by Traci Wilton
Charlene parked in front of the brick building and went inside. A harried woman sat behind the front desk, her uniform collar askew.
“Morning,” Charlene said. “I’m here to see Officer Jimenez. To give a statement.”
“Have a seat. It’s been insane around here. I think there was a full moon last night or something.” The officer waved Charlene toward a row of plastic seats. “I’ll buzz her to let her know.”
Charlene sat down and picked up a section of the Sunday paper that she hadn’t had a chance to read yet. Alaric Mayar’s face, handsome and alive, looked back at her. The photo was about five years old and taken in front of a bar on Bourbon Street.
Alaric Mayar—born Allan Mayar. Age forty-five. Washed up by the pier and the old Derby tunnel entrance across from the stone bridge. She’d passed by there a hundred times but hadn’t realized there was water access. What had Jack said about tides in Salem?
She scanned the article, but there really wasn’t more to learn. He’d been in Salem just two weeks. Not married. No children. Alive, and then gone.
“Ms. Morris.”
Charlene hopped up and dropped the paper to the seat next to her. “Yes. Morning.”
Officer Jimenez’s hard jaw and pulled-back hair allowed zero softness. “Follow me.” She strode down the carpeted runner on the floor, past Sam’s dark office, to a warren of open cubicles.
“Take a seat.”
The woman had about as much personality as a paper bag, but Charlene would not give her any trouble.
She sat, her purse balanced on her knees.
Officer Jimenez perched before a computer and pulled up a form that read STATEMENT.
“Name.”
“Charlene Morris.” Hoping to save the officer time, she said, “You know that already . . . I should be in your system.”
The officer glared at Charlene. “Your cooperation will be appreciated. The sooner you answer the questions, the sooner you may go.”
“All right.” Feeling like a scolded child, Charlene squirmed on the hard chair.
Charlene answered readily—name, date of birth, address. Where things got interesting was when the officer stopped typing to face Charlene with flinty gray eyes.
“Tell me again how you know the victim.”
“Victim? I thought Orpheus had committed suicide.”
Her jaw tightened. “Until we get our report back from the coroner, we will refer to him as a victim. Understood?”
Charlene nodded, but had the feeling the officer had accidentally given something away.
“I understand. Is Orpheus his real name? We could call him that, if you’d like.”
“Do not try to be my friend, Ms. Morris. I don’t have friends, and if I did you are not the kind I’d pick.”
“Hey!” She was a very good friend. She remembered birthdays and was an excellent gift giver. She didn’t tell secrets. What was this lady’s problem?
But she knew.
Officer Jimenez didn’t appreciate Charlene’s friendship with Sam, her superior. The robotic officer probably slept in her uniform with a gun under her pillow, counting laws rather than sheep.
Well, Charlene was very patient and would wear the woman down with kindness. With professionalism . . . maybe even Minnie’s apple spice cake.
“I will ask again. How do you know the victim?”
Charlene straightened as if she had a book on her head for perfect posture and her mother was watching. “I met Orpheus the night of the witch ball. I was a judge.”
“Was he in costume?”
“A zoot suit. He was dancing with my friend, Brandy; she was with me yesterday at the Longmire Hotel.”
“The witch.”
“Well, I don’t know that she would refer to herself like that, but her family is part of the Wiccan community.”
Officer Jimenez’s mouth thinned. “How did you end up at his hotel?”
“Well”—this was an example of her being a wonderful friend—“he wanted Brandy’s phone number but I didn’t know him, and everybody had been drinking, celebrating Halloween, so I didn’t give it to him.”
The officer tapped her short, unpainted fingernail to the keyboard as she typed. “And?”
“Well, he asked me to give her a message, and since Brandy and I had plans for lunch the next day to talk about the other woman—”
“What other woman?”
“Well . . . to discuss her . . .” Charlene stopped being chatty. She couldn’t tell this woman that Serenity was being overpowered, emotionally at least, by Alaric and having a second woman as part of their vampire coven. Charlene personally agreed with Brandy that Serenity didn’t belong with Alaric. Alaric was a bad guy. A dangerous man.
