The Mark of the Phoenix
Chapter 2
You can learn more about this cozy mystery series here.
Chapter 2
Sunlight pried her eyes open. Sleep lingered, heavy and strange. Alana shuffled to the bathroom, the memory of the dog as hazy as a half-remembered dream. On her yoga mat, bathed in the morning warmth, she stretched through familiar poses. Something was off. As she twisted into sundial, she realized it: silence. No gentle snores, no wagging tail knocking against furniture throughout the house.
"A dream then?" She followed the usual routine – kettle whistling, the ancient laptop whirring to life. But doubt coiled beneath her skin. Then, a deep, resonant woof... and a familiar buzz on her wrist. The birthmark pulsed as a sharp knock echoed through the house. The dog was real, and clearly waiting by the front door.
A startled cry escaped her, "Just a minute!" She peered out. Not Haven, not even Darci. Strangers. Their badges glinted in the sun, reflecting the unease rising within her. The woman in front, her creased suit and blunt-cut hair mirroring her stern expression, barked, "Police. Open up."
The dog, as if sensing her anxiety, shifted slightly away from the door. Just enough for her to crack it open.
"Alana Fenwick?" The officer's voice was all business. "Please control your dog. We need to speak with you."
At the word 'control,' the dog padded to the far corner of the room, sitting alertly. His body language screamed protective, a silent threat that made Alana's pulse quicken. The officer's eyes narrowed as she moved to enter, and the dog let out a low, warning growl.
Nerves jangling, Alana glanced at the dog, then back at the officers. "Can we... maybe talk on the porch?" Her voice sounded higher than usual, betraying her own uncertainty.
Alana stepped onto the porch, the damp autumn air offering a momentary respite from the chaos inside. Sunlight hinted at warmth, but for now, a chill lingered. She gestured towards the wicker chairs, a formality quickly dismissed by the female officer's deepening flush.
"You are Alana Fenwick, right?" The officer's eyes scanned the porch, settling on the overturned pot, the spilled dirt.
"Yes." Alana locked eyes with the woman. Something was off, a flicker of concern beneath the harshness. "How can I help?"
"Detective Anderson. This is Detective Merrick. Was there trouble here last night, Ma'am?" Anderson's eyes narrowed. "Looks like a struggle."
Alana laughed, the sound brittle. "The dog versus the potted mums. A massacre."
"That brings us to last night, Ma'am. Where were you, then and this morning?"
"Right here. Alone. Well..." She offered a wry smile, "Except for the dog." A beat of silence hung in the air.
"This isn't funny. Cooper Whelan is dead. Murdered." The words landed like stones. Alana's breath caught. "Cooper? But…I just saw him…"
"How well did you know him, Miss Fenwick?" Anderson's voice was all business now, the concern vanished.
Alana blinked, her mind racing. "I know of Cooper, of course. Award-winning reporter, and all that. But personally? We just met yesterday. Why – why are you even here?"
"Yesterday? Then tell me, Miss Fenwick," the detective drawled, emphasizing the 'Miss' like a sneer, "why was Cooper Whelan seen leaving your office well after hours? Pretty young professor like yourself... bound to attract attention."
Alana recoiled. "My office? After hours? I..." Her voice trailed off, a hand flying to the charm stone at her neck. Mamo's gift when she was a young child, a smooth rainbow agate, suddenly felt burning hot against her skin. "Cooper... dead? But he was just..."
Dizziness washed over her. The world tilted, the porch lurching beneath her feet. The second officer, a blur of a face, caught her arm just in time.
"Ma'am? Are you okay? Maybe we should go inside." Detective Merrick's touch was surprisingly gentle as he guided her towards the first chair they came to inside the house, its worn upholstery smelling faintly of old fabric and dust. She collapsed into it, body trembling. The dog pressed close, his fur radiating warmth, his solid weight a grounding force against the chaos swirling within her. With a desperate sigh, she unclenched her fists enough to scratch his ears. A rumble started deep in his chest, a strange, comforting vibration that resonated through her, momentarily quieting the storm in her mind.
