by Anne Bishop
Maybe I should reorder my priorities until we sorted out the whole thing about the dead man.
Julian lifted his hand off the book and offered a wary smile. “Maybe you’d like to take the book with you and start reading from the beginning?”
Why would Julian be wary of me? I turned my head just enough to see the handful of books at Officer Osgood’s feet—probably the thumps I’d heard when I squeaked in alarm.
Something patted my knee. I looked down at the Sproinger standing next to me. The Sproinger looked up at me and patted my knee again, a silent query.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Really. I’m fine.” I smiled at the critter.
The Sproinger made the happy face and returned to his buddies. They all looked at me and made the happy face before resuming sentry duty.
I went back to staring at Julian. “He understood what I said.” Actually, I didn’t know if that particular Sproinger had a vigorous appendage. That wasn’t important. The fact that Sproingers understood human speech was important. Gods, they hopped around the village every morning, cadging treats from most of the businesses or browsing in people’s yards.
“Uh-huh.” Julian sounded like it wasn’t the least bit important, and I took the hint. Sproingers probably knew every secret in the village, and if the people realized the critters not only heard but understood those secrets, there would be a lot fewer people handing out carrots.
But that sidestepped the real question. If the Sproingers understood everything, or almost everything, that was being said around them, whom did they tell? And how would they interpret the past few minutes and my squeak of alarm—and who might get blamed for alarming me?
I suddenly understood why Julian felt wary. “I zoned out.”
“You got caught up in the story. That’s a good sign. Do you want the series?” He held up a hand as if I had already protested that I couldn’t afford them. “The human females in the early books are wimps. I fully acknowledge the lack of understanding about your gender, so don’t come back and snarl at me about it. However, I’d heard that some of the writers of the Wolf Team books spent a few weeks in Lakeside last winter while planning some new stories, and the human female pack attached to the Courtyard helped them adjust their thinking, to say nothing of their attitude. The human girls in the latest story still can’t take on the bad guys by themselves—it is a Wolf Team story, after all—but they’re more kick-ass. Or as kick-ass as human females with no special powers beyond intelligence and good hearts can be.”
“I can’t burn through my whole book budget.” I eyed the books, willing to be persuaded because, darn it, I wanted to find out what happened!
“I told you before I would open a line of credit for you.”
I loved books, and given a line of credit, I could imagine having to sell my car to feed my book addiction and pay off my bookstore debt.
“Two-hundred-dollar limit,” Julian said.
I needed some kind of solace, and it was either books or ice cream. If I bought the books, I’d have more than an evening’s pleasure, and I could justify it because other beings would read them too.
But I’d ask Aggie if she liked ice cream, just for future reference.
I left the store with a stuffed Lettuce Reed carry bag, and Officer Osgood left with three of the five books he’d originally selected.
We scanned the street, noticed Officer Grimshaw’s cruiser was gone, and scurried back to the police station, relieved that there was no sign of Detectives Swinn and Reynolds. Of course, that didn’t mean anything. They could be waiting for me inside the station. The bad guys in stories always managed to slither out of hiding places just before the hapless protagonist thought she had reached safety.
But it was my yummy vampire attorney who opened the station door and stepped aside. As we walked in, I wondered—briefly—if I should switch to reading romances again. At least those stories wouldn’t keep me up at night.
CHAPTER 18
Grimshaw
Windsday, Juin 14
Grimshaw studied Swinn’s face as the man stepped out between two parked cars and then realized how much attention he would draw to himself if he tried to get through the line of Sproingers in order to reach Vicki DeVine.
Fury.
“I assume you wanted me to stay in order to discuss something in particular,” Grimshaw said, glancing at Ilya Sanguinati, who was also watching Detective Swinn.
“How is your hearing, Officer Grimshaw?” the Sanguinati asked.
The words were polite, courteous even. But Grimshaw heard the frosty anger underneath. He understood the anger, felt it himself.
“My hearing is just fine,” he replied. He’d seen the stunned hurt on Vicki DeVine’s face when she walked past Swinn to leave the safe-deposit privacy room. And having heard the words, he understood why she’d erupted once she reached the police station.
“You humans have a saying about sticks and stones breaking bones but words not hurting.”
“A dumb-ass piece of wisdom that has been proven wrong too many times to count. Words can cause as much damage as a fist. They can leave deep scars that never fully heal. And they can kill.”
Was that what had happened at The Jumble? Despite insisting otherwise, had Vicki DeVine met Franklin Cartwright on the farm track? Had he told her why he was there? Or had he made an excuse—surveying the property line or something like that—and didn’t reveal he was there to evict her? Did he know enough about her to realize she could, and probably would, get lost on her own land? Had he counted on her wandering around while he hurried to The Jumble’s main house to search for whatever he’d gone there to find?
Or had Cartwright said something, like Swinn had at the bank, thinking he had pushed the right button to make her cave in to his demands and, instead, had triggered a more physical and violent reaction?
The biggest problem with that theory was that nothing human could have killed Franklin Cartwright.
Ilya Sanguinati turned away from the window to look at him. “‘You really do look like a fireplug with feet.’ Would you say that to a stranger or a female you had met recently?”
