Kindling the Moon (Arcadia Bell #1)(33)

“Oh yes, we were quite sure,” Mrs. Tamlin said. “Everyone in the magical community knew who they were. They had several occult books published in the 1980s and ’90s. Let’s see, The New Aeon and You, that was an early one. Why Magick Matters, that was popular.”

“Yes, I’m aware of their publishing career,” I said impatiently, cutting her off before she recited every title they’d written.

“Well, that’s how we recognized them—their photo was on the back of all their books.”

That was true. I knew that during that time, my parents were representing our lodge in a series of annual occult meet-ups around the country. Plus, they were on friendly terms with Magus Dempsey. So maybe they really were present during the third murder; it still didn’t mean that they were guilty.

“So, you walked in and recognized the Duvals, but who was the third person?”

“Wish we knew,” Mrs. Tamlin said wistfully.

“We only saw him for a second or two,” Mr. Tamlin confirmed. “He was turning to run out the door.”

“And probably headed straight to our house to lay down that confusion spell,” Mrs. Tamlin added.

“Did you have any contact with the Duvals after this? Do you know if they’d been crossed by the same confusion spell?” I wasn’t even sure if I believed them, but spells like that did exist, and it would certainly explain why my parents never mentioned being present during the Dempsey murder: Maybe they didn’t remember it.

Her husband shrugged. “We never talked to them again. It’s not like they’re in the phone book.” Hardly. Even when we weren’t on the run from the law, my parents kept a low profile. My mom used to be a marketing manager; back then she publicly used her maiden name, Artaud. After my parents were accused of the murders, dozens of her former coworkers came forward to bitch about how they were now scarred for life that they’d been working with a serial killer. Never mind that she’d been one of their favorite colleagues.

Mr. Tamlin continued. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if that strange man had cast the same spell on the Duvals. They didn’t know who he was either. They were just there to meet with Magus Dempsey and had walked in a few seconds before we did.”

“We were all shocked and trying to figure out what to do,” Mrs. Tamlin said. “There’s something called the Code of Silence among magical orders—”

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” I said.

“Well, it applies not only to the work we do in our order, but it also prevents us from talking to outsiders about order business.”

I scratched the edge of my wig; it was starting to get itchy. “But surely that doesn’t apply when it comes to murder.”

Mr. Tamlin shook his head. “We discussed it with the Duvals and agreed to share what we’d seen with heads of our orders—let them decide how they wanted to proceed. We called the police anonymously and parted ways.”

Unbelievable. I knew all orders operated outside the law, but this was insane.

“What did the third man look like?” I asked. “Can you describe him?”

“He was a young gentleman with white hair—”

“Blond hair,” Mr. Tamlin corrected. “Was it blond?” his wife replied, poking a finger inside her bun to scratch her head. “Yes, maybe you’re right. Anyway, he was much younger than us, dressed in his ritual robes.”

“Oh? Ritual robes? What color?”

“Blue, I think,” Mr. Tamlin replied as he enthusiastically sucked on his candy.

“No, the robes were definitely black,” Mrs. Tamlin said impatiently.

“It was dark,” her husband said. “There were candles lit. The room was prepared for our ghost-cleansing ritual. All the furniture was moved back as it usually was.”

“What were the Duvals wearing?”

He shrugged. “Everyday clothes. Enola was wearing a short skirt, I remember that much. What a looker that gal was. Dark brown hair, long sexy legs—”

“Frank, keep it in your pants, why don’t you?” Mrs. Tamlin scolded, much to my satisfaction. That’s my mom you’re talking about, you dirty old man.

He muttered to himself and leaned back against the love seat.

At least I knew that my parents weren’t in their robes at the time, which only solidified my belief that they didn’t summon the demon. Along with many other people their age, they were strictly old-school magicians who always donned robes before any rituals. The kind of impromptu magick that I often performed was frowned upon by the order. If my parents knew that I bound demons inside my bar, I’d get a long lecture about the difference between public and sacred spaces and the importance of the Code of Silence among magicians. Hell, if I wasn’t the stupid “Moonchild,” I’d probably get booted out just like the Tamlins.

“Okay,” I said, “So, one man was fleeing the house while the Duvals stayed, but you also saw the demon, right? What did it look like?”

“It was really dark,” Mrs. Tamlin started. Oh, for the love of Pete, I thought. Maybe coming out here was a colossal waste of my time after all. “And the demon was beginning to de-materialize, like I said, but it was white as snow and tall. Big, spiraling horns. Red eyes.”

“More pink than red,” Mr. Tamlin corrected. “Had a weird tongue too.”