“So the Magic Shoppe?” Catcher prompted, heading off a derailment.
“Yeah. They have them—I’ve seen a set there before. But these aren’t run-of-the-mill cards.” She held one out to me. “Touch.”
I did, felt the nubbiness of the paper. “It’s got texture.”
“It’s die-cut watercolor paper,” she said. “The Fletcher deck is hand-watercolored. There are hundreds of different kinds of tarot decks. Each one has its own symbolism. The suits, the numbers—they’re all the same. So Two of Swords could be from any deck, Three of Pentacles from any deck. But these particular images are specific to the Fletcher deck. The artist is from Chicago, actually.”
I looked at Catcher, who nodded, noting the coincidence. The artist who created the deck—the deck being used as a model for human murder scenes—lived in the city.
“And who is Fletcher?” he asked.
“June Fletcher, I think,” Mallory said. “Or maybe Jane. But she’s gone—she died five or six years ago.”
I actually felt myself deflate. “So she’s not our suspect.”
“Maybe not,” Catcher said, “but she’s another lead. Chuck will be very happy about that.” He looked at Mallory. “What’s the connection to the Magic Shoppe?”
“Her husband was also getting on in years, didn’t want the cards stuck in some box in the house, so he took them to the store. They bought the remaining sets.”
“That’s a nice link,” Catcher said.
“Will I get in trouble for noticing that of all the kinds of tarot cards out there, you just happen to have the same deck the killer’s using?” Jonah asked, his gaze flipping from the cards to her face.
She looked down at them. “I’ve had these for years, actually. The Magic Shoppe is in Wicker Park. It’s my hometown store, so to speak.”
“Wait,” I said, memories trickling in. “Is that the place where Venom worked?”
“Venom?” Catcher asked, sarcasm dripping.
“Former beau,” she said. “During one of my Goth phases.”
“The second one, I think. You were Rayven.”
“Oh, I was.” She clapped her hands together delightedly. With the classically pretty features, blue eyes, and sparking blue hair, it was hard to imagine Mallory in kohl and black lace.
“Those were good times.”
I looked at Catcher. “So the cards were likely purchased at the same place where the swords were purchased, and where Mitzy Burrows was employed. I doubt that’s a coincidence.”
“It seems unlikely,” he agreed. “But the CPD ran the store and other employees. They were clean, at least on the surface.”
“So why tarot cards?” Jonah asked.
“Maybe it’s just a game to her,” Jeff said. “Tarot cards have number cards, suits, just like a regular deck of playing cards.”
“If it’s a game,” I said, “it’s a bloody one. Whoever’s doing this doesn’t care who he or she hurts, or how, or when.”
“Or maybe the killer cares too much,” Jeff said. “You don’t have to be coldhearted to kill. You can be as passionate as anyone else—more passionate. We just have to figure out what he or she was passionate about.”
Catcher pulled out his phone, rose, and walked away from the table to make the call. “I’m going to advise Chuck of our little breakthrough. Good job, Mallocake.”
We all looked at Mallory. “Did he just call you Mallocake?”
She blushed to the roots of her blue hair, shrugged one shoulder. “It’s a nickname.”
It was also my all-time favorite snack food—a log-shaped chocolate cake with a marshmallow cream center. They were absolutely delectable. And that was kind of adorable, especially for someone like Catcher, who made Eeyore seem like an optimist.
“Young love,” Jeff sang, pouring water into a ruby-colored glass. “So adorable.”
I looked at him. “Haven’t you and Fallon only been an official item for a few weeks?”
“We’re old souls,” he said matter-of-factly, as if the issue had already been decided.
“And there is an advantage to being single,” Jonah said, giving me a wink as he took another bite of food.
Mallory, not yet done with her tarot reading, flipped out more cards to create a symmetrical cross.
That rang another bell. “This—the cross. Why did you put them that way?”
She looked at me, then back down at the cards. “Because that’s how you do it. It’s the cross form. Pretty common.”
And it was another connection between the murders. “Both victims had small crosses painted on their hands.”
“So the killer doesn’t just know the cards,” Jonah said. “She knows how to use them.”
Mallory placed a final card above the cross—the Priestess, a womanly figure covered by a black hooded cape. Her outstretched hands, palms up, were the only visible portions of her body.
“Interesting,” Mallory said.
“That I’m going to be made a priestess?”
“That there’s conflict in your future.”
Catcher came back to the table, tucking his phone away. “Chuck’s going to tell Jacobs. They’ll do another run on Mitzy, see what they can find.”
But Mallory shook her head. “That’s the wrong approach.” She leaned forward, pointed at the cards. “Someone is working their way through the tarot. You don’t check files or databases for this. You go to the source.”
“Which is?” Catcher asked.
She rolled her eyes. “All four of you are basically paid investigators.”
“But you’re the occult expert,” I said, remembering the old days, when we hunkered in the town house on a Friday night, Mallory with episodes of Buffy and me with my favorite book of fairy tales. And look where we ended up. At a Moroccan feast organized by River nymphs in a gym owned by a sorcerer. Life was crazy that way.
“I usually work for free,” she said. “I mean, I’m an honorary Ombuddy, and I’ve got the SWOB deal going on, but I wouldn’t mind taking home a paycheck.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, holding up a hand. “SWOB?”
“Sorcerers Without Borders,” she said. “Remember I talked about doing some community service? It’s my initiative, I guess. We help folks newly identified with magic in states where the Order doesn’t have an official presence.”