Milo...Spell

      By Pattie Lawler

           

            Milo was having one of those nights, and there seemed no end in sight.

            Missing Albany’s performance owing to business set the avalanche in motion. The meeting with his lawyers had been less productive than he hoped, the news that Cameron Phillips was murdered, and Simon’s landmine about Peter Reynolds left him reeling.

            He felt tempted to call Fanny and wake her up just to make sure she was in bed.

            As Albany moved around her little dressing room, he trailed in her wake. He could see she was fretting and to be within easy reach, even in a coffin-sized room, was their shared desire. She fought back tears of mortification while explaining about the blackmail and assured him that she trusted him, Simon, and the police to protect her.

            “I’m just surprised he hasn’t been pulled from the East River by now,” she concluded, stepping into shoes.

            Milo smiled, hugging her. “Simon will handle everything, and Renyolds’ll be fish food before you know it.”

            She smiled and reached for her coat.

            But Milo reached it first and held it open. “When we get home, how about a nice long shower?”

            Her smile grew, and she turned in his arms to face him. “Let’s use up all the hotel’s hot water.”

            The shower, however, would have to wait. They arrived at the penthouse to a message from New York’s finest. Simon took control of the situation, allowing Milo a free moment to shepherd Albany to the bathroom.

            “I’ll be in as soon as possible,” he promised, turning on the water and helping with her dress.

            “Do you know what they want?”

            “Not specifically.” He paused long enough to kiss her. “But don’t worry. I’ll be in soon.”

            Once he was sure she was going to shower and collapse into bed, he joined Simon in the library.

            “According to Jameson,” his bodyguard began upon seeing he was alone, “you were probably the last person, aside from the murderer, to see Phillips alive. Security at the Plaza said his room key hadn’t been used last night, and the last report of his whereabouts puts him here.”

            Milo nodded, sinking into the chair behind his desk. “Am I going to need an alibi?”

            “Since you have one, it hardly matters. Not that I think that Jameson believes you had anything to do with this.”

            “So what does he want?”

            “To come over in the morning and talk about what you and Phillips discussed.”

            “Albany will sleep until noon.”

            Simon nodded. “I told him noon, earliest. He’s fine with that.”

            They sat in silence for a moment before Milo leaned back, stripping his gloves off. “I never had a problem with Phillips. Our paths rarely crossed. A bullet through the brain, however, is not the death I imagined for any of my associates.”

            “Not even Raul?”

            “Well...”

            With a chuckle, Simon rose. “My hope is that the murderer got what he wanted and moved on. I’d hate for him to think that you’ve got something he needs.”

            “And amazingly, I’m not worried,” Milo joined him. “You’re too good at what you do.”

 <0>

            Jameson and an officer named Berkowitz arrived exactly on time. Simon said he would escort them up, and as the elevator doors rolled closed, Milo was pouring Albany’s second coffee. While she ate, he explained about Phillips and what Simon told them to expect. She accepted it all with a nod.

            “Better today?” Milo asked.

            She continued to nod. “Much. Thank you. You’re too wonderful for words.”

            He captured and kissed her hand as the elevator chimed in warning. Milo stood as Simon and the officers strode into the room. Introductions were made all around and the detectives invited to join them at the table. Coffee became the focus for a minute before Jameson removed a pad from his jacket and turned his attention on Milo.

            “I know Ruelle has informed you that you’re not a suspect: your credentials aside, your alibi has already been confirmed. I’m more interested in the document that he showed you. Ruelle told me a bit about it, and nothing like it has been found in his hotel room.”

            “When my fiancée is done with her breakfast—”

            “I’m done,” Albany interjected, dropping her napkin onto the table. “What did you have in mind?”

            Milo smiled and rose, his hand out for Albany’s. “If you would please join me in the library?”

           

            Milo pulled a slim portfolio from a shelf, opened the clasp and began leafing through the large envelope. “They’re called Tear Spells. They’re written in a distinctive serpentine pattern that hugs the edge of a page and could be mistaken for a border by the unknowing.” He lifted a page from the collection and joined the others who clustered around his desk. Setting the portfolio aside, he placed the brittle paper on the blotter.

            The decorative writing did indeed appear to be a border framing the center of the page where the text was written in a cursive hand. The top of the page was devoid of art but damaged by two deep tears near the extreme corners. Down the left side was another small blank space and the ornate writing began just below another tear.

            “What happens,” Milo bent over the desk to point at the writing, “is you start reading aloud—you see the writing in the art—to invoke the spell, and the words begin to disappear at a very fast rate. Every tear spell is different in its timing but the point is, when you start reading, you really gotta mean it. And here’s the fun part: to stop the spell you tear the page.” He pointed to one of the tears. “Originally, there would have been this flowery text along here.” He drew his finger across the blank top of the paper. “I have other examples, but this one is the most complete.”

            “Do you know what this spell does?” Albany asked.

            Nodding, Milo twisted the page in a counter-clockwise direction to better display the elaborate characters. “Over the years, these spells have acquired monikers. There was a huge market, according to monastic records, for spells reputed to change base metal to gold. These we now call alchemy spells; ones reputed to cure anything are called snake oil. This one, called a hand of glory, is the ultimate skeleton key, like the combination to all safes. Were I to read the spell aloud, I would probably spring every safe in every room of the hotel.”

