Book of Curses

 A book filled with magical curses falls into the wrong hands, spelling danger for Tom Jurgen when he becomes one of its targets. 

Book of Curses, Part One

“My aunt died recently, and she left me a lot of money,” Vivian Vogel told me.

            I wasn’t sure how to respond. I’m sorry? Congratulations? I just nodded. “Go on.”

            Vivian Vogel was in her 40s, like me, with short dark hair and narrow, guarded blue eyes. We sat in a downtown coffee near her office, where she worked as a sales manager for a pharmaceutical firm.

            “I’m—nervous about where all the money came from.” She leaned down to open a briefcase, then dropped a spiral-bound notebook between our coffees, the kind college students used before laptops and iPads. She opened it to a page halfway through, marked with a Post-it.

            I took a look. It was a list of names, dates, and dollar amounts. Kevin Schneiderman, 5-13-22, $350. Margaret Montgomery, 5-27-11, $750. Cheryl Macon, 7-5-22, $1,250. The entries stopped three months ago. The notebook went back years. 

            “This was two weeks before she died.” Vivian pointed to the last line, halfway down the page. “And it goes back to 2015.”

            “Do you know any of the names?”

            She shook her head. “My aunt—her name was Emma Shipler—she did a lot of things. Ran an art gallery, a yoga studio, Tarot readings, so I guess she met a lot of people. And she did good. She left me her house, and I don’t know what I’m going to do with that.” She sighed. “And my other aunt is mad because she didn’t get the house. But anyway, it’s a nice house, and now I’m wondering, where did all the money come from? Is it legal? Who are all these people? Are they going to come after me?” She sighed again and took a gulp of her coffee.

            I skimmed a few pages of the notebook. “Well, a lot of these names are fairly distinctive. I should be able to find at least some of them and just ask. Is that what you want me to do?”

            “I guess. I could do it, but—well, I’m afraid of what they might say. If it is stolen money, am I going to have to return it? I don’t know.” She groaned softly.

            “Well, you might consult a lawyer. Whoever handled her estate, maybe. But one step at a time—I’ll start calling these people and tell you what I find out.”

            We discussed my fee, and she wrote me a check for a retainer. Then she stood up. “I have to get back to work. Thanks for meeting me.” She left the notebook with me.

            It wasn’t my usual P.I. case, but it looked like an interesting break from cheating spouses and workers comp fraud. I flipped through the notebook, then finished my coffee and headed home.

 

Rachel was getting ready to go to class. “How was the client? Don’t talk to me. I’ll be home early. Or maybe late. Where’s my phone? You’re making dinner. Can I borrow $20? I’m almost out of gas.” She zipped up her hoodie.

            Rachel’s my girlfriend. We’ve been living together for years. She’s got red hair, hazelnut eyes, and mild psychic abilities, which come in handy on some of my cases—the psychic powers, I mean. She’s been studying psychology on top of working as a graphic designer, so lately she’s been pretty busy. I was trying not to feel neglected.

            I gave her $20. She gave me a quick kiss before leaving. “Wish me luck on my presentation.”

            What presentation? I had no idea, but I said, “Break a leg!” anyway. She was already halfway out the door.

            After checking my email and doing some paperwork on my other cases, I started on Vivian Vogel. First I did a quick check on her aunt, Emma Shipler, just to confirm the details of Vivian’s story. 

Emma Shipler was in fact dead, at least according to the obituary I found. She was 73, an “entrepreneur who founded multiple businesses throughout her life,” a traveler to Europe, Asia, and Africa, and a big fan of Elton John, claiming to have seen him in concert 32 times. Cause of death wasn’t specified. She was survived by a niece, a sister, and a distant cousin. She’d died three months ago.

Research beyond the obituary told me she owned a house in the Ravenswood neighborhood, had declared bankruptcy twice, and had been arrested on a few minor drug and traffic charges. None of it directly contradicted anything my client had told me, but it gave the case some extra context. She wasn’t a master criminal, but she wasn’t about following the rules obsessively.

I ate lunch, made some phone calls for other cases, then opened the notebook. I started with the middle of last year, looking up names in and around Chicago, skipping common names like “Mary Smith” and “Joe Brown.” In half an hour I had 26 names. I started calling.

            A few didn’t answer. I left voicemail messages. Some answered, but were definitely not the right person. Others answered and said they’d never heard of Emma Shipler. But they sounded like they were lying. And scared.

            “Emma—what? Shipler? I don’t think so. No. Sorry. No.”

            “Who? No.” Call ended.

            “I knew someone like that—wait. Wait, no, I didn’t. That was—someone else. Sorry.”

            Finally, close to the end of my list, I found someone. Her name was Lilah Osgood. The amount next to her name, from six months ago, was $360.

            “Emma? Yes, I remember her from a class I took on healing crystals. She was—why are you calling again?”

            “I’m going through some financial records of her. She passed away a few months ago—”

            “Oh! That’s too bad. I didn’t know her that well, but—that’s too bad. Are you a relative?”