Merrick broke the tense silence. "What's his name, Ma'am?"
Alana blinked, the world slowly coming back into focus. "I... don't know."
Anderson snorted. "Convenient. Don't know your own dog's name?"
A surge of anger fueled Alana's next words. "He's not mine!" She straightened, her gaze locking with Anderson's. "I met him yesterday. Just like Cooper. And if you think for a second I'd hurt either of them..." Her voice trailed off, replaced by a sharp intake of breath.
Merrick leaned forward, his tone cautious. "Let’s try this again. Cooper Whelan was murdered – in your office, sometime last night. We need to know why he was there."
Alana closed her eyes, the dog's fur a grounding anchor through the chaotic swirl of her thoughts. A shaky breath escaped her. When she looked up, it was at Detective Merrick. Distractingly handsome, sure, with that disarming smile and a hint of concern in his eyes. She quickly refocused her thoughts on Cooper, on the absurdity of it all.
"I have no idea why Cooper was in my office. Overnight? We only met yesterday. He… cornered me in the parking lot, wanted to enroll in my class. I sent him away, told him to make a formal request. That’s the only time I’ve ever spoken to him in person"
Merrick leaned forward. "’In person'?"
"Right. He emailed me last night. A bit pushy," Alana admitted, a flicker of unease surfacing. An overenthusiastic student email suddenly felt far more ominous.
Anderson, previously watchful from the doorway, cut in. "We'll need to see that email." There was a finality in her tone, a note of suspicion that tightened Alana's stomach. "And who else has keys to your office, Miss Fenwick?"
"Let's see... Dr. Thomas, security, janitorial staff... whoever they give keys to, I guess." Alana's sarcasm was barely veiled.
Anderson pressed on. "Any students? Including the victim?"
"Not that I know of." Alana's voice was clipped. "I just work there."
Merrick stood, his height suddenly imposing as he clearly topped six feet by several inches. A smile softened his features. "We're done for now. But I'm sure more questions will pop up – once we've looked at the scene."
"The scene?" Alana echoed, confusion giving way to alarm. "My office?"
"Standard procedure." Anderson's tone was curt. "Off-limits until the investigation's done." She turned to leave, the dog keeping a watchful eye as Alana walked them to the porch.
The distinct rumble of a Harley cut through the tense air. Alana caught a glimpse of the rider before he executed a brazen U-turn, tearing across her lawn to park on the sidewalk. "Lanie!" He hopped off the bike, a 1996 Fatboy. "What's happening? You okay? Phoebe okay?"
"Wolfe," Anderson spat the name like a curse. Then, to Alana, rapid-fire: "Friend of yours, this... biker? Doesn't say much for your judgment. And who's Phoebe? Someone else in the house?"
Alana, still reeling from the dramatic entrance, blinked. Mike – dressed in greasy jeans and looking every inch the mechanic he was – enveloped her in a hug so fierce his goatee tickled her cheek. The familiar scent of Irish Spring soap momentarily grounded her.
He pulled back, fixing his gaze on Anderson. "Charlie, what the hell is this?"
"Detective Anderson," she snapped, but her eyes flickered over him, a hint of heat beneath the hostility. "And this is none of your business. Now, about this Phoebe..."
Mike smirked, that familiar glint in his eyes that always set her pulse racing. "Obviously, I'm concerned for Alana, Charlie. And Phoebe's just over there." He gestured towards the driveway, adding a wink for good measure.
Anderson scoffed. "Figures. More affection for a machine than real people." Her voice was sharp, but there was an edge to it – frustration, or perhaps something else. "We have real problems to solve. Let's go," she barked at Merrick, who'd been watching with amusement. They headed back to their sedan, leaving Alana with a lingering sense of unease – and a curious mix of memories.
As the cops pulled away, Mike ushered Alana inside. But a gasp stopped him in his tracks. "Lanie, since when do you have a dog? And a monster like this?" He grinned, already kneeling on the floor as the dog barreled toward him like they were long-lost buddies. Mike wrestled with the dog joyfully, his laughter filling the house.
