Page 55 of Witches of Dubious Origin
I shrugged. “Just thought you might want to getaheadof it.”
His laughter was rich and deep and broke through the quiet, causing two birds nearby to take flight.
Olive glanced over her shoulder at us, lowered her sunglasses, and frowned. Jasper and I immediately stifled our amusement and Olive turned back around, stepping on the mat that activated the automatic doors. Eloise hurried after her, completely unaware that she’d been the diversion I needed to get through this morning.
As we followed them into the building, Jasper leaned down and said, “Thanks for the heads-up.”
I snorted, not daring to meet his gaze for fear it’d turn into a full-on laugh.
The woman at the reception desk, wearing a name badge that readMarcy, glanced up. She was middle-aged, with a round face and glasses perched on her nose. She greeted Olive with a warm smile but was distracted as the phone on her desk rang and another office worker dropped a file on the inbox beside her.
“Welcome to Mystwood Manor, may I help you?” Marcy greeted us.
“Yes, we have a meeting with the director,” Olive said. “If you could just instruct us on how to get to the office?”
“Certainly. You want to go to the third floor. Take the passage to the right and the director’s office is at the end of the hallway.”
“Thank you.” Olive looked at me and tipped her head in the direction of the elevators.
I glanced at Eloise and Jasper and mouthedGood luckbefore hurrying after Olive.
We rode up to the third floor in silence. Two health care workers in scrubs joined us on floor two. They were talking animatedly when they entered, but one look at Olive and they both stopped speaking, scrambling over each other to get out ahead of us on the third floor. Olive had that effect on people and I supposed it could be considered a sort of superpower.
As we stepped out of the elevator, Olive led the way in the direction Marcy had indicated. We paused in front of a door with a plaque that read DIRECTOR. Olive rapped on the wood three times. There was no answer. She tipped her head as if considering the situation and then turned the handle and pushed the door open.
There was an empty reception station and another office in a room behind it. The door was open and I could see someone seated at the desk in there. I recognized him immediately.
“That’s Mr. Moran, the director,” I whispered to Olive. “He was the one who called me when my mother passed and met Agatha and me when we came and retrieved Mom’s things.”
I steeled myself to talk to him. I had so many questions about my mother’s stay, things I never would have thought to ask before this grimoire appeared in my life. I patted my coat. I had tucked the grimoire in an inside pocket, having decided to leave my backpack in the SUV. It felt weird to have it so close to me. I felt as if some sort of bond was forming between me and my mysterious book, but maybe it was just because I believed it had been sent to me by my mother and I was standing in the place where she’d spent her last days.
Olive nodded and walked past the assistant’s workspace and into the main office. She paused in the doorway and said, “Let me ask the questions.”
“Okay.” I raised my hands as if in surrender, but I was actually relieved not to have to pick at the scab that was my mother’s death in this place.
“Mr. Moran,” Olive greeted him. “We’re here for our appointment.”
The director rose quickly to his feet. He wobbled a bit but steadied himself with a hand on his desk. He smoothed his thinning dark hair back across his head with a nervous hand. “Of course. Please, come in. How can I help you?”
I followed Olive and we took the two seats in front of his desk. Moran sat and folded his hands on his desktop. His face was blank, as if he didn’t recall who I was even though we’d seen each other a little over a month ago when I’d collected my mother’s things. I supposed with so many residents it was difficult to keep up with the family members who came and went.
“We came to talk to you about Juliet Ziakas,” Olive said.
“Right, just so.” Moran fiddled with the stapler on his desk, checking and rechecking its alignment, nudging it amillimeter, and checking it again. I had the urge to slap his hand to get him to glance up, but I suppressed it.
“What can you tell us about Ms. Ziakas’s passing?” Olive asked.
Moran didn’t look up from his desk. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“She was rather young to have died of a cardiac arrest without a preexisting condition, wasn’t she?” Olive asked.
Moran’s gaze darted across his desk as if he was searching for something—anything—to divert his attention. I glanced at Olive and noticed the muscle in her cheek bunching. He was getting on her nerves, too.
“I’m not a doctor.” Moran began checking the tips of the pencils in the holder on the side of his desk. He took out each one without a sufficiently sharp tip and lined them up on the desk. For sharpening, I supposed.
“I didn’t assume you were.” Olive drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. “However, you are the director of this facility and when one of your residents dies, I would think you’d be familiar with the situation.”
“I don’t…I’m not sure…” Mr. Moran glanced at the window. “I should go home. My wife will be wondering where I am.”
