’t common knowledge. “It makes ghosts cast a shadow,” I said. “If you fix their shadows to the ground with an iron nail, it lays their spirits to rest. But since your grandfather’s spirit never was at rest, you’re still going to have to, um, recapture it and return it to the vessel in which it was contained. The pickle jar, I mean,” I added in case it was unclear.
“That makes sense. How do you know it was a pickle jar?” Sinclair sounded bemused.
I rolled my eyes. “I don’t! It looked like a pickle jar, okay? Anyway, tell me you can do this, Sinclair.”
“I have to, don’t I?”
“Yeah, you do,” I said. “And the sooner the better. How do we find him?”
“You don’t find a duppy,” Sinclair said. “A duppy finds you. He’ll find us when he’s ready. But thanks to my mother, it could be anywhere. She set him loose on the whole town.”
Crap. That wasn’t exactly what I wanted to hear, but there wasn’t a whole lot I could do about it. “You’ll be ready when he does?” I asked him.
“Damn right I will.” His voice was stronger and more certain this time. “And, Daisy . . . I appreciate it.”
Glancing through the windshield, I saw Cody approaching, shrugging his shoulders to indicate he’d had no success. “Thanks. Sinclair . . . about this grave robbery. I mean, it’s got to be related, right? But how?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “But we’re not talking about some ordinary spirit. My grandfather was an obeah man. A powerful one. He could make people do things. Things they wouldn’t normally do.”
“Like steal a corpse?”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“Why?”
There was a rattling sound as he shook his beaded dreadlocks. “Death magic? I don’t know. But maybe if you find the corpse, you’ll find my grandfather’s duppy.”
“Okay. Stay tuned. Let the coven know what’s going on. I’ll talk to you later.” I ended the call as Cody opened the driver’s-side door of the pickup and slid behind the wheel, mist dampening his bronze hair.
We regarded each other.
“No luck?” I hazarded.
“No.” Cody stuck the key in the ignition and turned it. “You?”
“Grandpa Morgan was an obeah man,” I informed him. “It’s possible his spirit could have convinced someone to steal the Tall Man’s remains for unknown nefarious purposes, and it’s possible that if we locate said remains, we may find Grandpa Morgan. Otherwise, no.”
Cody raised his eyebrows. “Nefarious?”
“Uh-huh. What next?”
He put the truck in gear. “Well, I guess we’d better inform the Tall Man’s nearest living kin.”
Thirty-eight
The flagstone walk leading to Clancy Brannigan’s, aka Boo Radley’s, rambling old Tudor house showed years of neglect. The moss-covered stones were cracked and crumbling, weeds growing between them. Warped shutters covered the