by Anne Bishop
Hargreaves was thinking hard. “Crystalton. The reputation it has of being a woo-woo place with people reading cards and talking about the properties of crystals and all that . . . bunk.”
“Bunk? Or a smoke screen so that people coming into their community don’t realize they’re different?” Grimshaw countered.
“What’s he doing in Sproing?”
“He owns the bookstore, which, as far as I can tell, is really a combination of a bookstore and the village’s lending library since the front half of the store is more of a used-book swap than anything else. I didn’t see it, but I’m guessing the back half has the new books that he sells for some kind of profit—enough to keep the doors open.”
“Maybe,” Hargreaves said softly. “Governor Hannigan created that Investigative Task Force last year—investigators who work with local police but answer to the governor.”
“I know of it. Haven’t met the ITF agent who has the Finger Lakes area.” When he’d heard about the task force, he’d considered applying for it, but a man had to have some skill with working with a variety of police forces in the communities within his territory as well as being able to work on his own, and the truth was he really didn’t work well with others.
“There were some rumors that there are a few ‘shadow’ agents as well as the ones who are visibly working with the police.”
“Undercover?”
Hargreaves nodded and drank some coffee. “What do you think?”
“About what?” Grimshaw blinked. He almost laughed until he thought about it. “Julian Farrow?”
“He was a damn good investigator, even when he was a rookie. Of course, his being Intuit explains some of it, but he had a real feel for it. He opened his store . . . when?”
“Last fall.”
“Around the time we were all scrambling to figure out what was left after the Humans First and Last movement set the war against the terra indigene in motion. Silence is the westernmost of the Finger Lakes, a gateway, you could say. Sproing is a small community with lots of farms and vineyards around it, a lake to draw people to the area in the summer. If you needed a spy to alert you to possible trouble, it might be a good place to position one.”
Julian, an undercover agent for the governor? It sounded like something out of a thriller. On the other hand, what had Julian Farrow been doing since he left the police force? If he’d ever really left.
“I trust Julian Farrow more than I trust Swinn,” Grimshaw said.
Hargreaves finished his breakfast and pushed the plate to one side. Then he nodded as if coming to a decision. “They called him Swine at the academy. Don’t know why. It was one of those stupid things young men do, picking one or two and giving them a hard time for no reason.”
“Could be they saw him with a date.”
Silence. “You think Detective Swinn acted inappropriately with Ms. DeVine, while one of his men was also in the car?”
“Something happened on the way in to the Sproing station. She was . . . scared—like, get her to the doctor’s office before she collapses scared.” But she had rallied when she took the hand he offered. He’d seen her come back from whatever had upset her.
“She did lead you to the body.”
“No, the Crow who is her lodger led us to the body. Vicki DeVine couldn’t find her way out of her own handbag.” Seeing Hargreaves’s stony look and knowing he’d dumped a potential scandal on the table, he added, “Of course, having seen her handbag, I don’t think most people would be able to find their own way out.”
Hargreaves leaned forward again. His voice was quiet and rough. “You remember that backup isn’t down the street. You’re out there in the wild country, Wayne, on your own, no matter who answers a call for help and how fast they respond.”
“Business as usual, then.”
They stared at each other.
“What do you want while you’re manning the Sproing station?”
“I want Officer Osgood reassigned to the station. I want him away from Swinn.”
“You think he’ll back you up?”
Grimshaw hesitated. “I don’t know. If nothing else, he can answer phones and type up reports. Walk down Main Street in uniform and look official. Keep his eyes and ears open.”
“There is no safety in the dark, not even on the main street of a village,” Hargreaves said quietly. “Humans screwed up last summer, and we’re all paying for it. What happened to Chesnik and Baker . . .” He sighed. “I have an old friend, a patrol captain in Lakeside, who has a line to the governor. I’ll wangle it so that Osgood ends up working under your temporary command.”
“I’ll have to find him a place to stay.” Grimshaw smiled. “The CIU team was staying at the boardinghouse. So am I. I can handle being in the same building as Swinn. I’m not sure it would be healthy for Osgood, especially once he’s reassigned.”
“Your call.”
That was it? No, it wasn’t. Hargreaves had something on his mind.
“Swinn is a good investigator. He finds the evidence, and prosecutors are glad to see his name on the reports. Nineteen cases out of twenty he is good.”
“Then a few mistakes get made on number twenty?” Grimshaw guessed.
Hargreaves shook his head. “On number twenty, he’s even better. All the i’s are dotted and the t’s are crossed. And somebody goes to jail, maybe even prison. But it never feels quite right. Swinn jumping on this case? It doesn’t feel right, so you watch your back, you hear?”
“And Julian?”
The waitress brought over the bill. Hargreaves put enough money on the table to cover both meals and the tip. He slid out of the booth and gave Grimshaw a long look. “The less said about Julian Farrow the better. But I won’t comment about him giving you a hand as long as evidence isn’t compromised.”
“Not my job to look for evidence. That’s what CIU is for.”
“Maybe.”
