by Anne Bishop
“Ms. DeVine?”
Two men got out of the first car. The older man had an insincere, oil-slick smile that reminded me too much of Yorick when he was talking “a chump” into some kind of deal. The younger one, who introduced himself as Officer Osgood, seemed uncomfortable with his partner or superior or whatever Mr. Oil Slick was in the CIU hierarchy.
Or was that Detective Oil Slick? Since he hadn’t introduced himself, that name would do.
“We’d like you to come down to the station and answer a few questions,” Oil Slick said.
“Why?” I stayed where I was, within reach of my front door. My heart pounded and I was getting that feeling in my arms and legs, like I was suddenly wrapped in another skin that was two sizes too small— a warning sign of excessive stress. “I already told Officer Grimshaw everything I knew. My lodger found the body yesterday, and I called the police.”
“It appears the victim was here to discuss your squatting on land that belongs to your ex-husband’s family.”
“I beg your pardon?” That anxiety skin wrap tightened a little more. “I am not squatting. The Jumble was part of my divorce settlement. Whether it used to be family land or not, my ex-husband was happy to unload it on me.” Then it clicked. “Oh. Did he send that man to see if I’d sunk enough money into the place and made enough improvements to make it worth his while to try to get it back?”
Typical Yorick. And typical me that it took me ten years to see his true nature. Of course, he’d been very good at making me believe that what I knew was true was really me making things up and getting confused.
Four other men stepped out of the second vehicle.
“You don’t mind if my men look around, do you?” Oil Slick asked.
In another minute I was going to break down into uncontrollable weeping and Oil Slick would be able to push me into agreeing with whatever he wanted to do. But until that moment . . . “You think you can come into my house and look around? Maybe paw through cupboards and drawers and ‘find’ things to substantiate your allegations?”
“You’ve become overexcited, Ms. DeVine,” Oil Slick warned. “Pretending to have hysterics isn’t going to change anything. You are coming to the station with us to answer some questions.”
“Exactly where is this station?” Okay, I like reading thrillers, so I had this sudden image of me being driven away to some unknown destination and questioned until I confessed to whatever they wanted to hang on me.
“In Sproing.” Oil Slick looked past me. “In the meantime . . .”
A hand latched onto my wrist, and Aggie pressed against my back and whispered, “Tell them what they are not allowed to do at your house. Say it really loud.”
I didn’t see how saying something really loud was any better than speaking in a normal volume, but I did what she suggested—if for no other reason than it seemed like a way to relieve a bit of stress. “No one is allowed to enter my house until I return. No one can open my car and look for alleged evidence. No one can enter the cabins and look around. No one is allowed to leave anything on my property. You can all stand outside and look at the trees, but that is all you are allowed to do.”
Oil Slick lost even the veneer of courtesy as I listed, loudly, the things he and his men could not do.
“We can get a warrant to search your place,” he said. “If we have to get a warrant it will look like you have something to hide.”
“Until you have that warrant, you don’t set a toe inside any of these buildings.” I felt very brave—or very light-headed. It was hard to tell. “Now. I’ll get my purse and lock up. Then I’ll follow you to the station.”
“You’ll be riding with us, and you’re not entering the house to destroy evidence while you’re ‘looking’ for your purse.”
“I could stand just outside the door,” Officer Osgood said. “If Ms. DeVine leaves the door open . . .”
Then things got strange.
“Caw!”
“Caw!” “Caw!” “Caw!”
“My friends are here,” Aggie whispered.
One Crow. Then three more. Then a dozen flew into the trees around the house. A dozen more took up position on the roof. The biggest hawk, or Hawk, I had ever seen landed on the roof of Oil Slick’s car—and I’m sure it deliberately scraped its talons over the surface in a bird version of keying a car to put gouges in the paint. As I looked at the Hawk, it occurred to me that, until the car was repainted, those gouges would be so easy to spot from a bird’s view of the roads.
A gust of air blew through the trees, making the leaves sound like sinister tambourines.
And something nearby and unseen growled.
“Miss Vicki told you the rules,” Aggie said. She sounded a lot less like a teenager who was on her own than she usually did. “Everyone will make sure you humans follow the rules.”
You humans. Battle line drawn.
“Get your purse,” Oil Slick said.
I expected Aggie to keep holding on to my wrist, but she turned and ran to the back of the house. I got a glimpse of her clothing and would need to talk to her about wearing something more than a sheer cotton nightie when there were visitors. Especially when there were male visitors.
I fetched my purse, made sure the back porch’s screen door was properly latched and the kitchen door was locked. While I was far enough into the house not to be heard, I pulled out my mobile phone and called Ineke, leaving a message on her answering machine, telling her the CIU investigators were taking me to the Sproing Police Station. Or so they claimed. I finished the message with the time, so she would know exactly when I had left. If Oil Slick was taking me somewhere else, maybe the time of departure would be useful. Assuming anyone tried to find me.
I made sure Officer Osgood saw me lock the front door, both regular lock and dead bolt. I made sure Oil Slick saw me tuck the keys into the big purse I used when I figured I would need everything.