            “No, I’m working for a relative. We have records of a payment you made to Ms. Shipler of $360 on Nov. 21 of last year. Can I ask what that was for?”

            She hesitated. “Well . . . I guess it’s all right. It’s just—it’s going to sound a little silly.”

            “That’s all right. We’re just making sure everything is accounted for correctly.” I waited.

            “Well . . . my dog Pepper was sick. Really sick. And Emma said—it’s just, I was so worried, and when she said she could make Pepper better, I gave her some money. And then she got better. I don’t know what she did, or if she really did anything, but my dog was happy and healthy again, and I didn’t think about it again.” I could hear the smile in her voice.

“So Ms. Shipler cured your dog, and you paid her?” Honestly, that’s far from the craziest thing I’ve ever heard as a P.I., and that’s not even counting vampires and demons.

“Yes. She knew how much I love Pepper, she’s all I’ve got. One day Pepper was fine, and the next she wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t go for walks, just slept all day. And had—stomach problems, you know?”            

“Right. But Pepper’s fine now?”

“Absolutely perfect. The vet couldn’t figure it out, but all I care about is my dog is here with me. Aren’t you, Peps? She’s here right now.”

“That’s good. Well, thanks, Ms. Osgood. You’ve been a big help.”

The next two people on my list said they’d never heard of Emma. They seemed to be lying, but I didn’t push them. Then came Cristen Archer.

“I swear she did something to my plants.” She barely let me have any time to explain who I was and what I wanted. “I have dozens of plants—mostly succulents, they take a lot of care. She lived in my building for a few months. My plants just started dying for no reason, and one day I ran into her outside and she asked, out of nowhere, how my plants were doing. And I knew, I just knew, you know?” She paused for breath. “And she said, maybe she could do something about them, but it would cost me. I didn’t understand what she meant, but in the end I gave her a check for $120 just to see if she could do anything. I figured I could stop payment if I wanted to, but then right away my plants started recovering. I looked for her to ask what she did, but I never ran into  her. I guess she moved out.”

I thanked her, made some notes, and took a break for a Coke.

Rachel came home. “How’d your presentation go?” 

“I was great.” She dumped her backpack on the floor and unzipped her hoodie. “Abnormal psych is my thing, apparently.”

“With me around, you’ve got lots of material. Not even counting the vampires and monsters and stuff.”

“You’re very abnormal.” She gave me a quick kiss. “How’s the new case?” She slumped in her chair and closed her eyes.

“Getting interesting. A few more calls, and I’ll start on dinner.” We take turns, mostly, although lately I’ve been in charge of dinner more because of Rachel’s grad school schedule. “Vegetarian tacos okay?”

“Lots of jalapenos.” She yawned. “Let me check my email and pretend to do work for half an hour.”

She put on noise canceling headphones while I made my calls. The next few didn’t get me anywhere. But then—

Bryce Preston started talking right after I introduced myself and mentioned Emma’s name. “That bitch! What does she want now?” He’d paid Emma $1,200 in January of this year. 

“She’s dead,” I told him. “I’m working for a relative. It’s about the $1,200 you paid Emma Shipler on Jan. 19 of this year.”

“Dead?” He hesitated. “Okay. I mean, I’m sorry she’s dead, but—honestly, she screwed me over like a—I don’t mean screwed, it wasn’t like that. More like a gangster.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s—” He sighed. “I was stupid. I think. We were in a creative writing class together. I was—well, I wrote a profile of my girlfriend. Fictional, but her. And we read it in class, we’d exchange projects and make comments on them, and she got mine. When she gave it back, her comment at the button was, ‘It would be bad if she got sick.’ I didn’t know what she meant. I was exaggerating some stuff, all right? I made my girlfriend out to be worse than she really is, maybe I was mad at her that day.”

I glanced over at Rachel. “That happens.”

“But the next day my girlfriend got sick. Really sick. Like, throwing up and a fever and blurry vision and everything else. She wouldn’t go to the ER. And I remembered that note from Emma, and I emailed her, and she basically said she could make Sherry get better if I helped her out. And I was half crazy, so I sent some money to her Venmo, and right away Sherry started getting better. It was weird. I sent her another email asking her what was going on, you know? And she just said, ‘Things happen.’ And she never came back to class after that.”

I looked at Preston’s name in the notebook, processing his story. “You think she was somehow responsible for your girlfriend getting sick?”

“I don’t know. All I know is she took me for $1,200 when I was too worried to think straight. I never wanted her dead or anything, but—I just never want to have anything to do with her again.”

I thanked him, and he hung up.

I wrote up some notes. Rachel was still working. After finishing off some minor business, I went to the kitchen to open a beer and start dinner.

Rachel came in while I was putting tortillas on a plate. “Smells good.” She opened the refrigerator for a beer.

I told her about Vivian, Emma Shipler, and her list. And the people I’d talked to. “It looks like Emma was some kind of a witch.” 

