Bell, Book and Scandal (Bedknobs and Broomsticks #3) - Josh Lanyon Page 0,22
my smartest move. I mean, I had also joked about being pregnant, and no one took that seriously. But it seemed my intimations of arcane knowledge had fallen on more fertile ground.
“How did this, er, meeting of minds happen?” I inquired.
Sukie said, “Solomon teaches at SF State. I was taking his course on Modern Witchcraft. In fact, I’m the one who got him the job at SFPD.”
“Ah-HA!” I exclaimed, and they all giggled at my very bad impression of Sherlock Holmes.
“Where is Solomon?” Ann asked.
“I don’t see him…” Alice craned her head, scanning the packed room.
“That’s funny.” Sukie was frowning. “I spotted him by the punch bowl literally just a minute ago.” She glanced at me. “He said he couldn’t wait to meet you.”
“Maybe there was a police emergency.” I was only partly kidding. The memory of Eddie Darquez was never far from my thoughts. I thought it was very likely that Eddie’s body art was eventually going to attract the attention of SFPD’s occult expert.
They smiled, but clearly Solomon’s disappearing act was a disappointment. It was sort of a disappointment to me too, but it was also a relief. I felt like there was already more in my altar bowl than I could deal with.
My initial concern had been that Solomon Shimon was a Wiccan priest using his position at SFPD to gather high-society acolytes. Now I had to wonder if his sudden disappearance meant he had recognized me—and that he knew I would recognize him.
Which could mean a couple of things. Perhaps he was a member of the Society for Prevention of Magic in the Mortal Realm. I had suspected for some time that someone at City Hall was feeding information to the SPMMR. On the other hand, I only knew a couple of members of the SPMMR, so it seemed unlikely I would recognize Shimon on sight.
Which left the far more alarming possibility. That Shimon knew me because he was Craft. And that he knew I would recognize him not simply as Craft, but as someone from my own tradition.
I did not want to believe that. But the more I thought about it, the more I feared that Solomon Shimon was a member of the Abracadantès.
Chapter Eight
“Tired?” John asked on the short drive home.
I opened my eyes. “A little. Did you have a good time?” I had not had a particularly good time. It had not helped to be relegated to civilian-wife status. Not that I typically had any interest in police work. But when the police work had to do with things I was interested in, things that were most definitely my concern, then yes, I did resent being shut out.
That was not John’s fault, however. Or at least, it wasn’t entirely John’s fault.
John replied indifferently, “Sure.” Mission accomplished. That was what sure meant.
When I didn’t respond, he glanced my way and said, “As soon as I can get away, I promise you, we’ll go see your father in Salem.”
I smiled faintly. “That would be nice. But I’m okay. Don’t worry about me.”
“I know you’re disappointed about our vacation being canceled.”
I was, but it came with the territory. I understood that. I had understood when we planned the trip that there was a very good chance it wouldn’t happen.
I said, “There will be other trips.”
“Yes.”
I studied his profile in the light of the dashboard. “I never did get to meet Solomon Shimon. He left the party early.”
John said vaguely, “Did he?”
“What’s he like? What’s he look like?”
“I don’t know him well enough to tell you what he’s like. He’s about your age. Maybe a little older.” He shrugged. “Average height, average build. Brown hair. Wears one of those handlebar mustaches that went out with penny-farthing bicycles.”
I smiled at that description. It did not sound like anyone I knew.
That was it for our conversation. It had been a long week. We were both tired, and I was sick with nerves and anxiety. I had to tell John about what happened when I tried to question Eddie Darksoul, but I was dreading it. The very idea made me physically ill.
We reached Greenwich Street and went inside. I greeted Pyewacket, and John said he was going to check his email before bed. I carried Pye upstairs.
“I don’t even know where to start,” I told Pye as I undressed for bed.
Pye’s advice was that I contact the Duchess at once.
“I do have to talk to her,” I agreed. “But these are two different matters.”