Three Charms for Murder (The Case Files of Henri Davenforth Book 5) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Jamie's Hidden Diary Entry 23

  Report 01: A Kitten or Two

  Report 02: Off to the Rescue

  Report 03: Cats Are Not to be Trifled With

  Report 04: Interview With a Witness

  Report 05: Investigation, Start!

  Report 06: Disaster in the Morgue

  Report 07: Sniffies!

  Report 08: Curiouser and Curiouser

  Report 9: Locks Jamie's Additional Report: Kitten Master

  True Report 10: Enter, Stage Right

  Report 10: Road Rage

  Report 11: Medical Examinations

  Report 12: Nitty Gritty Secret Report 07: Hidden Rendezvous

  Jamie's Additional Report: Mice 2.0

  Report 13: Thief Market

  Report 14: Results

  Report 15: Clues

  Report 16: Not a Coincidence Jamie's Additional Report: It's Time

  Report 17: Shall we Dance? Jamie's Additional Report: Banzai!

  Report 18: I Didn’t See That Coming

  Report 19: Interrogations 'R' Us

  Report 20: Three Cheers for Suspects!

  Report 21: Location, Location, Location

  Final Report: My Best Men Ever Henri's Additional Report

  Jamie's Notes to Herself

  File X: Author

  Published by Raconteur House

  Murfreesboro, TN

  THE CASE FILES OF HENRI DAVENFORTH: Three Charms for Murder

  Case Files 5

  A Raconteur House book/ published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2020 by Honor Raconteur

  Cover by Katie Griffin

  Clockwork spare parts by donatas1205/Shutterstock; male man toilet WC by yougifted/Shutterstock; Fantasy space clock machine by Martin Capek/Shutterstock; vintage bronze seamless background by Kompaniets Taras/Shutterstock

  This book is a work of fiction, so please treat it like a work of fiction. Seriously. References to real people, dead people, good guys, bad guys, stupid politicians, companies, restaurants, cats with attitudes, events, products, dragons, locations, pop culture references, or wacky historical events are intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. Or because I wanted it in the story. Characters, names, story, location, dialogue, weird humor, and strange incidents all come from the author’s very fertile imagination and are not to be construed as real. No, I don’t believe in killing off main characters. Villains are a totally different story.

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  For information address: www.raconteurhouse.com

  For the third time in two hours, I woke up in a panic, flailing blankets out of the way like my life depended on it. My heart pounded like I’d just run a triathlon. Sweat covered my body, and for a moment—a terrifying, heart-stopping moment—I was back there.

  I took in a deep breath—instant mistake. A smell had been steadily invading my apartment over the last few days, getting stronger by the day, and tonight it reeked. The scent filled my head, reinforcing traces of a triggered memory. The walls around me didn’t exist, turning into cool greyish stone, dripping water, and chains biting into my skin. My entire body shuddered, rejecting the overlaying images, insisting that wasn’t where I was, but the truth clashed with what my other senses told me. I clawed at the sheets, gripping them tight enough to rip holes into the fabric, desperate for their texture.

  Not real. Notrealnotrealnotreal. See? Sheets weren’t in the cave. Bed wasn’t in the cave. I’m not there. I’m not there. Nottherenottherenotthere.

  “Jamie?”

  Clint. Oh god, Clint. That brought me back like nothing else could, to hear his voice. The worry in his voice. I blinked again, shuddering, and the horrible flashback finally receded into the background. I swallowed hard, trying to focus, and it took me a second to spot him. He looked midnight blue in the lighting, perfectly still, golden eyes fixated on me. The worry on his adorable little face was unmistakable.

  Had I thrown him during my nightmare? I didn’t hear him land, but he was incredibly light on his feet sometimes. “Clint, baby, did I hurt you?”

  “No,” he assured me, padding his way over to settle in my lap. “Went for water. Bad dream?”

  “Yeah.” I sighed gustily and brought him in closer, rubbing my cheek against the top of his head. His warmth and fuzziness helped keep the dream at bay. “Very bad dream.”

  “Can help?”

  I almost said no because often there wasn’t much he could do. Aside from cuddling with me, which he always did whenever he had the chance. And that helped more than I could ever properly explain. But I bit back the words before they could tumble free and thought about it. “Maybe you can. A smell has been setting me off. It reminds me of the cave. Maybe you can help me track it down?”

  Jules Felix had designed the Felix to be a magician’s familiar. To that end, Clint had far superior senses than the average animal—his nose could pick up on not only common scents, but magical scents as well. Odds were good he could track this particular scent down for me if I could describe it well enough.

  Always up for a challenge, my furball immediately perked up. “Sniffies! No sniffy escapes me.”

  “That’s the spirit.” I paused, trying to frame the right words. “It’s a damp sort of smell, like cold stone that’s a little wet. It’s mixed in with dirt and a sharp, acidic twang that tickles your nose. It’s not exactly pleasant.”

  His head came around to stare at the window as he drew in a deep breath. Then again. “Smells like cold water too?”

  I smiled in relief. “Yeah, that’s it. I think you’ve got it.”

