by Paul W Papa
“Transformed?” Mayer offered.
Vera nodded and took to rubbing her arms again. “That . . . thing, was my housekeeper?”
Mayer told her it was.
“It was in my home all this time?”
“Yes, but I don’t think it ever had any intention to hurt you. Not until . . . well, it all went south.” Mayer explained to Vera how her affair with Hawthorne had led to Pierce hiring her housekeeper to kill the man. But the skinwalker, enjoying a good trick, had complicated matters and compelled Hawthorne to sign a will that turned Vera into an even greater wedge.
“Are you implying this was all my fault?” Vera asked. She tried to put forth a brave face, but the tears welling in her eyes betrayed her.
“I guess you’re the only one who can answer that,” Mayer said. “Only you know what was truly in your heart.” He should have told her that the witch probably had plans to kill the partners anyway—to protect that land—and that Vera’s part in the whole thing was likely minimal, but decided better of it. Pierce did what he did because of her and that was that.
“I was . . .” She paused. “I was only trying to protect land that was sacred to the Paiutes.”
“It’s your story, sister.”
“You don’t believe me, do you?”
“It’s not up to me to believe. But I can’t reckon why the Paiutes would be so important to you. You’re not a member of their tribe.”
“You don’t have to be a member of a particular group to understand their plight, Mr. Mayer.” Her voice softened. “You just have to witness it for yourself.” She paused, then after a moment, found renewed strength. “Bessa, Buster, and I spoke often about the trials their people were forced to endure at the hands of white men. What it was like to be a stranger in your own land.” Her eyes reflected a certain understanding, or perhaps it was compassion.
Mayer instantly thought of the Jews and the holocaust in Germany, and what a woman like Vera Krupp might have witnessed. He should have felt sorry for her, but he didn’t. Love was just as strong as magic and when used the wrong way, it could turn just as black.
“You truly had no idea what she was?” Mayer asked.
“How would I?”
“The eyes. Didn’t you notice the eyes?”
“Some people have strange eyes, Mr. Mayer. Hers were not the first I’ve seen that were yellow.”
Mayer wondered where Vera Krupp could possibly have seen yellow eyes before, but decided to leave it alone. He was about to walk out when Vera asked him a question.
“What will you do with the photographs?”
Mayer looked at the women before him, seeing her helpless for likely the first time in her adult life. “Wait here,” he said, then walked over to the shattered bookcase. He fished through the debris until he found the photograph he’d picked up before and brought it back to Vera Krupp.
“Where was this taken?” he asked, handing her the photo.
She examined it through the cracked glass. “This was at my husband’s home,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
“Do you recognize that amulet over your left shoulder?”
Vera took a second look. “I don’t,” she said. “Why? Is it important?”
“It’s the Seal of the Seven Archangels,” Mayer said.
Vera showed no recognition of the name.
“It’s an amulet believed to hold extreme powers. Hitler was searching for it and there it sat on the shelf in your husband’s home.”
“I see,” Vera said. “Yes, Mr. Mayer, I knew my husband was drawn to the occult. It was just one of the many things I learned about him after we were married—when it was far too late. I also discovered his connection to Hitler and the war machines. That is why I chose to come back to the states after the passing of my mother. It is also why I filed for divorce.”
“One of those quickie deals?” Mayer asked. He shouldn’t have said it, but did anyway.
Vera didn’t answer.
“What are you hiding behind that bookcase?” Mayer asked.
Vera glanced in that direction. “I assure you, there is nothing there that would interest you.”
Mayer gave her hard eyes and waited.
“Very well. Come with me,” she said, and placed the photograph on the coffee table. She walked over to the space between the clock and the bookcase, touched the panel in a certain spot, and slid it open. “Go ahead,” she said, moving aside.
Mayer stepped into one of the largest bedrooms he had ever seen. Decorated in multiple shades of pink with cream accents, it was complete with all the trappings of a regular bedroom, but also included a spacious sitting area with two pink, tufted chairs; a powder room with a lighted vanity; and a sunken tub large enough to invite a guest—or two.