Rachel shook her head. “I swear, these cases just find you. Like it’s your curse.” She started assembling her taco.  “Pun intended.”

“At least she didn’t kill anybody. That we know about.” I took a sip of beer. “I just wonder what my client’s going to say when I tell her that her aunt was apparently a curse-slinging witch. It’s not exactly what you expect to hear from your friendly neighborhood P.I.”

“It sounds like the mafia, or some sort of witchy protection racket. ‘Nice dog you’ve got there, shame if anything happened to it.’” She grabbed the hot sauce. 

“That’s me, Tom Jurgen, private eye. Tangling with the witch mafia. I hope the client believes me.” 

 

I called Vivian Vogel the next morning. She listened to my report without interrupting, and then said, “That’s crazy.” She thought for a moment. “I mean—that is crazy, but I can kind of believe it. Emma was—weird. Different. Like I said, she never could settle on any one thing. And I always wondered how she could afford things. Like the house she gave me. I guess—” She sighed. “I was worried she was selling drugs or running a brothel out of the house. This is better, I guess.”

“None of the people I talked to said she’d done them any permanent or serious harm,” I said. “I mean, I can’t say that’s a good thing, but I don’t think they can come after you in court.”

“Yes, but—that doesn’t mean I’m comfortable with all that money. Should I try to track people down, or—wait a minute.”

“What?”

“How would she do it? Snap her fingers? Do a spell? Summon a, a demon?”

I don’t know a lot about witchcraft, although I’ve encountered enough witches in my work. “Any of those ways, yes, or it could be something else. I’ve, uh, had some dealings with the supernatural.”

“I’m just thinking.” She sighed. “My other aunt, Mina. She’s mad at me because Emma didn’t leave the house to her. She made me let her into the house so she could look for stuff that belonged to her. I wonder—what if she took something?”

Something that helped Emma set the curses on people? That could be a problem. “Where did you find the list?”

“At her house. She had an office.  I don’t think Mina went in there, but I wasn’t with her every single minute.”

“Could you tell if something was missing?”

“Maybe. I might.”

Rachel walked into the office, carrying her Wonder Woman coffee mug. 

“Any chance of going to the house sometime today?” I asked Vivian.

“I could take some time this afternoon. Maybe around two?”

“I’ll call you back.” We hung up.I looked at Rachel.

Rachel sipped from her mug. “What’s going on?”

“Do you have class today?”

“It’s a night class. Why?” She was justifiably suspicious.

“The house where the witch, or whatever, lived. Could you come out with me to see if you feel any magic? There might be something missing or stolen that you could pick up traces of.”

Rachel set down her mug and crossed her arms. “So you want me to blow off all my work to help you on another case? Should I tell you how much work I have to do? How much homework I have? How much stress I’m under?” She took a step toward me, and I tensed.

Then she leaned forward to give me a kiss. “Thank God. I need a break. But you have to buy me ice cream afterward.”

“As you wish.” I smiled and picked up my phone.

Book of Curses, Part Two

Emma Shipler’s house in Ravenswood had two stories and an attic, along with a small front lawn and a narrow porch. Vivian was waiting on a bench when Rachel and I came up the steps.

            “Thanks for coming,” I said. “This is Rachel, my associate. She’s here because she’s psychic.”

            “A little,” Rachel said.

Vivian nodded absently, then took out her keys and opened the front door. We followed her inside.

            On the right side of the foyer a living room extended halfway through the house, with two sofas, several armchairs, several tall bookcases, and a vast Persian rug. It smelled of dust and cat litter. A staircase pointed the way up to the second floor.

            Vivian stood in front of the staircase, staring at a small table. “There was a vase. It’s gone.”

            A cat marched across the living and made a demanding meow. Vivian scowled. “I have to come over every few days to feed him. I don’t even know its name. Give me a second.”

            She walked across the living room to the kitchen. Rachel and I checked out the bookshelves. We found books on yoga, stamp collecting, art, health and nutrition, ancient history, and cat care. No witchcraft.

            Vivian came back. “There are some cookbooks missing. And a painted teapot. She’s been here. Mina. Like I said, she’s mad that I got the house. I mean, I would have given her whatever she wanted if she asked, but now—” She shook her head.

            I looked at Rachel. “Anything?”

            She closed her eyes for a moment. “Not here. But upstairs.”

            We climbed the stairs. The second floor had two bedrooms, a linen closet, and an office. It was small for the three of us—a desk, bookshelves, books on the floor, a desk lamp that provided the only light, and a small rug under our feet.

            “The notebook was right there.” Vivian pointed to the top of the desk, which was covered with yellow legal pads, pens, and loose sheets of paper.

            The desk chair tilted unsteadily when Rachel sat down. She picked up a legal pad and flipped the pages up, looking at sketches of yoga poses, flowers, birds, and faces.

            “I can feel . . . . something. Around me.” She picked up a drawing of a penguin. “Not dark magic, just the light, frothy kind.” She swiveled in the chair to look at the nearest shelves. There were books on Tarot, astral projection, reincarnation, genealogy, ancient history, and lots more. 