Alana needed a moment. She headed to the kitchen, nerves jangling, snagging a handful of Sweet Tarts. "Want anything?"
Mike, still breathless from the dog-induced mayhem, joined her. "No, but I'm gonna be late. Saw Charlie on your doorstep... figured something was up. Tell me what happened."
"Where to start?" Alana's voice was thick. "Dog showed up... cops came... student murdered... in my office." The last words choked out. She turned away, shoulders shaking, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill.
Mike watched her, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features. It wasn't just worry – there was almost a touch of... unease? "Okay, hang on," he said, "The dog..." He glanced back, the dog now sitting perfectly still, eyes fixed on Alana. "He seems... different."
He couldn't quite put his finger on it, that strange intensity in the dog's gaze. But Alana needed him right now, not more questions. He stepped closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, the gesture both familiar and somehow new. Her sobs hitched as his hand began tracing soothing circles on her back. "I barely knew him," she choked out, "But someone killed him... in my office."
"I don't know what to say. But Charlie... she's good. She'll get to the bottom of this." Mike's deep voice tried for soothing, but an edge of worry remained.
"I'm not..." Alana began, then stopped. A shaky breath, the brush of a tear against her cheek. She straightened, a forced composure replacing the vulnerability. "I've got to get ready. Find out what's happening."
"Your office is a crime scene now. Maybe stay home today?" Mike hated the suggestion, even as he made it.
Alana shook her head, the motion sharp. "You go. I’ve already wasted your morning." Her voice was almost brittle. "I can handle this. Have to, right?"
He studied her, concern etching deeper creases on his face. "Okay, Lanie. But text me. Please. I need to know you're alright."
Alana followed him to the door. "I will. Thanks, Mike." The dog let out a low woof – a goodbye, a plea to Mike to stay. He climbed on the bike, and the engine's roar was another sudden, violent intrusion in Alana’s morning. She watched him go, the rumble lingering long after, echoing the unease within her.
Alana refreshed the dog's water, then rummaged for food. Leftover cereal would have to do for now. As the dog crunched contentedly, she noticed her kettle had cooled. Sighing, she grabbed a Dr. Pepper, heading for her room with a sense of foreboding.
Her choice of clothes felt deliberate: a long brown skirt, the beige camisole grounding her, topped with a soft chocolate cardigan. As she fastened the charm stone around her neck, a flicker of rainbow light caught her eye – Mamo's gift, a beacon of warmth even as her absence ached. Matching agate earrings added a touch of defiant sparkle. Wedge heels then, a few extra inches of stature against the uncertainty ahead.
Dashing back, she tossed candy, phone, and a spare soda into her bag. Grabbing her keys, she called out, "Come on, boy. Work's not going to wait." The dog didn't need a second invitation. There was something... purposeful in his gait, his eyes an almost eerie shade of amber in the morning light.
The dog followed her out, waiting stoically on the porch as she locked up. "When did you get a dog?" Nadiryah's voice floated over from next door.
Alana sighed, walking towards the car. "He showed up last night. And now..." She glanced back at the dog, unease prickling her skin. "...I've got to go to work, but... one of my students was killed."
Nadi's eyes went wide as she walked over, her hand finding the dog's head, absently stroking his fur. "I heard on the radio. Did you know him well?"
"Met him yesterday, but they found him... in my office." Alana's voice was barely a whisper. "Headed there now, but what to do with him...?"
Nadiryah, always practical, offered a lifeline. "Leave him here. I'm off today. Flyers, social media – we'll find his people."
"You'd do that?" Gratitude washed over Alana as she hugged her neighbor.
"Of course. Now go. Deal with your mess." Nadiryah beckoned, "Come on, boy! Let's find some breakfast."
The dog hesitated. His gaze fixed on Alana, a question in his eyes she couldn't decipher. Then, with a resigned sigh, he padded towards Nadiryah's house. Worry gnawed at Alana as she drove away, the image of the dog's reluctant departure lingering in her mind.