The officer would no doubt bring in Brandy for further questions, which could lead to Brandy looking guilty, or worse, add to their suspicions of Serenity.
The family had left the witch ball suddenly—even Sam had commented about it.
Charlene’s cheeks heated and Officer Jimenez turned from the computer to study her.
“What is going on with you?”
“Nothing!”
Her heart raced. Her pulse skipped. This was not the calm and collected image she wanted to portray to this woman. It was lucky she wasn’t taking a lie detector test.
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“I’m—I’m just—” Charlene exhaled. “Can I have some water?”
Officer Jimenez’s brow hiked. She wanted to say no, but couldn’t, really. “Stay here.”
Charlene stayed, fighting the temptation to run out the door like Sam’s mystery person with the confession. While she waited, she processed every infraction she’d had in her mind. Running a red light, not paying a parking ticket within thirty days.
Officer Jimenez returned with a bottle of water and handed it to Charlene, narrowing her eyes.
“Thanks.” Charlene uncapped it and drank two big gulps to cool down.
“Wanna tell me what has you so flustered?” Officer Jimenez peered down her slim nose.
“No. Okay, you make me nervous.” There. The ball was now in the officer’s court.
Officer Jimenez grinned. “Good.” She sat down again. “You were telling me about how you and Brandy Flint ended up in the hotel room of the victim at the Longmire Hotel.”
Forty-five minutes later, Charlene’s nerves were so taut that she was about to snap. “I think that’s everything.”
“Thanks for coming in on a Sunday. Murder doesn’t take weekends off.” Officer Jimenez stood up. “Is there anything else you want to add regarding this statement? Pertaining to this case?”
“Oh! Sort of. I mean. Yes.” Charlene pulled her report for Sam from her purse. “Is Sa—Detective Holden in? I saw that his office was empty when we passed, but he’d asked for this written report. I met with Elisabeta, Alaric’s roommate.”
Officer Jimenez snatched the paperwork from Charlene’s fingers in annoyance. “We’ve been trying to reach her—but she’s never home.”
“Well.” Charlene thought to how forceful she and Brandy had been, not taking no for an answer. As a civilian, you could do that. Not so much as an officer of the law. “Maybe she’s hiding,” Charlene suggested, automatically filling in why the woman might have a reason to hide. “She could have killed Alaric. She had reason to be jealous of Serenity Flint.”
Officer Jimenez’s mouth dropped open and she clamped it closed. “You can’t help it, can you? Just talking. Being where you shouldn’t be.”
“I didn’t know we shouldn’t have been at Alaric’s house.” Charlene faced the officer in confusion. “Why not?”
The officer shook the report. “Oh. No reason. Other than he was murdered and we don’t know who did it.” Her voice couldn’t be more sarcastic. “I’ll give this to the detective. You should probably go.”
“All right.” Charlene shouldered her bag under the pointed glare of the officer.
“You better not get so much
as a speeding ticket in this town. Got it?”
Charlene raced out of the building without saying goodbye.
Her hands were trembling when she reached the Pilot and climbed in. Already one in the afternoon. Holy smokes. What a day. Why hadn’t Sam been there?
It took her a few minutes to calm down before she started the car and drove home. She rushed inside, waved to Avery, who was dusting the golden oak railings of the grand staircase, and bypassed Minnie, sorting things in the pantry.
She got into her room and turned on the television.
“Jack?” she whispered. “Jack!”
He appeared in a burst of cold air. “Yes? What’s wrong, Charlene?”
Jack ushered her in with a flourish, and she noticed the cozy blanket he’d placed on the love seat for her. She removed her bulky jacket and he floated it to the armchair.
“Have you ever been hated before?” She scooted Silva off her pillow to the floor, but the Persian had a mind of her own. Using her wet nose and furry head, she rubbed against Charlene’s legs with a throaty protest. Caving in, she picked up her majesty, settling the uppity cat on her lap.