She found a gap on the shelf and tapped her finger between two books. “It was here. Something important. It was there for a long time, so it left a—an impression.”

“What does she mean?” Vivian asked me.

“Maybe a book of spells?” I asked Rachel.

She shrugged. “Maybe. I can’t—”

“What’s that?” Vivian lifted an arm.

The house was quiet. The air was still. But we all heard the sound of a door downstairs closing, and then a meow from the cat.

Vivian darted through the office door. I followed. Footsteps were coming up the stairs. I reached into my jacket for my pepper spray. Rachel was behind me.

“Who’s there?” Vivian called.

A woman’s head rose into view. “Vivian? Oh, hello. I didn’t think anyone would be here—”

“What the hell, Mina?” Vivian took a step forward. “This is my house now! You can’t just come in here and walk around as you please!”

“This is my sister’s house, and I’ll—” She stopped and looked at me, then Rachel. “Who’s this?”

“This is a private detective who works for me. Tom Jurgen. And Rachel—I didn’t catch your last name.” She gestured. “This is my other aunt, Mina Hamilton. I told you about her.” 

I handed Mina a card. “That’s me.” 

She stared at the card. “A private detective?” In her 70s, she was slim and fit, with silvery hair. She wore a dark blue pantsuit with a large purse slung over one shoulder.

Vivian shifted on her feet. “Emma was—I wanted to know how she was getting money from people, she had this whole list of people, so I—” She stopped. “Did you take that vase from downstairs? And that teapot?”

Before she could answer I asked a question of my own: “Did you take anything from inside that office?”

Mina blinked. “Emma’s my sister. I took her in when she didn’t have anyone. Do you know how she got this house? The man she married—”

“The book,” Vivian cut in. “Did you take a book?”

Mina glared at the three of us. “I don’t have to answer your questions. Emma’s my sister. I still can’t believe she’s dead. I still don’t—” 

She glared at the three of us, then whirled around and stalked down the stairs. 

“I want that vase back!” Vivian shouted just before the door slammed.

Rachel and I looked at each other. Domestic squabbles are always uncomfortable to witness.

“Did she take the book?” I asked.

Rachel snorted. “Of course. You don’t need psychic powers for that.”

The question was, what book? Vivian was still glaring at the stairway. I went back into the office.

There was no technology anywhere, no computer or printer. Sitting down, I started opening desk drawers. I found decks of Tarot cards and regular playing cards, a half-empty pack of cigarettes, Post-it note pads in various colors, boxes of paperclips and staples, and a roll of stamps—the usual desk clutter. 

In the bottom drawer I found some photocopied pages stapled together. They were lists of phrases in a language I didn’t recognize, with brief translations: cure toothache, crack in road, falling pot, itchy balls . . . I showed it to Rachel.

She shrugged. “List of spells? I don’t feel anything supernatural about it.” She held it up. “Let me try this one for itchy balls.”

I yanked it back and swiveled the chair to the bookcase. From one side of the gap where the missing book had rested I pulled a slim volume with the title LOVE SPELLS FOR THE LOVELORN running down the spine. It contained pages of spells for making people fall in love, interspersed with what looked like typical Dear Abby-style advice for finding love. 

The book on the other side of the gap was thick, with Roman numeral II embossed on the cover. On the second page inside I found the full title: CURSES SIMPLE TO SINISTER: II. 

I handed it to Rachel. She smiled. “Yeah. This is the real deal.” 

She opened it to a random page. “Hair: Make your enemy’s hair fall out. Turn your enemy’s hair gray. Twist your enemy’s hair in knots. Make your enemy’s hair grow uncontrollably.” She flipped through the pages. “Pretty handy for the everyday prankster. I wonder how sinister it really gets.”

“It’s book two,” I said. “And book one is gone.” I looked at Vivian. “We need to find out for sure if your aunt took book one. Along with the vase and the teapot and whatever else is missing.”

She leaned back against the doorway. “Whatever she has of Emma’s is mine. But—well, I should probably be a little nicer to her. Emma didn’t treat her very good.”

“But the book in the wrong hands could be dangerous,” I said. 

“I definitely wouldn’t put it in the estate sale,” Rachel said. “I mean, I might buy it. For a reasonable price. Just to keep Tom in line.”

Vivian smiled for the first time since I’d met her. “I’ll give Mina a call.”

 

Vivian called me the next morning. “There’s, uh, a problem.”

            “What kind of problem?” I put my coffee down to listen.

            “We’re done with what I hired you for, so this—I don’t know. I guess it’s a new case. The thing is, Mina doesn’t have the book anymore. A friend of hers stole it.”

            Uh-oh. “What friend?”

            “Maybe you’d better call her. I talked to her for a long time last night. She’s—Emma could be difficult to deal with. I kind of see that now. Maybe she has a right to some of what’s in the house. But we really need to get that book back from—from the guy who has it. He sounds like bad news.”      

