Possession in Death (In Death #31.5)(9)

“Hungarian Gypsy fortune-teller. Maybe it’s some sort of—”

“Don’t even start with that voodoo, woo-woo, Free-Ager shit. She was alive, bleeding, and talking until about an hour ago.”

At the door of 4 D, Eve took the key she’d found out of the evidence bag, slid it into the lock. And turned the knob.

Chapter Four

It reminded her of her first apartment—the size, the age. That’s what she told herself when struck, just for an instant, with a sharp sense of recognition.

The single room had no doubt been rented furnished, with a couple of cheap chairs and a daybed with a cracker-thin mattress, a chest—newly and brightly painted—that served as dresser and table.

Boldly patterned material had been fashioned into curtains for the single window, and with these and scarves and shawls draped over the faded chairs, spread over the narrow bed, the room took on a hopeful cheer.

One corner held a sink, AutoChef, friggie, all small-scale, along with a single cupboard. Another table stood there, painted a deep, glossy red under its fringed scarf. For seating, there were two backless stools.

Eve saw the old woman there, telling fortunes to those who sought to know their future.

“She made it nice,” Peabody commented. “She didn’t have a lot to work with, but she made it nice.”

Eve opened the single, skinny closet, studied Szabo’s neatly hung clothing, a single pair of sturdy walking shoes. Kneeling, she pulled two storage boxes out of the closet.

“Beata’s things. Clothes, shoes, ballet gear, I’d say. A few pieces of jewelry, face and hair stuff. The landlord must have boxed it up when she didn’t come back, didn’t pay the rent.”

It hurt, hurt to look through, to touch, to feel Beata as she dug through pretty blouses, skimmed over worn slippers.

She knew better, she reminded herself, knew better than to become personally involved. Beata Varga wasn’t her victim, not directly.

The promise is in you.

The voice spoke insistently inside her head, inside her heart.

“Tag these,” Eve ordered, shoving to her feet. She crossed over to the chest, studied the photo of Beata propped there and fronted by three scribed candles. Beside the photo a handful of colored crystals glittered in a small dish along with an ornate silver bell and a silver-backed hand mirror.

“What do we have on the granddaughter?” Eve asked.

“Beata Varga, age twenty-two. She’s here on a work visa, and employed— until she went missing three months ago—at Goulash. No criminal. The family filed a report. A Detective Lloyd is listed as investigating officer. Missing Persons Division out of the One-three-six.”

“Reach out there,” Eve told her. “Have him meet us at the restaurant. Thirty minutes.”

She opened the first drawer of the chest, found neatly folded underwear and nightclothes, and a box of carved wood. She lifted the lid, studied the pack of tarot cards, the peacock feather, the small crystal ball and stand.

Tools of her trade, Eve thought, started to set the box aside. Then, following impulse, pressed her thumbs over the carved flowers on the sides. Left, left, right. And a narrow drawer slid out of the base.

“Wow.” Peabody leaned over her shoulder. “A secret drawer. Frosty. How did you open it?”

“Just… luck,” Eve said, even as the hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

Inside lay a lock of dark hair tied with gold cord, a wand-shaped crystal on a chain, and a heart of white stone.

“They’re hers.” Eve’s throat went dry and achy. “Beata’s. Her hair, something she wore, something she touched.”

“You’re probably right. Szabo probably used them, along with the cards and crystals, maybe the bell and the mirror in locator spells. I’m not saying you can find people with spells,” Peabody added when Eve just stared at her. “But that she thought she could. Anyway, Detective Lloyd’s going to meet us.”

“Then let’s see what else we can find here first.”

The old woman lived simply, neatly, and cautiously. In the cloth bag in the bottom of the chest Eve found a small amount of cash, another bag of crystals and herbs, a map of the city, and a subway card, along with ID and passport and a number of the flyers with Beata’s image and information.

But taped under the friggie they found an envelope of cash with a peacock feather fixed diagonally across the seal.

“That’s about ten thousand,” Peabody estimated. “She didn’t have to read palms to pay the rent.”

“It’s what she did. What kept her centered. Bag it, and let’s seal this place up. We should get to the restaurant.”

“She made it nice,” Peabody repeated with another glance around. “I guess that’s what travelers do. Make a home wherever they land, then pack it up and make the next one.”

Beata hadn’t packed it up, Eve thought, and wherever she was, it wasn’t home.

Goulash did a bustling business on Saturday evening. Spices perfumed air that rang with voices and the clatter of silverware, the clink of glasses. The waitstaff wore red sashes at the waist of black uniforms while moving briskly from kitchen to table.

A rosy-cheeked woman of about forty offered Eve a welcoming smile. “Welcome to Goulash. Do you have a reservation?”

Eve palmed her badge. “We’re not here for dinner.”