The word was said so quietly, Grimshaw wasn’t sure he heard it. He looked at his watch and swore. He had to get moving if he was going to get back to Sproing in time to accompany Vicki DeVine and her attorney when they reopened her safe-deposit box.
CHAPTER 17
Vicki
Windsday, Juin 14
Opening the safe-deposit box the next morning was better than watching a magician pull a rabbit out of a hat. You got the happy surprise of something empty being filled without the brown presents at the bottom of the hat.
Everything had been returned—all the paperwork, which Ilya Sanguinati checked off the list he’d made from my record of the documents I’d put into the box. And there was even seven thousand dollars, nicely bundled.
Besides me and my attorney, there were three other people crowded into the privacy room to witness the Return of the Paperwork: Officer Grimshaw, Detective Swinn, and Valerie, who had been the head teller and was now the reluctant, and temporary, bank manager. When Ineke called me at the crack of dawn, telling me she’d pulled out all of her money as soon as she’d heard about yesterday’s naughtiness with the safe-deposit box, I didn’t ask how she’d found out—and I didn’t need to talk to anyone else to know the bank was going to crash. The whole village was holding its breath, especially the folks who hadn’t gotten to the bank yesterday and were now hoping that something would save them.
Frankly, I think everyone was hoping that the bloodsuckers who sucked blood would take over the bank. The penalties for a late payment might be steep, but at least there would be a brutal kind of honesty when they sucked you dry.
I placed each piece of paper in an old leather tote bag as Ilya Sanguinati checked it off. But when it came to the money, I hesitated. I had tucked six thousand into the box. Who had made up the other thousand? Had the bank manager taken it from his personal savings or had he used the bank’s money, which would be another bit of naughtiness?
I hesitated. Then I looked at Valerie, said, “Sorry,” and stuffed all the money in the tote bag.
“Don’t be,” Valerie replied. “I opened my box yesterday and removed the antique jewelry that belonged to my grandmother. It has more sentimental than monetary value, but I didn’t want to discover it missing one day.”
I hesitated a moment longer, wondering if I should put back the thousand dollars that didn’t actually belong to me. Then I glanced at Detective Swinn and swiftly closed the box, which was empty once again.
Swinn wasn’t old, but he looked a bit freeze-dried and his ash brown hair was cut short and stuck up across the top of his head, like it was iron filings being pulled by a magnet. He wore glasses with heavy black frames that dominated his face and didn’t suit him at all. But the glasses didn’t disguise the undiluted venom in the way he looked at me, and there was nothing I wanted more than to get away from him. Unfortunately, he was the person in the doorway and was, therefore, the person I had to squeeze past.
Valerie smiled at Swinn and moved her arm in an unspoken request for him to step aside so that we could all leave the privacy room and she and I could follow procedure and return the safe-deposit box to the vault.
As I eased past Swinn, he spoke one sentence so quietly no one else would have heard it. It was cutting and cruel and painfully familiar.
Valerie and I returned the box to the vault. Maybe, if it had just been Officer Grimshaw and Ilya Sanguinati waiting for me, I could have remained polite, could have clamped down on the hurt and anger churning inside me until I got home and could break down in private. But Swinn was still there, and he looked at me as if he knew what would hurt me most—and I couldn’t breathe. Just couldn’t draw in enough air for my heart to beat and my brain to work.
I bolted out of the bank, ignoring the “Ms. DeVine? Ms. DeVine!” behind me. A few Sproingers were out on the sidewalk. They were sitting up the way they do when they’re given chunks of carrots for treats, but they weren’t wearing their happy faces. Neither was I. I still wanted to talk to Julian Farrow about books, but I couldn’t do that until I could breathe.
I marched next door and stomped into the police station. Officer Osgood, looking even younger in his official uniform, jumped to his feet. I might have jumped down his throat because he looked like a relatively safe target for the feelings building in my chest, but Officer Grimshaw and Ilya Sanguinati burst into the station, Grimshaw slamming the door in Swinn’s face and pausing to turn the simple lock.
And Mount Victoria erupted.
“I know I’m not pretty, and I know I’m not smart, but I don’t deserve to be treated like trash, to be pushed and pushed until I’m too tired and worn down and I agree to something that I don’t believe.” I pointed at the door, aiming my finger between Grimshaw’s and Ilya’s shoulders. “Why is Detective Swinn here? I didn’t know the man who died. I didn’t have an appointment to see him or talk to him. And I didn’t kill him. So why is Swinn pushing and pushing, saying it’s my fault and I’d better come clean about what I did, and how selling The Jumble will be the only way to pay for any kind of attorney who might be able to get me a reduced sentence? Why is he saying that?”
That’s the trouble with hiding in your safe place and hearing but not hearing a verbal hammering. You do hear the words, and with the right trigger, all your feelings come out as word vomit or lava—a hot projectile that can’t be controlled at all.
“And why would that bank manager help someone take the things out of my safe-deposit box? I’ll tell you why! Because no one thought I would make a fuss, and even if I did who would listen to me, and I was just expected to swallow it. Well, I’m not going to swallow it. I was given The Jumble as the main part of the divorce settlement because everyone thought it wasn’t worth much of anything but the assessed value looked good on paper. See how generous he was to give her some of the land that had been in his family for generations. But now someone thinks it is worth something and wants to take it away after I worked so hard to build a new home, a-and . . . a-and . . .”