“I have copies of the divorce papers, the settlement, and the deed to The Jumble in my safe-deposit box at the bank. And, no, I won’t give you my safe-deposit key so that you can fetch the papers.” It was finally sinking in that something was far from right about all of this, including the presence of the man who had died on my land.
“Then we’ll stop there first,” Oil Slick said.
He made it sound like he was going to have to go miles out of his way when the bank was right next door to the police station. If he parked anywhere on Main Street, he wouldn’t have to move his car in order to get from one place to the other.
“Caw!”
“Caw!” “Caw!” “Caw!”
Whether the Crows were acknowledging the destination or issuing a warning didn’t matter. There were close to two dozen feathered witnesses who knew where I was supposed to be a few minutes from now.
As I was escorted to the first unmarked car by Oil Slick and one of the unnamed detectives who had been in the second car, I looked around. But I couldn’t tell if Aggie was among the Crows watching us. If she hadn’t rented one of the cabins, I wouldn’t have had even this much support—and no one around to see what might happen.
CHAPTER 7
Aggie
Sunsday, Juin 13
Aggie flew across Lake Silence as fast as she could. This was bad. This was so very, very bad. If she’d just eaten the squooshy eyeball instead of bringing it back to the house to warm up in the wave-cooker, the police humans wouldn’t be causing trouble for Miss Vicki because they wouldn’t have known about the dead man. But Miss Vicki had seen the eyeball and done what she felt was right by human rules, and now she was in trouble.
The Crowgard would keep watch around The Jumble, would even attack the humans if they disobeyed Miss Vicki’s rules. But police humans had guns, and that made them an especially dangerous breed, so the Crowgard weren’t enough protection. Not alone. And they didn’t know enough about h
uman rules. But she knew someone who did know about human rules and might be willing to help.
She flew across the lake until she reached Silence Lodge. Landing on the top level of the multilevel deck that stretched across the back of the lodge, she shifted to a feathered but mostly human form, gathered her courage, and knocked on the door.
CHAPTER 8
Grimshaw
Sunsday, Juin 13
Grimshaw debated with himself if he wanted lunch enough to brave the inquisitive stares and prying questions he was bound to get the moment he walked into Come and Get It, the local diner. He’d already been grilled by Ineke Xavier when he asked about renting a room for a few days. She hadn’t been keen to rent her last room to him—one of her rooms being a crime scene and the rest being appropriated by Detective Marmaduke Swinn and his CIU team—but when she understood that he wasn’t part of the CIU team, she’d been willing to rent him the room with the en suite bathroom that she’d refused to give up for the CIU team.
He didn’t know what Swinn had done to tick her off that she’d held back her best room, and he didn’t care. He was just glad to have the room, and equally glad the CIU boys had been out and about when he arrived. Swinn had made it clear yesterday that he wasn’t needed or welcome in their investigation, so showing up today as the new, if temporary, official police force in Sproing wasn’t going to make for cordial dinners at the boardinghouse.
As he wondered how he was supposed to send Hargreaves reports about an investigation he couldn’t get near, Grimshaw watched Julian Farrow cross the street and make his way through the mob of Sproingers that had gathered in front of the bank and police station.
He waited until Julian entered the station and closed the door. “Has this ever happened before?”
“No.” Julian sounded grim. “Listen, Wayne. I just got a call from Ineke Xavier. Apparently Vicki DeVine is being brought in for questioning.”
“Not surprising. A dead body was found on her land, and the CIU boys will want an official statement.” Grimshaw frowned. “If Ineke was concerned, why did she call you instead of me? I gave her my mobile phone number as well as the number for the station.”
“You’re still an unknown commodity. Highway patrol officer temporarily reassigned here, bringing with you a carryall that couldn’t hold more than a couple of changes of clothes and a suit bag that probably has your other uniform and maybe a couple of dress shirts.”
“Did she count my underwear the moment I was out of the room?”
“My point is, no one knows where you stand.” Julian stood next to him at the window. Both of them watched the Sproingers. People going into or out of the bank could get around them. The critters did move out of the way, but they didn’t move far—and if they suddenly felt inclined to attack someone’s ankles or lower legs, a person had no room to maneuver.
“You need to be the good cop in this, Wayne.”
“I don’t think Ms. DeVine thinks of me as a good cop.”
“Then you’d better do something to change her mind,” Julian snapped.
Grimshaw studied the man who had been his friend. Maybe still was his friend. A man who had an uncanny sense of what was happening in a place.
“Okay. I’ll be the good cop.”
Julian nodded. “I told you that you’ll need to be careful about choosing your allies. Make sure everyone knows you’re the good cop.” He looked pointedly at the Sproingers. “And I do mean everyone.”
“Crap.”
An unmarked car pulled into one of the parking spaces in front of the bank. The Sproingers snapped to attention.
Grimshaw settled his duty belt and put on his hat. “Looks like that’s my cue.”
He walked outside just as one of the CIU boys opened the car’s back door.
“Excuse me, fellas,” Grimshaw said, looking at the Sproingers crowded around his legs. “I need to give the lady a hand.”