“It’s quite the setup,” Mayer said.
“It’s my little getaway,” Vera explained. “When I don’t want to be disturbed, I come here. The staff doesn’t know about it, so they won’t bother me. You are welcome to search the drawers and the closets if it will put your mind at ease, Mr. Mayer, but I assure you, I did not share my husband’s fascination with the occult and I have nothing of his here. If that amulet was on the shelf of his home, then I imagine it is still there. Perhaps he would be open to showing it to you.”
It didn’t ring true. Alfried had already done his bit in the cooler by the time he and Vera married, so unless she was a fool, she knew about his war crimes long before she married him and pulled the pin anyway. Still, what were the chances she would open a secret room for Mayer to search if the amulet were indeed there. She had her ranch and she had her rock, what more did she need?
“I’ll take a rain check,” Mayer said and left the room.
Vera closed the panel behind him. “And those photographs?” she asked.
Mayer shook his head. “Sorry, they’re evidence now. It’s out of my hands.” He headed for the front door. “See you in the funny papers.”
Thirty-Three
THE AMBULANCE TOOK the shaman away and Cassi with him. Mayer gave his statement and was free to leave, but admonished not to pull out of town—like he had somewhere to go. Truth be told, he did have one stop to make.
Pierce’s home was dark when he arrived—the upstairs window still broken. He traded his Colt for an iron club and a container of salt, then went to the door. He twisted the knob, then threw his shoulder into the thing, popping the lock—grateful he hadn’t latched the deadbolt. He stood inside the dark home for a moment, inches away from the blood that had surely made an indelible stain on the floor by now, and tried to figure out where the skinwalker would hide such a thing as a finger. He wished Diogie was there to sniff it out.
Though he had come prepared, Mayer was none too eager for another encounter with Hawthorne’s ghost. He knew he didn’t have time to search the entire house before it, once again, appeared. As much as Mayer enjoyed the dark, he knew it would be easier and more productive to search with the lights on, so he tripped the switch by the door and scanned the rooms—wondering where he’d put a finger if he was a skinwalker.
For no particular reason he could determine, Mayer was drawn to the living room. A place for everything and everything in its place. Shelves were full of trinkets and showroom figurines. A rectangular coffee table sat crosswise on a Persian rug and decorative pillows rested on the couch at each corner. Perhaps, Mayer thought, the finger might be there in the cushions, among the spare change.
That was when the fly entered the room, followed by another—imperfections in a masterpiece of cleanliness, certainly not acceptable at Goodalls or Harrods. He turned to the bloodstain and found them there—some landing on the blood, others hovering just above. He hadn’t noticed them when he entered, but he should have. He should have heard them too. And now that he did, the buzzing was all he could hear. He thought of the trailer and the pool of dried blood on the desk. One of the flies broke from the crowd. Mayer followed it as it flew across the room and over to the mantle. It passed an elaborat
ely decorated clock and lit atop a capped famille noire vase. It was a beautiful piece, displaying two colorful birds resting on a flowered branch—one male and one female. Other flies had found the vase as well.
“That’s it,” Mayer said. “A trickster to the end.”
Mayer went to the vase, rested his club against the chair, and placed the container of salt on the mantle. Then he removed the lid. Almost immediately, he was overtaken with a smell so foul that it left no doubt as to the contents of the vase. He tilted it toward him and there, inside, he found the missing finger—purple, black, and beginning to rot. How, Mayer wondered, did flies always know just where to find the goodies?
He pulled out his handkerchief and took hold of the thing. He was about to toss it into the fireplace when Hawthorne’s ghost appeared. This time Mayer was ready. He put down the finger, took hold of the salt container, and poured a measure into his hand. Then he tossed it squarely at the specter, making it quickly disappear. But Mayer knew it was only momentary, so before it could come back, he threw the digit into the fireplace, along with the handkerchief, doused it with lighter fluid, and lit the thing with the matches Pierce kept next to the hearth.