“I wouldn’t say it at all, even if it were true,” Grimshaw snapped. Vicki DeVine was short and plump and shaped more like a box than an hourglass, but only a crass idiot would say something that mean to a woman he’d met in passing.
He stiffened when he realized what the vampire was driving at. “No, I wouldn’t say it to a stranger or an acquaintance. Saying that to a woman . . . That’s personal.” Sexual. Intimate. Something an abusive lover might say, in jest of course, to undermine a woman’s self-confidence.
Ilya Sanguinati nodded. “Yes, it’s personal. And Detective Swinn’s phrasing, to me, sounded like he was agreeing with something someone else had said.”
Crap. There were a couple of questions he needed to ask Captain Hargreaves, but not here. He didn’t want to bring anyone to the Sanguinati’s attention.
“There are some things I need to do for the investigation,” he said. “You’re welcome to wait here until Ms. DeVine and Officer Osgood return. It shouldn’t be much longer.” He couldn’t be certain of that, and if it had been anyone else, he might have insisted on locking up. But everyone on the police force knew the Sanguinati’s other form was smoke, and they could flow through a keyhole if they wanted to enter a building—not to mention that Silence Lodge owned the building and Ilya most likely had keys to the station. He would show a little trust in the hope of having it reciprocated—especially if he discovered anything that was going to enrage the terra indigene.
“Thank you. I will wait.”
Grimshaw scanned the street before getting into his vehicle. Swinn and Reynolds were nowhere in sight. Maybe they had gone back to the boardinghouse. He knew they weren’t in the bookstore. He was pretty sure that would have caused a Sproinger riot.
Chesnik’s body had been taken to Bristol for the autopsy, but the other two bodies might still be at the funeral home, and hopefully, the mortician and Dr. Wallace could supply a few answers.
* * *
• • •
Sheridan Ames, the public face of Ames Funeral Home, was a stringy woman in her late forties. Her hard features were accented by a severe black pantsuit. The only soft thing about her was her luxuriously thick hair, which was a rich brown with red highlights.
Yesterday she had been professionally pleasant when he’d stopped in to confirm that the two bodies had arrived at the funeral home. Today she was cold.
“If you’ve come to look at the bodies again, they’ve been taken to Bristol for autopsy to determine cause of death,” she said.
Grimshaw studied her. Not just cold; she was seriously pissed off at police in general. Since that hadn’t been her attitude yesterday, he took a guess at the reason she had changed. “Detective Swinn was already here.”
“I don’t appreciate being accused of tampering with evidence. I don’t appreciate being accused of taking evidence. Dr. Wallace did go through the pockets of those two men, did confirm their ID. I was with him the whole time, and I made a list of every single item as it was removed and identified. And despite what Detective Swinn wants to put on the report, nothing human killed those three men.”
“Three?” Calhoun had died of the head and neck injuries before the ambulance had reached the hospital in Bristol, but there was no reason Sheridan Ames would have known that.
“The first dead man. The one Vicki DeVine found at The Jumble.”
“Any thoughts about what did kill them?” he asked.
“You should talk to Dr. Wallace.”
“I will. But I’d like your opinion too.”
She had been standing behind her desk, making it clear that she didn’t want to give him time or answers. Now she sat down and invited him to do the same.
“Let’s start with Detective Chesnik,” Grimshaw said.
“The one who died of blood loss?”
He nodded. “His legs were ripped up. Clawed. Could a bear or a big cat have done that?” He remembered seeing a picture of a grizzly bear’s paw next to a human head. The paw was bigger.
“Gods,” Sheridan said. “It should have occurred to me, but I didn’t think about the significance of big forms of terra indigene hunting in The Jumble. Has anyone warned Vicki DeVine?”
“The big shifters aren’t hunting, exactly. Her employees now include one of the Beargard and one of the Panthergard.” And the gods only knew what lived in the wooded land around the northern end of the lake.
She sat back. Grimshaw said nothing, just gave her time to think it through. Finally she shook her head.
“Whatever clawed that man’s legs was bigger than a Bear or a Panther. A lot bigger,” she said. “And I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the same thing that killed the other two men. At least, it didn’t take the same form. Clawed hand versus clawed paw.”
“Big hands,” he said softly. “Both Franklin Cartwright and Detective Baker had been killed by something strong enough to pick up grown men and twist them.”
“Yes.” Sheridan sat forward and folded her hands on her desk. “Concerning Detective Baker. Detective Swinn was particularly angry about a missing tie clip when he came by yesterday evening. He insisted that Baker had been wearing one that morning and wanted me to admit that Dr. Wallace or I had taken it. I gather he went back to the boardinghouse and searched Baker’s room for the missing item and didn’t find it, because he was back here this morning, demanding to look at the items that had been with the bodies. Of course, Dr. Wallace had made the arrangements and the bodies had been driven to Bristol at first light, along with everything that had been found with them. I asked him for a description of the tie clip; I know Ineke Xavier asked as well since he was so obsessed with finding it. But he wouldn’t tell us what it looked like beyond being a tie clip.”
“What about Chesnik? Did he have a tie clip?”