Phoebe roared to life, Metallica blasting from the old speakers. Alana headed towards campus, a knot in her stomach tightening with each mile. Cathedral Hall loomed ahead, its stained-glass windows throwing shards of colored light as she pulled into the faculty lot. The buzz of students heading home for the weekend felt jarring, a mockery in the face of last night's violence.
With a heavy bag and a heavier heart, Alana used the side entrance, each creak of the old stairs echoing in the hollow silence of the building. The stale scent of coffee, usually a bland comfort, snagged in her throat, a nauseating promise of the bitter day ahead. She tried to picture the chaos awaiting her, to brace herself.
Nothing prepared her for the scene at the top of the landing.
A hot pulse on her wrist. The birthmark flared, a sudden, angry beacon. Then – every faculty member, division assistants, even students – their eyes all fixed down the hall. Alana followed their gaze. It landed on a swarm of uniforms, not just police, but paramedics, people in suits... The knot in her stomach twisted tighter with each step. This was no longer an abstraction, a news report. This was happening here–right down the hallway.
Somewhere deep down, a flicker of doubt ignited. They're all staring... could they think... no, ridiculous, but the whisper of unease lingered.
"Alana." Jackson's voice, a venomous whipcrack. He materialized beside her, his face tight with fury. "How dare you show your face here today?"
"Why wouldn't I, Jackson?" Her voice was deceptively calm despite the icy knot in her stomach. "I was held up by police this morning. Why are they all here?"
Jackson leaned closer. He practically hissed the next words: "Investigating a murder. In your office. Care to explain why you killed Cooper, Alana?"
The crowd gasped. A wave of nausea washed over Alana, but beneath it, a surge of fury roared through her. It wasn't just Jackson's accusation. It was the absurdity of it all, the monstrous injustice. Her voice rose, echoing down the hall: "I didn't kill anyone! I barely knew Cooper!"
Eyes darted away, the crowd dispersing. Only Sara, the secretary, remained. "Want some coffee?" she murmured, a flicker of sympathy in her eyes.
Alana blinked, tears stinging. "You can't be serious, Jackson. This isn't about my tenure, is it? You'd stoop to..." She cut herself off, but the air crackled with unspoken accusation.
Jackson smirked. "Midnight rendezvous, Alana? Student crushes... you know how it is." His eyes gleamed with a cruel satisfaction.
"Damn you!" Alana's fists clenched. "I. Did. Not. Know. Him!" Her voice cracked, but it was the burning on her wrist that made her gasp. The birthmark was practically ablaze, the heat searing her skin. Was she fueling this confrontation, or was it fueling her?
"Now, now, Alana. Don't want those witnesses seeing you lose control, do we?" Jackson taunted, his smile widening.
"UGH!" The scream tore from her throat, a raw, primal sound that echoed in the sudden hush. She spun. Detective Merrick strode towards her, wielding a plastic bag – and within, a twisted mockery of her beloved Danu, the bronze goddess now spattered with a crimson that screamed violence.
The gentle curves, the flowing hair, that comforting heft... swallowed by the sickening red, the spiral on the sacred basket now a grotesque parody of life. Nausea churned, threatening to spill onto the polished floor.
"Yours?" Merrick's voice, a jarring intrusion. She nodded, the world tilting, the statue's weight seeming to drag her down with it.
"Is... is that the...?" The words died, a strangled gasp. Had this symbol of her heritage, this connection to Mamo, become an instrument of brutality? The thought was monstrous, yet suddenly, sickeningly possible...
"Looks like it, ma'am, the murder weapon." Merrick's tone was flat, clinical. But Alana barely heard him. Each word was another hammer blow. Fingerprints, statements... she was trapped on a nightmarish carousel, spinning out of control.
Alana swayed, her vision blurring. She wanted to scream, to fight, but a cold wave of dread washed over her.