  Clint’s ears moved back and forth, booty starting to do that shake cats did when they were about to spring off and go pounce on something. He had clearly targeted the scent and was dying to chase it. I got up, carrying him to the window, and opened it for him. “Good from here?”

  “Yes.”

  I let him down and he was off in a flash, scaling the fire escape ladder in a quick bound, the metal steps and mini-platforms rattling a little under the force of his weight. Not wanting the scent to infiltrate my apartment any more than it already had, I quickly closed the window again.

  Clint finding the smell was all well and good, but I didn’t see how it would help in the long run. Whatever the source, it was strong enough to penetrate my apartment. Unless Henri or Sherard had a magic spell up their sleeve to block smells, I was in trouble.

  You know what? I would douse myself in perfume. It was already two o’clock in the morning. If I didn’t do something soon, I’d get no sleep. And a sleep-deprived detective was not to be trusted in any sense. I also had to change the sheets, sweat-drenched and disgusting as they were at this point.

  In the bathroom, I hunted for perfume, only to come up empty. I’d forgotten I accidentally broke the bottle last week and didn’t have any left. Growling, I stalked back out and headed for the kitchen. I had some citrus juice—I could try dabbing that under my nose. It might work.

  A very soft knock sounded at the door. Frowning, I made my way over and unlocked the door before peeking around the wood.

  Henri stood on the other side, wrapped in a dressing robe, curly dark hair displaying an excellent example of bedhead.
He looked half-asleep on his feet but worried. As tired as I was, it took a second longer than it should have to put the pieces together and come up with an obvious answer. Henri at my door equaled Clint. No, maybe that should be the other way around?

  “Clint said bad dreams are plaguing you?” Henri asked, taking in what he could see of me. His frown deepened, brows drawing together.

  Sighing, I pulled the door fully open and gestured him inside. Better to talk in here than out in the hallway and wake up my neighbors. “It’s stupid.”

  He tsked and chided, “Jamie. For shame, my dear. You know better than to even think that.”

  I blushed slightly to be seen by him like this: still sweaty, hair sticking to my head in probably unflattering ways, dressed in one of my oldest shirts and jogging pants. Attractive, I was not.

  Henri didn’t seem to notice any of this. He drew me immediately into his arms and hugged me gently, firmly. I sighed and relaxed into it. Henri just made such a warm teddy bear, I could trust my weight to him. It went without saying that he’d take my burdens from me and hold them without complaint until I was ready to shoulder it all again. That trust allowed me to hug him back and stand there, my head pillowed on his shoulder, and breathe him in.

  It was one of those moments I was aware of Henri in a way I normally wasn’t. On a day-to-day basis, this man was my friend and partner. But sometimes, in moments like this, I could feel the potential between us for something more. Like a warm shiver that gathered at the base of my spine, a jittery feeling of butterflies in my stomach, a light tingle dancing along the top of my skin.

  Those moments came more and more often these days. I couldn’t put an exact date on it, the change of my own heart too gradual for me to pin it down, but over the past six months especially I’d felt it. Ever since Gibson had started prodding me, before we took on the RM Burtchell murder case, the possibility lurked in the wings.

  I found myself doing things for him like he was a potential boyfriend. It came so naturally I often didn’t second-guess the behavior until after the fact. Henri was harder to read, with those old-school manners drilled into him, but even he surpassed the norm sometimes. Like tonight, cuddling me. Every day that passed, he became more comfortable being in physical contact with me. Often, he would reach out first, a light hand on my arm, a lean in against my side to murmur something into my ear. Things he’d never do the first three months I knew him. Heck, the first year I knew him.

  I think Henri’s feelings were growing as well because sometimes he looked at me, in that way a man sometimes looked at a woman. But he never acted on it. Just as I hadn’t. It was freaking scary to try to bridge that leap of friend to lover. I knew that.

  But I also knew I’d regret it if I didn’t at least ask. One of us had to clear the air. One of us had to draw a line somewhere of what we wanted to be together. I, for one, didn’t want to stay in this limbo of possibilities. But I couldn’t seem to find the right timing for it. Like now, this moment was very much not the right timing. Not when I was still rattled from a nightmare and feeling anything but a strong, attractive woman.

  One of his hands stroked my spine in a soothing manner. In a low voice, he asked against my temple, “Clint mentioned something about a bad sniffy?”

  My tattle-tale of a cat and I would have a very long talk when he got back. “Why did he wake you up?”

  “Because he’s under a standing order to do so if you awake from a nightmare more than once a night. The occasional dream is within threshold—we all have those from time to time—but reoccurring dreams tell me there’s an issue. Now, don’t dodge the question. Bad sniffy?”

  A very, very long talk with my cat. But no getting around it tonight. Henri was a gentle soul who could also teach a barnacle lessons in stubbornness. If he felt something should be pursued, he’d do so. “Yeah. Well, it’s not that it’s a bad smell, per se. But it reminds me strongly of the cave.”

  He stiffened against me. I could practically hear the unvoiced swear words. “It’s setting off the dreams.”

  “Yeah.” I sighed again and burrowed in a little deeper, enjoying the smell of mild soap and cologne and warm skin—a refreshing sort of scent compared to the one currently triggering me.