“I was murdered,” he said dryly.
“Oh.” For some reason, that set her off and she burst out laughing. “Jack, if something happens to me, it’s probably going to be Officer Jimenez that does me in. She hates me. Not just a little—Brandy could tell yesterday that she loathed me.”
“That’s a strong word.”
“It’s true.” Charlene made Jack laugh as she replayed her moronic moments in the station giving her statement. “Her loss, Jack. I’m a good friend to have.”
“I know that. Just ask the cat.” Jack folded his arms as he watched them. “The day she jumped on that moving truck was her ticket to stardom. She thinks she’s royalty and acts like it too.”
“That’s true, isn’t it, little Miss Fancy-pants?” The feline lifted her head and speared her with golden eyes. Silva licked her hand and purred until Charlene stroked under her chin.
Charlene switched on the local news for Salem. “I think Officer Jimenez made a mistake, though, Jack. She kept referring to Orpheus as a victim. I thought Orpheus committed suicide, but she says they’re waiting for the coroner’s report.”
“That’s very interesting. She wouldn’t want you to know that there might be another murder.”
“And Orpheus’s death hasn’t made the paper.” Charlene pet behind Silva’s ears, calming down after her emotional morning. “Jimenez did perk up a bit when I said that I saw what looked like a cloak in the closet at Orpheus’s hotel. I told her about the tall guy running from Elisabeta’s and the dirty boots. I was trying to be as helpful as possible so they can catch who did this.”
“Sam wasn’t there?”
“No. I hope he’ll call later after he reads my report. Hey. You think she’ll give it to him?”
Jack rubbed his jaw. “You should probably text him to let him know it’s there. Just in case she tries to say you never dropped it off.”
Charlene sank back against the cushions of her love seat, thinking of the article in the Salem newspaper. “Jack—did you know that there used to be a bunch of waterways around Salem?”
“Sure. Filled in to make streets. The Commons had a river running through it. Farm animals even. Can you believe it? Why do you ask?”
“Alaric’s body washed up by the Derby Wharf and didn’t go out to sea. The paper mentioned the Derby tunnel entrance. Are there a lot of those?”
Jack gestured to the laptop on Charlene’s desk. “Let’s do some research. I’ll man the computer and you text the detective to cover your behind.”
She shot off a professional text to Sam to let him know she’d been in, then set her phone aside.
“How was Serenity this morning?” Jack sat in her office chair.
Charlene considered all that Serenity had shared, the brokenhearted girl. It had only been two days since the supposed love of her life had died tragically. “I asked her about Alaric’s family, you know, in case there was a funeral. He told her his mother had been dead a long, long time. She got the impression he wanted her to believe hundreds of years.”
“I doubt that.”
“She does too.”
“Mom’s name? We can do a quick search.” Jack waggled his brows. Cyber energy made him stronger.
They’d played around with trying to capture Jack’s image on film, but it hadn’t worked. There’d been no image at all. That had made Jack upset, so they’d left the whole paranormal photography thing alone since.
Jack spent his days, when he was able to manifest himself for her, reading or watching documentaries. He was up on world news as well as local events and was a fabulous conversationalist.
She hadn’t been lonely a day since she’d moved in with Jack. She blinked when a cool breeze of Jack’s air tugged her hair to get her attention. “Sorry. Serenity didn’t know his mother’s name.”
“Where was he from?”
That she knew. “Memphis.”
“Do you mind me doing this and not you?” He flexed his fingers.
“Go right ahead—you’re much quicker.” She reluctantly got up from her love seat.
Jack, using some sort of telepathic connection to cyberspace, went through the articles, reading and discarding quickly. Charlene read over his shoulder.
“The paper this morning said his name was Allan.”
He scrolled and scanned. “Bingo. Here we are. Clayton, Ohio. Not Memphis. Allan Joseph Mayar born to Melissa May Mayar. How old was he?”