Great. “I’ll see what I can do. Can you give me Mina’s number?”

            Rachel came in a few minutes later. “No class until three. No hard deadlines. It’s not a day off, but I’ll take it.” She sank down into her chair. “What’s up?”

            “The book of curses was stolen.” I was in the middle of tapping out Mina’s number. “More bulletins as they come in.” The phone buzzed.

            “Hello?”

            “Mina Hamilton? This is Tom Jurgen. I just spoke with your niece.”

            “Oh. Yes. Just a second.” I heard movement, then, “Yes. I took the book from Emma’s house. I thought—well, I knew how she was using it. I just thought I could do the same thing.”

            “How did that work for you?”

            A bitter laugh. “My sister was—she had a way about her. She made friends instantly. Not friends, exactly. I don’t think she had any real friends, not even the men she married. She liked people, she enjoyed having a wide circle of people around her, but what she really wanted was people she could depend on to help her when she needed it. People to use. She wasn’t a bad person, really. We didn’t—well, she didn’t leave me anything in her estate, but you don’t want to hear how I let her live with me and supported her when she couldn’t find anyone else to put up with her or lend her money, but that’s why I felt like I had a right to some things.”

            “Like the book.”

            “And the vase. I’ll give that back. And I just don’t know that many people I could—even if I could really do those curses or spells or whatever they are, I don’t have enough friends that I could do that to, or get away with it. But Jonah—he’s my boyfriend—I think Jonah took it, and I’m a little afraid of what he’s going to do with it.”

            That didn’t sound good. “Maybe we should talk in person, Ms. Hamilton. Could I meet you somewhere?”

            “Well, I suppose you could come here. Where are you now?”

            She gave me her address, a condo near the Gold Coast. I promised to be there in an hour.

            “Book of curses gone?” Rachel said when I hung up. “Sounds like bad news.”

            “Could be. She doesn’t trust her boyfriend.”

            “I know the feeling.” She smirked. “Kidding! I trust you as far as I can throw you, and I think I could throw you pretty far.”

            “If you had to, yes.” I sent an email to Vivian Vogel, sent a few other emails dealing with different cases, and finished my coffee. “Not much work today?”

            “No homework. I’ve got a website redesign coming up, but nothing urgent. That doesn’t mean I’m available for another road trip with you—I want to have at least part of a day for just me and my stuff.”

            “That’s fair.” She’s been working hard for close to two years. “I’ll let you know if I’m going anywhere else.” I stood up. “Enjoy your day.”

            “Toodles.” She was already at her keyboard.

 

I could see the highway in the distance through the west-looking window of Mina Hamilton’’s condo. We sat with coffee in her living room, which was dominated by a huge sectional sofa, an avant-garde painting on one wall, and a rubber plant almost as tall as me.

            “I met Jonah at a dinner party with some other friends, about six months ago.” She crossed her ankles. Today she was wearing dark slacks and a gray silk blouse. “I don’t date, just so you understand. I’ve been single, I was married, and then my husband died, and I’ve been basically happy on my own ever since. But Jonah was, well . . .”

            She looked away from me, embarrassed, and picked up her phone. “Here’s a picture. He’s handsome, a little younger than me, and flirty—not raunchy or anything. There was just something different about him.”

            I looked at her phone. Jonah had black hair, receding just a little on the top, and dark eyes and a firm chin. In his 40s, like me. Attractive, in a polo shirt and a smirk on his face.

            “We dated, and it—progressed. It wasn’t very serious at first, but as time went on we got comfortable with each other. When Emma died and I didn’t get anything, I was upset, and I told him about it. I mean, Emma was always on some new scheme to make money, never sticking with anything because things didn’t work out and it was never her fault, and if she hadn’t met her third husband and gotten that house after he died she would have—”

            Mina’s voice had been rising. She stopped, took a deep breath, and shook her head. “I apologize. The point is, yes, I had some resentment for her, and I told Jonah about it, and he, well, encouraged me to make it right.”

            “Did he push you to do it?”

            “He knew that Emma practiced witchcraft. I never took it seriously, but our grandmother, she could do things like make people sick if they annoyed her, or help someone who needed a little bit of luck. And Emma was fascinated. She was devastated when she died, and then she went on a genealogy kick to find out everything she could about that side of the family. I don’t know what she found. But I did know a little about what she was doing to make money the last few years. And I told him.” 

She sighed. “Yeah. He pushed me. Nothing obvious. I swear he didn’t know anything about Emma when we met, that’s not what this is about. Maybe he just thought I was loaded and he could get some money out of being nice to me. I’m not a kid, Mr. Jurgen.” She glared, not exactly at me, but in my direction. “I stopped looking for true love after my second husband divorced me. Ever since, I look out for me, and I don’t make a secret out of it. Does that offend you?”

I shook my head. “I can’t afford to judge anyone in this job, not if I want to keep working. Right now I’m just working for your niece. Where does Jonah live?”