Then, Jackson's voice cut through the fog. "Obviously, you're suspended, effective immediately. HR will send the paperwork." His tone was laced with bitter triumph.
"But my classes! My students?" Alana's voice was raw, a last flicker of protest.
"Ethics, Dr. Fenwick," Jackson intoned, a self-righteous sheen coating his words. "Can't expose impressionable minds to a suspected murderer. Two weeks left, just email those finals. A grad student will handle the rest. Now, go."
Alana followed the redheaded officer out the back exit. No surprise, it was a swarm of police vehicles. "Sorry, ma'am," he winced, "My car's blocked in."
"Figures," Alana muttered, then forced a brittle smile. "Mind if I drive myself? Save everyone trouble?" There was a spark of defiance beneath the exhaustion.
"Sure, Ma'am. Not under arrest yet. I'll just text Detective Anderson."
"Wonderful." The word dripped with dry sarcasm. Alana turned towards Phoebe, then a flicker of concern crossed her face as she saw the missed texts from Haven – angry, worried. A fresh wave of guilt washed over her.
"Sorry. Sucks to be me. Police station now. Call later," she fired back a text, the words mirroring the turmoil inside.
Friday afternoon traffic was a nightmare, and minutes bled into an eternity as Alana navigated towards Main Street. Her mind spun a relentless web of possibilities, a desperate distraction from the churning dread in her stomach. Maybe the birthmark was right. Maybe Haven, bless her bossy heart, would never let her forget this.
Finally, the police station loomed ahead. Nothing like the gritty drama of TV shows, she realized with bitter amusement. She parked Phoebe, snatching just her wallet from the cluttered passenger seat.
"Miss Fenwick. This way." Anderson's voice cut through her daze. She followed numbly, past a stark counter, through a door.
The room was a sterile hybrid: not quite kitchen, not quite lab. "Fingerprints," Anderson explained flatly. "Match them against your office..."
"So, I'm officially a suspect? Do I need a lawyer?" Alana's voice was surprisingly steady, despite the tremor in her hands.
Anderson brushed the question aside. "Routine procedure, Miss Fenwick. Helps us rule people out." Her tone was dismissive, a robotic drone beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. The sterile scent of disinfectant pricked Alana's nose, a harsh echo of the room's clinical coldness.
Ink stains stubbornly resisted her efforts, a black smudge against the stark white of the tissue. Across the table, Anderson watched, her silence as oppressive as the air itself. Fine, two can play this waiting game… The defiant thought was a weak shield against a rising tide of unease. Each creak of Anderson's chair, the faint rustle of papers, felt like a countdown.
"Look, Miss Fenwick," Anderson finally broke the silence, her voice a razor cutting through the tension. "Don't think I buy this whole wide-eyed routine."
A hot surge of anger warred with a prickle of fear. "Goddess knows, I'm no killer..." The words started strong, then trailed off, laced with a doubt she couldn't quite banish. The room, with its harsh lights and clinical surfaces, suddenly felt suffocating.
Anderson leaned forward. "The cameras clear you – no Spiderman moves. Still doesn't explain why Cooper was in your office. Or those emails... sounded like threats, veiled warnings… sounded like you were warning the victim away. Threats and Obstruction are both crimes. We can still charge you with those. And if you were an accomplice, Felony Murder will not look good on your resume.”
“Please. Crystal balls and Obstruction?" Alana scoffed. But a prickle of unease remained. "Maybe that's what got him into trouble. Some shady antiquities deal?"
Anderson's smirk was razor-sharp. "The murder weapon was your statue, Miss Fenwick. Bludgeoned in your office. So, spill it. Why was he there?"
Alana's gaze dropped. "I... I don't know." Her voice was barely audible.
The door slammed open. A man swaggered in, throwing a grin at Anderson. Her face tightened with fury. "Who the hell are you?"
Mark of the Phoenix: Book 1 of the Fenwich Legacies / Chapter 2 © 2024 by Stacy Taylor is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0 . This means that the work may only be shared with attribution, and it may not be altered or used for commercial purposes.