“I don’t know for sure. Brandy was angry about the age difference between him and Serenity . . . He appeared to be in his late thirties. The paper said forty-five?”
“According to his birth certificate, he was forty-six.”
Three years older than her. Did drinking blood give him a youthful appearance? She winced as she recalled the stories of Countess Elizabeth Bathory, bathing in virgin’s blood to maintain her youth. Charlene would keep her crow’s-feet, thank you.
Allan Joseph. How simple. “He must have changed his name for effect.”
“Allan isn’t very vampiric,” Jack said. “If that’s what he was going for. Not like Alaric, which has an ancient feel.”
She wondered if Elisabeta had changed her name, as well as Orpheus. If you wanted to convey vampire, Jane didn’t cut it.
“Is there a picture of Melissa? A Mr. Mayar?”
Jack brought up another server and searched Melissa Mayar. “No record of marriage on file.”
Impressed, Charlene smiled at Jack. “You’re getting so fast!”
“Practice makes perfect.” He smiled at her with pleasure for her compliment. “Ah, here we go. Melissa died ten years ago. Her obituary was published in the small-town paper. ‘She shunned the light that harmed her.’”
Charlene didn’t understand—was it a poem? “What does that mean?”
“Hang on. Let me enlarge the photo.” He squinted to read. “ ‘She shunned the light that harmed her in favor of eternal darkness.’ ”
Eternal darkness, like her son longed for. “That sounds crazy.”
“Could be. Mental illness is hereditary.”
“She told fortunes for a living. Did she want to be a vampire too?”
Jack tapped something else into the search bar. A picture of a pretty woman with a pale face and pained eyes covered the screen. “It doesn’t say.”
“She’s so sad. How did she die?”
Rubbing his hands together, his shoulders hunched over the keyboard as he typed, Jack’s fingers were soundless against the keys. “Don’t worry, Charlene, I’ll find out, if you have something else to do.”
“We need to get you your own computer,” she joked.
“Not a bad idea, if you mind sharing yours?”
“No. Usually we’re working on things together.” Teamwork.
The rain pelted the windows with increased force. A day to stay in and watch movies or play ga
mes.
The smell of roasted chicken with rosemary potatoes for Sunday lunch snuck under her door, followed by Avery’s laughter and Minnie’s chuckle.
“Never mind. I’ll go help Minnie and Avery. They sound like they’re having fun in the kitchen without me.”
“I’ll try to discover how Alaric’s mom died. Maybe there will be a connection.”
“Thanks, Jack.”
He worked on the mystery that allowed Charlene to focus on her guests, and she walked into the kitchen. “Minnie, how long until lunch?”
“Another hour or so.”
“Avery, go see which of our guests might be up for a game of Clue. It’s called Cluedo in other parts of the world, but the Parker Brothers, right here in Salem, designed the American version after a murder that took place in Salem.”
“Where did you learn that?” Minnie asked.
“It was an article in the paper last week. Cool, huh?”
Twenty minutes later, Emma, Gabriel, Andrew, and Olivia were seated at the dining room table big enough for them all to play. Joey was there. Judd and Malena had risked the weather for the Peabody Essex Museum, Avery said, as had Chloe and Braydon.
Tommy clomped down the staircase as Charlene was entering the dining room. “Does Celeste want to join us?” she asked.
His face turned red with anger. “Her and Asher are gone. Bedroom’s a mess.”
And hadn’t invited Tommy or Joey. She put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. It hurt to be the one not included in love.
She reached for Avery. “Come on, Avery. Let’s play.”
CHAPTER 12
Tuesday morning, Charlene balanced her accounts for the week. She’d learned in her bed-and-breakfast business that most people stayed for a long weekend. Tapping into her marketing background, Charlene offered a special deal—pay for five nights and get the sixth for free. This tempted folks into booking for the entire week at such a great price, turning the average three-night stay into six.
Her gamble had worked and most of the guests who’d checked in for Halloween weren’t leaving until Wednesday, giving her one more day of a full house. Just how she liked it.