“He’s got an apartment up north. I know the address, but I’ve never been there. We mostly came here.” She waved a hand around. “I got the feeling he liked it here, and not just for me.”

“When could he have taken the book?”

“I took it a week ago. He was here Saturday night. I haven’t seen him since, so he must have taken it then.”

Today was Wednesday. “No calls or texts? Is that unusual?”

“We usually text every other day. We’re not very lovey-dovey.” She rolled her eyes. 

I had finally reached the question I’d come here to ask. I looked her in the eyes.  “Would you feel comfortable calling and asking Jonah about the book?”

Her phone sat on a table next to her. She looked at it for a moment, looked at me, and grimaced. She picked it up. “Let’s see.”

She tapped a few keys and waited. After a moment she frowned. “Voicemail.” She hung up. 

I thought for a minute. “Send him a text.”

Mina hesitated. “I suppose. I can’t have him stealing things from me. Especially my sister’s things. If I’m wrong—well, I guess I’ve already decided I don’t trust him. All right.”

She tapped on her phone, hit send, then showed me the text: Do you have that book from my sister’s house? I need it back.

“Let’s wait and see,” I said. 

She finished off her coffee, nervous, then took our cups into the kitchen for more. She came back with a plate of cookies too. 

We waited for 15 minutes. I ate two cookies, just to be polite. And because I was hungry. Okay, mostly because I was hungry. 

Mina picked up her phone one last time. “How long do you want to wait?” She obviously didn’t want me hanging around all day. 

I couldn’t blame her, so I stood up. “Could I have his address?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What are you going to do?”

“Just check it out. I won’t go pounding on his door.” Although if I spotted Jonah, I might tail him. “Can you let me know if he contacts you?”

She gave me the address. I thanked her, and went back to my car.

Jonah’s apartment was in the Lakeview neighborhood. I found the building and sat in my car watching the front door. People came in and out: a UPS delivery, a woman walking her dog, a couple arguing. I turned on the radio.

The building didn’t have a doorman, just a vestibule with an intercom. A mail carrier went in and started stuffing mailboxes. The woman came back with her dog. I changed the radio station. I was getting hungry. 

After an hour I decided I was wasting my time and my client’s money. I called her to see if she’d heard anything, and what she wanted me to do. Then maybe I could get lunch. I found her number on my phone. One buzz. Two—

“Where are you? I can’t talk right now. Mina’s in the hospital.” She sounded out of breath. 

What the hell? “What happened?”

“She fell. She was just talking down the street, and suddenly she fell, and there are fractures in her pelvis and she might have a concussion, I’m waiting for the doctors—”

“She just fell? No one pushed her? Just out of nowhere?”

            “That’s what she said. She was just done talking to Jonah, and—”

            “Wait, she was talking to Jonsh?”

            “Yeah, after you left he called her, and—oh, no. Do you think . . . ?”

            I definitely did think. “What hospital?”

Book of Curses, Part Three

St. Joseph’s Hospital on the north side of Chicago was quiet and orderly in the later afternoon. Mina lay on a bed in a room on the 11th floor. She had an IV in her arm and a bandage on her head, the standard hospital gown tied around the back of her neck. Vivian Vogel sat next to her.

            Mina glared at me as I entered, as if I’d interrupted something. Then she shot angry eyes at Vivian. “If I could sue you, I would. Both of you. Maybe I can still sue you, Vivian. For the house.”

            Vivian sighed. “I didn’t want the house, Mina. It’s not my fault she left it to me, but that doesn’t give you the right to let yourself in and just take whatever you want. Look what it’s done to you.”

            “What happened?” I asked, hoping to deflect the argument—or at least not get caught in the middle of it.

            Mina folded her hands on top of her covers. “He called me almost as soon as you left. Jonah. First he said he didn’t have the book, then he admitted it but said he needed it more than me. No, he deserved it more than me. I told him that was ridiculous. We argued, and he hung up. Or maybe I hung up first, I don’t know. Then I had to meet a friend of mine for lunch.”

            Lunch. That made me hungry again. Did the hospital have a decent cafeteria? “Then what?”

            “Well, I changed and went downstairs, and I was walking down the street—I was only a few steps away from my building, and I just—fell. Like someone pushed me, or like the wind shoved me, but there was nobody around me. I just fell over.” 

She rubbed her hip and winced. “I felt it crack.” Then she tapped her scalp. “I don’t remember hitting my head, but then I was looking up at the sky, and there were people, and then there was a paramedic and I was in an ambulance, and then I was—here.” She pointed at the door. “I called Vivian to warn her.”

   We were silent for a moment. Eventually I said, “I watched his apartment for an hour. I didn’t see him. I could go back, but sitting and waiting won’t get us anywhere. Even if he shows up, we’ll have to confront him.”

Vivian bit her lip. She glanced at Mina, wanting to say something angry, but forced herself to look away. Finally she settled on me. “It’s my house. The book belongs to me. The will says the house and everything in it, so—yeah, I suppose I have to talk to him.”