“He did. Swinn wasn’t interested in that one.”
Grimshaw thanked her and left the funeral home. But after returning to his car, he sat in the parking lot, thinking.
All the men on Swinn’s team had worn ties and had used tie clips. What was significant about Baker’s? A man wouldn’t wear something expensive on the job, not when he was out investigating. There was always the possibility of losing it somewhere. But maybe it was expensive and Swinn wanted to return it to Baker’s family. Or maybe it had some other significance. Was that why Swinn didn’t want to describe it? Because he didn’t want a description of a particular tie clip going into an official report?
If it had been logged in with the other personal effects, would it have disappeared after Swinn visited the funeral home? And would Swinn, despite being warned off, return to The Jumble to search for the missing item?
Grimshaw started the cruiser and returned to the station.
The black luxury sedan was gone from its parking spot. So were Ilya Sanguinati and Vicki DeVine. Officer Osgood looked desperate to find something official to do.
“Problem?” Grimshaw asked.
“Detective Swinn is upset that I’ve been transferred to this station and am under your command.”
“You have any idea why Swinn pulled you into this assignment in the first place?”
“No, sir.”
Grimshaw sighed. “Well, I’ll talk to a couple of people and see if I can find you a place to stay while you’re working here.”
“I—I’m staying at the boardinghouse.” Osgood’s brown eyes looked huge. “Ms. Xavier threw Detectives Swinn and Reynolds out of her place. Somebody told them she was pitching their stuff onto the front lawn and when they got to the boardinghouse, she told them if they so much as set a toe inside her house again, she would report them.”
To whom? Grimshaw wondered. “Did something happen to upset her?”
Osgood winced. “They fed their prunes to the dog this morning. I guess he got sick enough that the vet from Crystalton came to the house.”
So Swinn would have to find accommodations at a nearby town or withdraw from the investigation. Swinn wasn’t going to withdraw; he shouldn’t have been there in the first place, so he’d be back for the same reason he got involved.
Osgood held out a pink message slip. “Ms. Xavier said to tell you that she’s boxing up the other detectives’ belongings and if you don’t pick them up by tomorrow morning, she’ll donate everything to the volunteer fire department to sell.”
“Did you tell her she couldn’t do that?”
“I’ve heard Ms. Xavier has a smoking gun tattoo on one thigh as a kind of warning.”
Crap. Well, there was one good thing: Osgood seemed to be a gossip magnet, which was bound to be helpful as long as he just listened to gossip and didn’t spread any information.
“I have an assignment for you,” Grimshaw said. “Find out if anyplace around here is having a block sale, yard sale, moving sale, swap and shop. I need trinkets, shiny things that a teenage girl”—or a Crow—“would be drawn to. I need them as soon as you can get them.” He pulled out his wallet and handed Osgood fifty dollars. “That’s your budget. Nothing has to be expensive; it just has to shine.”
“Yes, sir.” One beat of silence. “Why?”
Grimshaw sighed. “Because I need to bribe someone to return a piece of evidence.”
CHAPTER 19
Ilya
Windsday, Juin 14
As soon as he delivered Victoria DeVine back to The Jumble, Ilya asked Boris, his driver, to return to Sproing. He could have reached his quarry faster if he’d shifted to his smoke form and traveled cross-country, but the days of the Sanguinati being subtle about their control of the village were over.
“I won’t be long,” he said when Boris pulled into a pa
rking space in front of the bookstore.
Going inside Lettuce Reed, Ilya walked up to the island counter, his dark eyes locked on Julian Farrow’s gray ones. He set a piece of paper on the counter. “I’d like any of these books that you have in stock. New copies are preferable, but I’ll take used copies.”
Julian looked at the titles, froze for a moment, then met Ilya’s eyes.
“You haven’t lived up to your side of the bargain, Mr. Farrow,” Ilya said softly.
“From what I can tell, Vicki’s anxiety has its roots in damaged self-confidence and intimacy issues.” Julian almost growled the words. “Those issues are personal, but she’s dealing with them and they haven’t interfered with the restoration of The Jumble or posed any threat to this village. Therefore, they were none of your business.”
“Now they are.” At least Farrow wasn’t pretending he didn’t understand the significance of Ilya wanting these particular books about human anxiety attacks and different forms of abuse. “You should have informed me that Victoria DeVine had a weakness.”
“It’s not a weakness,” Farrow snapped.
“A wound, then. A vulnerability that leaves her open to attack.”
“Show me a human living on this continent who isn’t wounded in some way!”
Defensive. Cornered. A human dangerous enough not to be taken lightly. But that was the reason the Sanguinati had made a bargain with Julian Farrow in the first place.
As he noted how white the scar on Farrow’s cheek looked on a face made harsh by anger, it occurred to Ilya that Julian hadn’t pointed out that the other informant in the village also had failed to mention these anxiety attacks, hadn’t tried to lessen his own failing. And Ilya suddenly understood, and appreciated, that the anger and defensiveness were . . . protective. Not Victoria’s mate. Not yet. Maybe never. But the desire to protect was there nonetheless. Understanding that, he used the tone of voice that he used when discussing a problem with one of his own kind. With an equal.