They moved out of his way, giving him a clear path to the CIU car but closing ranks behind him.
He reached the car at the same time Vicki DeVine stepped out of the vehicle, swaying a little. The CIU man stared at her, so Grimshaw took a long step forward and extended his hand. She grabbed it. He wasn’t sure she even knew whose hand she held.
Damn it, the woman was shaking, and if he was any judge of body language, she was a couple of breaths away from a complete meltdown.
“Anything I can do for you, Ms. DeVine?” he asked.
“We’ve got it covered,” the CIU man said.
She looked at him and seemed to focus—and he wondered exactly what had happened during that car ride from The Jumble.
“The detective claims I’m squatting at The Jumble. He wants to see the paperwork that proves the land is mine. We’re going into the bank to open my safe-deposit box.”
“Do you want someone to go in with you?”
She focused on him a little more, as if who he was and what he was saying was finally getting through. “Thank you, Officer Grimshaw. That would be appreciated.”
“Not necessary, Officer.” Marmaduke Swinn came around the car to the sidewalk. He looked like he wanted to drop-kick a Sproinger or two to the other side of the street. The Sproingers who stared back at him were not wearing their happy faces.
“Serve and protect.” Grimshaw smiled and wondered what would happen if he pointed at Swinn and said, “That is a very bad man.” How would the Sproingers react to such a statement? Would they shift to a terra indigene form that had a predator’s teeth and claws? He estimated there were thirty of them filling the sidewalk in front of the bank and police station. If they had a lethal form, those were not good odds.
“Let’s take a look at those papers and get this sorted out,” he said. He released Vicki’s hand, cupping her elbow instead to provide her with some support as they walked into the bank, trailed by Swinn and his man.
The bank manager stood near the teller windows and looked startled when Grimshaw walked in. Then he exchanged a quick look with Swinn.
Crap. What was going on between those two? The bank manager had expected Swinn to come in with Vicki DeVine, but Grimshaw’s presence made the man nervous enough to sweat. Which meant a cop who wasn’t part of Swinn’s team was a problem for them.
“Surely we don’t need so many people,” he said as he fetched his keys and had Ms. DeVine sign the log.
Grimshaw gave the bank manager the look that made any wrongdoer squirm. And the man was squirming.
The safe-deposit box was removed from the vault and brought to the small room where people could add or remove things in private. Since the room wasn’t bigger than a typical elevator and had a counter and chair taking up part of the space, the second CIU man stayed outside. The room was still crowded with four people. Grimshaw knew why he and Swinn were in the room, but why had the bank manager been allowed to stay? Was he supposed to be the witness to whatever was found in the box?
“They’re gone,” Vicki DeVine said, staring at the empty box. “The papers are gone. And the money! I had six thousand dollars in the box.”
“This is a bank,” Swinn said while the bank manager insisted that nothing could have been taken. “Why didn’t you deposit the money? It doesn’t earn interest sitting in the box.”
She stared at him. “It also isn’t lost if the bank goes under. This is a small institution, not a regional bank. Plenty of small banks went under in the past year. I wasn’t taking that chance.”
“Have a few trust issues?” Grimshaw murmured.
“Yes!”
She had color in her face again. He figured if she was pissed off she was less likely to faint. That worked for him.
“Takes two keys to open the box,” Swinn said. “I think you weren’t being honest with us, Ms. DeVine.”
“I know what was in the box,” she protested.
“But you can’
t prove it.” Swinn looked triumphant, like he’d made the winning point.
“That’s right.” The bank manager nodded vigorously. “You can’t prove it.”
“Of course I can,” she snapped. “I made a list of everything I put in the box. And I took photos of all the items to corroborate the list.”
More than a few trust issues—and a bit obsessive to boot. But Grimshaw was more interested in the way the bank manager started sweating again. Yes, opening the box required two keys. That didn’t mean someone couldn’t have made a duplicate before handing over the customer’s key.
“The papers are missing, so you have no proof to your claim,” Swinn said.
“I told you. Those were copies,” Vicki DeVine replied. “The originals are in a lockbox in my bedroom at The Jumble.”
Grimshaw focused his attention on Swinn before asking Vicki DeVine, “Is there anyone at your place to keep an eye on things?”
“I have a couple of men there,” Swinn said, as if the question had been aimed at him.
“I think so,” Vicki said. “Maybe.”
Grimshaw nodded. “All right, then. We can drive back to The Jumble and—”
“She still has to answer some questions about the man who was killed on her property,” Swinn snapped.
“A moment ago, you were certain it wasn’t her property.”
“Don’t screw with me, Grimshaw. I’ve read your file, Officer.”
Yep. He did not work or play well with others. Especially assholes like Swinn. Which was one of the reasons he was still just an officer while other men were promoted over him. But Swinn’s reaction made him think the dead man was just the tip of the iceberg and Julian Farrow was right—there was something wrong in Sproing.
“Ms. DeVine?” Grimshaw waited until he had her attention. “Let’s get your safe-deposit box locked up again, and then we’ll go over to the station.”
“What’s the point of locking up an empty box?” she asked.