“That might make you a target,” I said. 

She looked out the window. Mina’s room faced a park. People strolled or jogged along  paths between the trees, with Lake Michigan beyond, boats drifting in the waves. She sighed. “I can’t ask you to do it. He won’t listen to you if you just show up, will he? I’ll have to do it. Goddamn it.” She stood up. “Can you come with me?”

“Of course.” She was my client. 

Mina groaned. “I suppose you think this is all my fault,” she said bitterly.

Vivian opened her mouth, but then took a breath and said nothing. She stalked out of the room, her shoulders tense.

Mina gripped the side of her bed as if she wanted to yell something after her. But then she closed her mouth and shook her head, muttering under her breath. 

“Hope you feel better,” I said.

”Go away,” she snapped.

I left to catch up with Vivian.

 

The vestibule of Jonah’s building had a camera in the ceiling. I looked away from it as Vivian jabbed at the buzzer, pressing it over and over until a male voice demanded, “What?”

            “I’m Vivian Vogel, I’m Mina Hamilton’s niece, and you have something of mine.” She leaned in toward the speaker. “I’ll stay here all day until you let me in.”

            No answer. She started pressing the buzzer again, until the door clicked. I pulled it open for her. 

            Jonah lived on the third floor. The elevator was out of order, and Vivian was out of breath as we reached the landing. Yeah, I was breathing a little hard too. We caught our breath before finding the apartment, and Vivian knocked on the door.

Jonah—his last name was Lansing, Vivian had told me on the drive here—looked like his picture: black hair retreating back over his scalp, a thick chin, and heavy shoulders. In his late 40s, maybe a few years older than me, but in better shape.

He crossed his arms in the doorway, blocking us. “Yes? What is it, Vivian? Who’s your friend?” He smirked at me.

“I want the book you stole from Mina’s house.” Vivian planted her feet firmly in the entrance. “She’s in the hospital.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “That’s too bad.”

“The book.”

Jonah looked at me. “And you are?”

“Tom Jurgen. I’m a private detective, working for Ms. Vogel.” I tried my best to look at least a little menacing.  

“Private eye?” He glanced at my jacket. “Are you carrying a gun? A .44 magnum?”

I own a Glock, but I mostly keep it locked in a closet. “Not right now.”         

“Jonah, who’s there?” A voice from inside the apartment. I peered around his shoulder.

A woman, blond, twentysomething, in green shorts and a white blouse. Barefoot, an apple in her hand. She had a tattoo of an apple on her right shoulder, too. Maybe she liked apples. 

She stared at Vivian, then at me, then at Jonah, then took a bite of the apple. “Who’s this?”

“Nobody.” He sighed, annoyed. “Look, I’m sorry Mina’s in the hospital, but to tell you the truth, we’re done.” He glanced over his shoulder at the girl. “Can you leave now?”

Vivian took a step forward. “You made her take it, and now you took it. And you used it to put her in the hospital. A 72-year-old woman! A fall could have killed her. Are you going to use the book like my other aunt did? To get money from people, or just injure anyone you don’t like?”

“What’s she talking about, Jonah?” The younger woman seemed amused, as if she’d come in on the middle of a sitcom.

“Don’t worry, Bree, she’s cracked.” He put a hand on the door. “There’s no book. Some old lady falls on the street and it’s my fault? Get out of here before I call the police.”

“You might not like that if we tell them you’ve got stolen property in here,” I said. “They’ll have to ask questions.” Actually, they didn’t, but I was hoping the prospect would spook Jonah a little.

It did, but not the way I expected. Jonah took a step back, but before Vivian or I could move he slammed the door in our face. She jumped back, rubbing her nose. “Son of a bitch!”

“We could knock again,” I said. “We might wear him down.”

I didn’t really think so, but it had happened to me a few times. Mostly I just didn’t want my client to think I gave up easily. 

But Vivian shook her head. “I can’t stand here all day arguing with him. Do you think he really has the book?”

“He knew your aunt fell in the street. We didn’t tell him that.” Maybe the curse was really specific. Or he was watching her when he cast it. Or maybe he’d just gotten lucky.

Her eyes went wide. “I guess that’s right. He must have it. What do we do now?”

I led her to the elevator, and we went down. I used the ride to think. I wished Rachel were here—she’d have been able to tell me for sure if the book was in Jonah’s apartment. Right now all I had were my own P.I. instincts. 

“I want to watch this place for a while,” I told her finally as we stood on the street outside. Cars crept up and down the street slowly, and pedestrians were making their way to the subway, the bus stop, or home. “If he’s carrying the book around, with him I might have a chance to grab it. Or if he’s keeping it somewhere else, he might take me to it. We can set a time limit on it, a few hours if you want, so I don’t add too much to your bill.” 

She looked up at the building. “I suppose so. It’s, what, 4:30?” She looked at her wrist. “Almost five. Let’s say 7:30. Call me before you leave. Let me know if you see anything.”