            She frowned at him, catching his meaning. “But not here in the penthouse.”

            He grinned at her. “My safes are spelled against magic...if you can believe.”

            “You’re saying this is magic?” Jameson asked, his tone skeptical.

            Albany nodded, smiling at him. “You’ll get used to it.” She returned to the page, addressing Milo. “I assume you’re not the one who burned through a quarter of this spell.”

            “No. I bought it in this condition.”

            “And how much does something like this go for,” Jameson asked.

            “It depends on how complete the spell is and what it does. Something like this,” he gestured to the page, “would fetch a pretty penny. I paid $3000 about twelve years ago. It was listed as an incomplete border, hence the bargain price. If I wanted to dispose of this today, I know at least three buyers who wouldn’t flinch at an opening bid of $50,000.”

            “And the spell Phillips showed you?”

            Milo straightened, crossing his arms across his chest. “He wouldn’t tell me where he got it or what he paid for it. Stylistically, it appeared to be Northern Italian, Fifteenth Century. At first glance, I would have placed the estimate low, as only about twenty percent of the spell remained, but the spell itself read like the end of a poem. The borrowed term for his spell is a triptych. No doubt there are two other spells before it. Chances are, they would have been useless without his spell.” He shook his head. “That aspect made it rare and tantalizing. The thought of hunting for the other pieces is what collectors thrive on.”

            “Collect the whole set,” Albany whispered.

            “Exactly.”

            “But how can you be so sure there are two pieces?” Jameson asked.

            “Because I said so,” Milo said with a grin. “The medieval mind was consumed with biblical imagery and saw the Father, Son and Holy Spirit in everything it could. Triptych spells mirrored this convention. It’s possible that whoever killed poor Cameron is in possession of the other two pieces, or at least one, or how else would they know another existed?”

            “Could you tell what his spell did?”

            Milo nodded. “It was a pointer; the final piece in a treasure map, if you will. Phillips wanted me to confirm its authenticity and read it if possible.”

            Jameson boggled, shaking his head. “He bought a document he couldn’t read?”

            “It’s not unusual. The element of discovery is another of the many aspects of collecting. Figuring out what you just dropped a chunk o’ change on is very rewarding.”

            Albany and Jameson gaped at him before locking eyes with each other and sharing a silent exchange. Albany finally shook her head. “And I thought buying wrapped baseball cards was a crapshoot.”

            Jameson nodded, grinning.

            “And how could you read it,” Albany went on, “if only twenty percent of it was still on the page?”

            Milo grinned, reaching to open a desk drawer. He extracted a pair of 3-D glasses and held them out to her. Albany accepted with raised eyebrows, put them on and looked at the document.

            “Wow.” She drew them off and offered them to Jameson. His reaction mirrored hers. Milo knew they were seeing a floating, golden image of what was missing.

            “The glasses pick up the residual energy as a kind of halo. Not surprisingly, it’s called an afterglow.” He gestured to the blank area. “There was a theory going around for a while that the energy faded over time and a document could be dated depending on the strength of the afterglow, like radiocarbon dating. But then we started noticing that age had nothing to do with it. Some really old spells displayed vibrant afterglows, and visa versa. Intent became the next flavor of the month and from there it was dropped.”

            “Why?”

            “Without a time machine,” he waved his hand at the spell on the desk, “it’s impossible to judge just how badly someone wanted to pick locks.”

            “I think it’s obvious,” Albany countered. “The more desperate the spell, i.e. I need money this will help me get it, the stronger the intent.”

            He shook his head, taking the glasses Jameson held out. “This is just one example, my love. I’ve seen snake oils for curing dandruff and strengthening bladders. And another problem with intent is that the person using the spell wasn’t always the one making it. There was an entire school in Italy making them to order.”

            “So where does this leave us?” Jameson asked.

            “Sadly, in the dark,” Milo sighed. “Without the other parts of the poem, I don’t know what the pointer was indicating, and the murderer is unlikely to try and sell the pieces...unless he knew someone with a piece or two and is going to offer it to them. That’s a thought.” He turned away, considering aloud while pacing. “Let’s say, I’ve got two pieces to a puzzle. Phillips buys the final piece, recognizes it as part of my set, and decides to turn a tidy profit.” Milo paused. “Phillips is old money, and I haven’t heard anything about him being in dire straits.” He resumed pacing. “But we’ll pretend he’s desperate. He needs cash. He approaches me, and I give him what he wants. Done deal.”

            “No need for murder,” Albany murmured.

            “But if Phillips bought the item out from under me, and I was the desperate one—”

            “You might try to get what you want from him directly,” she interjected, “but he’s a real jerk and turns you down so you take matters into your own hands.”

            “Or...” Milo resumed the narrative, “what if I was the one with the other two pieces and someone was trying to sell me the third and left if with me on approval. I then took it to the one person who could prove its authenticity.”

            “Which you did, which is where that breaks down.”

            He nodded. “Unless I knew who needed the piece, and I hated them enough to want to flaunt my victory and send it to the block. Leave my enemy at the mercy of the maddening crowd.”

            “In which case, Phillips knows someone wants his spell and has to move quickly—”

            “You’re both over-thinking this,” Simon interrupted. “The person with the other two pieces learned that Phillips had the third and killed him for it. End of story.”

 

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