As it went ablaze, Mayer took hold of the club and waited. When the ghost appeared again, Mayer steadied himself, but as the finger burned to ashes, the ghost in front of him began to reflect the burning. The sparks started at the ghost’s feet and made their way up the body, until there was nothing left.
Mayer took a deep breath then left the house and all that it represented. He climbed into the Hornet and let it ferry him home. Along the way, the events replayed in his head. Vera Krupp had gotten two men, two partners, and likely two friends, to land on opposite sides, by awakening the most dangerous of all the emotions—jealousy. Then she rubbed it in their faces. All the time the skinwalker made her plans. She took a job at Pierce’s house and then one cleaning the office, where she could stay in the thick of things.
Then all she had to do was make an offer to a man dizzy with a dame—one who didn’t return the favor. Maybe Pierce agreed right away or maybe he let it percolate a bit before taking action, but either way, act he did. And being a skinwalker, the witch couldn’t help but throw a crowbar into the mix. Enter one suicide note.
The car stopped in front of Mayer’s apartment and he got out. He donned his suit coat and lid and shut the door. He’d taken a couple steps toward his front door, when his gut twisted. Mayer knew he could only run so long before he’d have to bite the bullet, so he turned and headed inside Atomic Liquors.
Joe was tending bar. He smiled when Mayer entered, then nodded to a man seated at one of the stools who was smoking a cigarette and nursing a drink. It was Fry. Mayer went to the restroom to wash the ash from his face and hands, then headed to the oversized detective.
“What d’ya know, if it isn’t our own little troublemaker?” Fry said when he saw Mayer.
“Can it, Fry,” Mayer said. “You come here just to yank my chain?”
“That and tell you we caught your man.”
“He say anything?”
Fry shook his head. “Lawyered up.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Mayer said.
Fry gave Mayer the once over, then shook his head. “So you think Pierce hired this . . . skinwalker of yours to take out his partner?”
Mayer shook his head. “I don’t think Pierce had any idea what he was hiring. When that thing jumped through his window, he was as scared as a rat in a pit of snakes. He had no clue what, or should I say who, it was. But I think he did know the housekeeper had some type of powers he could use to his advantage.”
Fry nodded his understanding and blew out a thick cloud of smoke.
Mayer continued. “Once he discovered his partner was two-timing him with the woman he loved, Pierce lost his head. Krupp’s housekeeper, Bessa, managed to squirm her way into all their lives and was the only one who knew the story from all three angles. Heck, Hawthorne probably didn’t even know Pierce had hired her to clean his house.”
Joe slid a glass in front of Mayer. He didn’t have to taste it to know it was rum. He took a snort. “She must have offered to take care of the problem and Pierce . . . well, Pierce didn’t ask how. Then she hoodwinked him and Pierce tried to take her out—finally understanding that she was the skinwalker.”
“Slow learner,” Fry said.
“Indeed,” Mayer agreed.
Fry took a drink. “When did you suspect your boss was making you out for a rube?” Fry asked. It was what Mayer liked most about the man. Fry hadn’t asked him if he knew he was being played for a patsy, he just assumed Mayer had it figured from the get-go.
Mayer grinned. “When I saw his hired man at the trailer. If you suspected your partner was murdered, enough to hire a man who goes strapped to protect your own self, why would you go anywhere without that man? Pierce came to me in the bar alone. That’s not the actions of a man worried about being next in line.”
“A wrong number from the start, eh?”
Mayer agreed.
Fry stood and crushed his cigarette into the ashtray on the bar. “Don’t worry, kid, we should have enough to make it stick. Maybe even an electric cure.”
“Dandy,” Mayer said.
Fry’s face changed to one of concern. “You okay kid? You look like you’ve been through one.”
“I’ll make it out all right.”
Fry wasn’t convinced and it showed. He downed the rest of his drink, then replaced his lid. He laid a strong hand on Mayer’s shoulder, nodded, then left without saying a word.