  “Which scent is it precisely?”

  I could tell he wanted to investigate, and since he could possibly do something about it, I let him go and stepped back a half foot. Even though I didn’t particularly want to. “That damp stone smell, like it’s a little cold and wet and acidic all at once.”

  He breathed in deeply, closing his eyes to focus. Then they snapped open. “Ah, yes. That one. I hadn’t properly noticed it before. I wonder if it’s from the new construction site? They’re working near the coast on mining out an area and opening more space for the docks.”

  “So…you’re saying this will be around for a while?”

  Henri shot me a sympathetic look. “I fear so. But it also has an expiration date.”

  “That’s a plus.” I’d take it, too. Better than something that had permanently moved into the neighborhood.

  “For tonight, I believe I can block all scents from coming into your apartment. I’m surprised you’ve picked up on it so strongly.” He drew a wand from out of his pocket—talk about a man coming prepared—and headed for my windows with a very intent stride. “Even knowing what it is, I’m barely able to discern it.”

  I tapped the side of my nose. “My senses are more enhanced than yours, remember?”

  “Ah, yes.” Henri made a face. “A mixed curse and blessing in this case.”

  “Tell me about it.” I had the sense he would need a few minutes to do his spellwork, so I re-made the bed, stripping off sheets and blanket. Then I grabbed fresh clothes to sleep in and went into the bathroom to change so he could access my bedroom windows. By the time I came out, Clint had returned, and transparent sigils glowed on each of my windows, their outlines glittering in the moonlight.

  Clint perched on Henri’s arm, explaining in his high voice, “Sniffy is coming from sea.”

  “From the docks?” Henri asked.

  “Yes, from docks. Wind strong. Sniffy on the wind.”

  I glanced out the window. There was a storm blowing in right now, the wind picking up outside. No wonder the scent was so strong, then.

  “Excellent work, Clint. I’ve spelled her windows to block the scent, but I need you to keep an eye on her as she goes to work tomorrow.” Seeing that I’d exited the bathroom, Henri directed the next words to me. “Or perhaps it is more prudent to leave together.”

  Considering that sometimes my flashbacks were intense enough to throw me mentally back into that thrice-cursed cave? Yeah, probably not a bad idea. “Let’s do that. Come up in the morning and I’ll feed you breakfast before we go.”

  “Well, I’ll hardly turn down that invitation. But before I go, I’d like to see you settled in bed.”

  Clint jumped from his arms to mine, and I caught him in pure reflex. Clint seemed to think the world was his jump pad. Even as I caught a cat flinging himself at me, I protested, “I can put myself back to bed.”

  Henri tsked me again with a click of his tongue. “If you can’t rest, I might have a spell I can place upon your sheets to encourage your mind to settle.”

  This was news to me. “I thought those spells didn’t work on me?”

  “Seaton and I have been tinkering with a few things. Come, let’s at least attempt normal rest before I unleash our latest creation at you.”

  Part of me felt a little like a guinea pig, but I was touched, too. These sweet men really did go the extra mile for me on a regular basis. And I could hardly argue with his logic. I was dead on my feet. I really needed whatever sleep I could get tonight—magically induced or otherwise. I really didn’t care about methods, just results.

  “Alright, you win.” I walked past him but teased on the way, “Can I get a bedtime story, too?”

  Henri followed, speaking in a sarcastic drawl, “In ag
es long past, there was once a detective who needed sleep. She was put to bed by her friend, who was terrified of the sleep-deprived creature. Once she fell asleep, all was well. The end.”

  I flopped onto the bed, letting Clint go so he could curl up in his usual spot. “Your delivery needs work.”

  He snorted but didn’t rise to the bait as I settled under the covers. Sitting on the bed next to me, he stroked my hair from my face, his smile gentle. I relaxed steadily as I looked up at him. It seems I’d spent too much time in this exact position, with him sitting at my bedside, worried but patient, and me flat on my back. At least this time, I wasn’t feeling like something the cat had chewed up and spat out again. Silver lining.

  His hand felt warm, a little calloused on the fingertips, but nice. I wanted to tease him about petting me like I did Clint, but my mouth couldn’t seem to form the words. I couldn’t keep my eyes open, either. With the scent gone, and two of my best friends guarding me, I felt utterly at peace. A rare thing.

  I don’t even remember when darkness sucked me under.

  I met Jamie for breakfast in her apartment. She’d had a terrible flashback last night, due to a pervasive scent filtrating through her apartment walls and setting the nightmare off. Clint had thankfully come to fetch me, and I was able to spell her apartment to keep the scent out, letting her rest. Still, I was concerned about how she fared this morning.

  She’d made something called a Kitchen Skillet that involved fried potatoes, scrambled eggs, diced sausages, green pepper, onion, and cheese all mixed in with some sort of divine seasoning. Then again, she always employed excellent seasoning.

  I tucked in with gusto, glad for the extra sustenance this morning. Being awoken in the early hours of the morning by a worried Clint was hardly conducive to true rest. Not that I was complaining, mind. I vastly preferred seeing to Jamie’s welfare over sleep. It was just hard to rest afterwards. Part of my mind stayed awake, listening for signs she might wake again.