I was done, drained, didn’t even have a piddle of lava left to finish the sentence.
Three men stared at me. Osgood looked ready to crash through the window and run. Grimshaw looked grim. And my vampire attorney? I couldn’t begin to figure out what he was thinking about my hysterics.
I took a couple of deep breaths to steady myself. “I still have some business with Julian Farrow that I would like to take care of before I go home.”
“I’ll walk you over,” Officer Grimshaw said.
“Could Officer Osgood do that?” Ilya asked. “I can hold the bag with Ms. DeVine’s valuables while she runs her errand.”
Grimshaw hesitated, then looked at Osgood. “Officer?”
Osgood swallowed hard. He wasn’t dill pickle green like the bank manager had been yesterday, but his brown skin did have a green tinge. “Yes, sir.”
I wondered whom he feared more, me or Swinn? But I didn’t ask, didn’t make some lame joke designed to hurt feelings. I didn’t want to be caught alone by Swinn either, and I was grateful for any escort, even if I should have been adult enough not to need one.
It turned out Officer Osgood and I both had an escort. The Sproingers formed two lines, a hopping honor guard for us to walk between as we crossed the street to Lettuce Reed.
Julian Farrow opened the screen door as we approached. The Sproingers sproinged into the shop, then clustered around the door. I hurried over to the island in the center of the front room.
“I handed out carrots this morning,” Julian told the Sproingers.
They all gave him the happy face, but none of them crowded him as if they expected food.
Julian nodded to Officer Osgood, who took a position between me and the Sproingers, as if he couldn’t decide what was more dangerous. I guess he hadn’t seen them before. Otherwise he would have known he would be safe unless he wore orange socks. Apparently orange is the color of carrots and pumpkins, another Sproinger favorite food, and their little brains couldn’t quite understand that not everything that was orange was tasty or food.
Or else they just liked biting things that were orange, and woe to the ankle under the orange sock.
“You look a bit flushed, Vicki,” Julian said. “Would you like some water?”
“Yes. Thanks.” I felt a little sick and desperately needed to regain control.
“Officer?”
“Thank you,” Osgood said.
While we waited for Julian, I eyed the stacks of books on the island—books that had been returned for used-book credit but hadn’t been processed yet to be put on the shelves.
Julian returned with a large wooden tray that held three glasses of water and a small dog bowl of water. He set the bowl near the door. I’m not sure any of the Sproingers drank any of the water, but they seemed to have a good time giving each other a bit of a splash before grooming.
Despite the splashing, at least half of them watched whatever was going on outside, standing on each other in order to look out the screen door.
Maybe their brains weren’t so little. And maybe those ankle-biting incidents weren’t mistakes caused by orange socks. At least, not all of them.
“Are you browsing, or are you looking for specific titles?” Julian asked.
Recalled to my task, I leaned forward. “I have some friends who really liked the cop and crime shows on TV last night and probably would enjoy reading thrillers, but I don’t think they have the reading skills for the books I already have at The Jumble.” I didn’t want to buy something inappropriate that could sour their anticipated pleasure in visiting the story place—or sour their opinion of me.
“Would those friends be your new employees?” Julian had a knack for figuring things out. Oddly enough, he was rubbish at playing Murder, a board game where you tried to figure out who was murdered and how they died.
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br /> “Have you met Conan and Cougar?”
“Yeesss.”
I went up on my tiptoes so I could lean a little farther before whispering, “I don’t want to insult them by offering kiddie books. They are adults after all. But I don’t want them frustrated either.” And I didn’t want them to blame me for being frustrated.
Julian stared at the counter. Then he looked at me. “Wait here.”
Officer Osgood relaxed enough to look at the bookshelves closest to him, and I watched the Sproingers. The ones who noticed me watching made the happy face; the rest of them blocked the doorway and stared at something in the street.
Julian returned with a large stack of books. He set them on the counter, then held one up so that I could read the title and see the cover.
“The Wolf Team?”
He nodded. “They’re stories about a group of adolescents with special skills who help . . . beings . . . in trouble.”
Did they have a phone number? I could be a being who needed help.
“They’re written for terra indigene youngsters.” Julian opened the book to a random page and held it out. “Take a look.”
I didn’t know the characters or their mission because Julian had opened the book a few chapters into the story, but I started reading midway down the page just to get a feel for the language and decide if I should add a couple of the books to my guest library.
Oh.
Ew.
Goodness! Could terra indigene Wolves really do that?
A hand came down on the book, and I . . . squeaked . . . and jumped back as far as my arms allowed without giving up the book and losing my place. After all, I did have priorities.
My heart pounded. My lungs strained against muscles that were corset tight. I heard chattering behind me, followed by the thumps of several things hitting the floor. I stared at Julian and realized he looked as startled by my reaction as I felt.
And then there was the weird way my slacks were twitching at knee height.