After Fry left, Mayer eyed an empty table in the corner, took his glass there, and waited for Stella to join him. He had a dress-down coming and he knew it.
The glass was almost empty when Cassi strolled into the bar, the shaman at her side—his arm in a cast. Joe saw them too. He looked to Mayer and received permission in the form of a nod. He pointed to Mayer’s table and they came over.
“Mind if we sit?” she asked.
Mayer motioned to the chairs. “How’s the arm?” he asked the shaman.
“Much ado about nothing,” he replied.
“Minor concussion and a broken arm is hardly nothing,” Cassi offered, but admitted Shaman Mahkah probably knew more about healing than anyone in the hospital.
Mayer smiled. Joe came to the table, filled Mayer’s glass, and took Cassi’s and the shaman’s order.
“I doubt they have cactus tea here,” Mayer said.
Joe twisted his face. “We don’t,” he confirmed.
“What I’d like to have is a boulevardier,” the shaman said. “But I’d better stick to tea.”
Cassi ordered an old fashioned.
When Joe left, the shaman addressed Mayer, “You didn’t have to shoot her, you know. She would have died on her own in three days.”
Mayer cupped his hands around his glass. “Why take the chance?” he said, without looking up.
“How did you know?” Cassi asked.
“How did I know what?”
“How did you know it was the daughter?”
“I didn’t,” Mayer admitted. “But there was no one left to guess, so I took a shot.”
“It was a wise guess,” the shaman said.
“I wonder . . .” Cassi paused. “I wonder how she became . . .”
“A skinwalker?” asked Mayer.
Cassi nodded.
Mayer shrugged. “Who knows. Maybe she killed her own father or maybe she killed the other witch. One thing’s for sure, she learned the tricks of the trade from her stepmother.”
Joe brought the drinks. Cassi took a sip, then pulled one of the ivory-tipped Marlboros from her purse and lit it. Mayer slid the ashtray over in front of her.
“Do you think she was really protecting the land?” Cassi asked, blowing out a puff of smoke.
“Vera or the skinwalker?” Mayer asked.
“Either.”
It was something he had been pondering all evening. “Vera
must have seen something in Germany that made her sympathetic to the Paiute’s struggle to save their land,” Mayer said. “I think she genuinely wanted to protect it.”
“She had a funny way of going about it.”
Mayer couldn’t argue the point. He took a drink.
“And the skinwalker?” Cassi asked.
“She was once the daughter of a man fighting to protect his heritage,” the shaman explained. “No matter what she turned into, there must have been some humanity left inside her somewhere. Just enough for her to want to carry on the work of her father, albeit in her own twisted way. Maybe she thought that as a skinwalker she could protect the land longer than she could otherwise. Maybe it took a while before the black magic overcame her soul.”
“When do you think that happened?” Cassi asked.
“Probably when she took the lives of those twins,” he said. “There’s no coming back from something like that.”
“The thing is,” Mayer said. “If she was really there to protect the land, she would have had plans to kill Pierce and Hawthorne anyway. So why did she get in bed with Pierce?”
“Greed,” the shaman said. “Simple greed. Why do something without reward when you can do the same thing for lucre?”
“Can you imagine what it must have been like?” asked Cassi. “For Hawthorne, I mean?”
Mayer didn’t have to wonder, he’d lived it. He thought of Hawthorne in the trailer. How he would have been surprised, then confused. At what point, Mayer wondered, did fear overtake him? Or panic when he took the weapon from the drawer and fired it into the thing—the bullets having no effect whatsoever. He knew exactly what the man felt when he brought the gun, unwillingly, to his own head—just as Mayer had—only Hawthorne, unable to resist, was forced to pull the trigger. Did he know, Mayer wondered, that he’d been betrayed by his partner and made to play the rube by a woman whose motives were less than pristine? Mayer thought of the tortured face he saw on the coroner’s slab.