“Right.” I looked up and down the block and spotted a Starbucks. Coffee would be good, and I wanted to use a bathroom before I started a stakeout. “I’ll be in touch.”

I used the restroom, snagged a coffee, and got as comfortable as I could in my car across the street from Jonah’s building. I texted Rachel to let her know what was going on. She texted back: This is how you get out of making dinner? With a frowny-face emoji. I let it go.

So I sat back and waited, watching the front door. He didn’t show, of course. This was a long shot, but it was the only tactic I could think of right now. Maybe tomorrow I’d have a better idea.

By 6:30 I was looking forward to quitting in half an hour and going home, but then the door opened and the girl came out. Bree, Jonah’s girlfriend. She was at least a little more age appropriate. I watched her for a moment, then, on impulse, I jumped out of my car and followed her.

She walked two blocks to a Chinese restaurant. A cheerful woman handed some plastic bags to her over the counter, and she gave her a handful of cash. Then she turned and saw me.

“Oh. You.” The bags dangled in her arms. “What do you want?”

“Does Jonah have the book?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. What’s the big deal about it?”

“It could be dangerous to have around.”

Her face wrinkled. “Dangerous how?”

“The—the information in it. He could use it to hurt people.” I didn’t want to get into the curses right now. Not everyone believes in the supernatural until it whacks them between the eyes.

Bree set the bags on an empty table and wiped a hand on her shorts. “Let me ask you something—is Jonah really screwing a 70-year-old woman?”

“I don’t have pictures of them, or anything like that. But—yes.”

Bree laughed. “That asshole. I mean, I expect it, but a senior citizen? Damn.”

“What about the book?” I asked.

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah. He brought some book home a few days ago. Very secret. Hid out in the bedroom for hours, and I was stuck watching TV all day. When I saw him the next day, though, he had a pocket full of cash. Wouldn’t say where it came from. I saw the book in the bedroom when we—you know—and then he kicked me out. Said he had some kind of work to do. And the next day, more money.” She picked up her bags. “Is that it? This is going to get cold, and you don’t want me telling Jonah why I took so long.”

She had a point, but I had one big question. “What happened today? Did he disappear into the bedroom today to do something?”

She looked past me to the door. “Yeah. He got a text, and then he went into the bedroom and I heard him talking, and then it was quiet and I heard him talking again, only this time he wasn’t talking to anybody. It was like he was talking to himself. Can I go now? I’m hungry.”

Me too.I hadn’t eaten lunch, and the aroma of Chinese food was getting to me. I handed her a card. “The book is important. We might be able to pay you if you can help us get it back.”

Bree slipped the card into her back pocket and grinned. “Don’t hold your breath.” 

“Can I have your number? In case I have to talk to you again?”

She hesitated, suspicious, but after a moment she ripped a few inches of paper from her receipt, borrowed a pen, and wrote down her number for me. “This doesn’t mean I’ll answer you.”

“Understood. Thanks.”

“Whatever.” She walked around me to the door. I watched her go. 

My stomach felt suddenly empty, so I bought an eggroll and carried it back to the car.

Now what? Jonah definitely had the book, and it looked like he was using it already, casting some low-level curses to get cash. Getting it back, though, was going to be complicated. Maybe a TV private eye could break into the apartment and steal it, but I didn’t even know how to pick a lock. And I couldn’t count on Bree to help me.

I called my client to report. Vivian listened without saying much. She seemed tired, not just worn out physically but sick of the whole situation. “I don’t know,” she said when I finished. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Fine.” We hung up, and I called Rachel. “Want me to bring home Chinese food?”

“It’s either that, or crackers and cheese again. Go crazy.”

“Coming soon.” We hung up and I headed back to the restaurant.

            

We ate dinner in front of the TV, watching the newest season of Black Mirror until 11:30. I dozed off, but Rachel woke me up, and we moved from the sofa to the bedroom. I woke up to my alarm at 7:15. 

            I fumbled in the darkness to snooze the alarm before it woke Rachel, and sat up. I rubbed my eyes, stretched, and reached out for my phone. It fell on the floor, and I leaned down to look for it, but I couldn’t see it. I blinked and rubbed my eyes again. Why was it so dark?

            I stood up, then sat back down on the bed again. Reached for the lamp and found the switch. I turned the switch. Nothing. Just a faint glow in the corner of my eye. I ran my hand up the stem of the lamp to the bulb. It was working—I could feel the heat. I turned the light off and on again. I couldn’t see the light.

            I held my hand up in front of my face. A dim shadow, nothing more. I blinked a bunch of times, rubbed my eyes again, and searched the floor until I found my phone. I flicked the screen. Again, I could see only a mild, distant shard of light. What the hell?

            “Rachel?” I leaned back to pat her. “Rach?”

            “Wha?” Her voice was muffled and sleepy.

            “I need help.” My heart started to pound.

            “Huh? You know how to make coffee and pour cereal. What kind of help do you need?”

            One more time I blinked and rubbed my eyes. But it was no use. I had to admit it. “I can’t see.”