Page 95 of Be Still My Unbeating Heart

“I guess we’re going to have to do this the old-fashioned way, then,” he said. “Let’s reexamine what we already know. Three people are dead, two of whom worked at Micio Micio. The other was seen outside Micio Micio hassling one of the victims before she died. The mayor’s husband is a vampire, and we assumed he was responsible for the murders, but he’s in the custody of the vampire council, which means it would be next to impossible for him to have killed Salvador, and casts doubt on the theory that he killed Luna and Emilio.”

“Meanwhile,” Whitby added, “Enzo went missing—briefly—around the time Salvador was killed. And Salvador knew something about the murders. He told you as much at least twice.”

“But he was a fraud.” Bastian stopped, thinking. “He knew about you, though. He said the cat’s blood is in your veins.”

“Don’t make me vomit. But yes, perhaps he wasn’t a fraud after all.”

Bastian hopped on the spot. “Let’s go ask him! Oh, silly me, he’s dead.”

Whitby hissed. “We can’t both be catty, it doesn’t work.”

Bastian flapped his hands. “What do you suggest, then?”

“We find where Salvador lived, and we break in. There may be something in his apartment that will lead us to the killer.”

A smile crept across Bastian’s face. “I always knew you were the brains in this outfit.”

—

“A fine time for a stroll, young man!” Aunt Agata said, beaming from outside her store. The street was quiet and a single light cast the shopkeeper in an ocher glow. She sat in the same wickerchair by the door, her bare feet up on a stool. The knitting needles flashed and clicked in her hands as she continued to work on the orange garment.

“Salutations,” Bastian said, doffing an invisible cap to her as he approached with Whitby.

Aunt Agata beamed wider, her cheeks glowing pink. Perhaps she could sense that he was genuinely pleased to see her—who else would know Salvador’s address?

“You’re up past the witching hour,” he said.

“When you get to my age, sleep feels like a waste.”Clickity-clackity…“Don’t you just love this time of night? Everybody is off dreaming while all sorts of secret things take place beyond their bedrooms. It’s pure magic.”

“Yes,” Whitby said. “Magic does seem more possible during the dark hours.”

“Easier to catch prey, too, I’m sure,” Aunt Agata said.

Bastian scoffed. “The only prey Whitby catches these days is her own tail.”

The shopkeeper clucked a laugh.

“Judgy,” Whitby grumbled, tail twitching.

“Now, then,” Aunt Agata said, rearranging the yarn in her lap before resuming knitting, “what is it I can do for you?” Bastian’s eyebrows rose and she laughed again. “Nobody stops by Aunt Agata’s for the conversation alone, especially this late.”

Bastian smiled. “You got me. The truth is, we were hoping you could tell us where Salvador lives.”

Aunt Agata’s eyes crinkled. “Don’t you meanlived?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Salvador Silvestri is dead,caro, didn’t you know?”

Bastian’s eyebrows rose again. There really were no limits to the shopkeeper’s powers. Salvador’s body was still warm, and yet Aunt Agata already knew of his demise.

“How didyouknow?” Bastian asked.

The shopkeeper’s mouth pursed. “I have my ways. And trust me when I say that this town’s better off without that nuisance. Few shall mourn him.”

Bastian wondered what exactly Aunt Agata’s “ways” were. Snooping? Idle gossip? Or perhaps she had seen the deaths with her own eyes. The woman was certainly invested in the town. If Luna, Emilio, and Salvador did something that Aunt Agata perceived as an affront to Vernazza, would she take action? Seek reprisals?

Watching the knitting needles, Bastian pictured them stabbing flesh. Opening arteries. Tearing at Luna’s throat in a ruthless attack…