Murder at Chipmunk Lake

by Mary Hughes

  Julian’s brows went up. “Only one cabin occupied midseason? Has business fallen off that much?”

  “We’re semiretired now. Looking to sell, actually. But until that day comes, we’ve always got a place for you, Mr. Emerson.” A toot on the truck’s horn interrupted her. “Gotta go.”

  “One moment,” Julian said. “We brought supplies, but if we need to go shopping, what’s around here? Last time the nearest store was twenty miles away.”

  “Oh, that’s right, you haven’t been here in a while. There’s a trading-post grocery half an hour from here, Chipmunk Lake Supplies. But if you just need milk or a night out, you can visit the Thunder Tap the next lake over.” Her husband beeped again. “Enjoy, Mr. Emerson. You too, Mrs. Emerson.” She waved, then bustled into the truck.

  Julian pulled forward. The truck came out behind us, turned left onto the main road and disappeared into the night.

  “Well. That was unexpected.” He looked at me. “I know this wasn’t your idea of a vacation. Did you want to go to a motel instead?”

  “Nah. As long as we’re here, we might as well try roughing it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. Besides, I need to use the bathroom. Now.”

  He buzzed up his window as the car crunched along gravel. The drive hooked left. I smelled water to the right. Peering out my window, I could just make out a lake glinting silver through the trees. We passed two dark cabins, one lit one, and two more dark before our headlights picked out a quaint one-lane wooden bridge over a thread of water.

  Cars weigh tons. Wood, not steel, for a bridge? “Hey, wait…carp.”

  He drove over without pause. Before I could get up a good scare, we were on the other side. He pulled onto sandy soil in back of the final cabin and cut the engine.

  A flood light lit the back door. I got out and danced on the stoop as Julian dealt with screen and main door. He flicked on interior lights and I rushed in, expecting at best a tiny one-roomer, bed sharing space with a hand pump and rusty metal can over a hole.

  Instead I plunged into the kitchen of a modern three-bedroom house. The kitchen opened straight onto a spacious living room, hallway to my right. I rushed…okay, waddled fast…down the hallway. Bedroom, bedroom, bedroom…and a real live porcelain bathroom.

  Don’t get me wrong. The tone was definitely rustic, knotty pine paneling and wood floors. But the tub, sink, faucet and most of all, toilet, were modern.

  When I emerged from the bathroom much less frantically than I’d gone in, Julian was laying out ham, cheese, and bread on the plank table. “Sit.” He pointed at a heavy wooden chair.

  “I’d have thought you’d want to explore.” It was late, an hour or so before sunrise, but I’d always been a night owl and since marrying my vampire, my days and nights had completely flip-flopped.

  “After you eat.” He expertly slapped mayo onto a slice of bread.

  I sat and watched him layer ham and cheese on top of the other slice. “Why? We stopped for dinner. I snacked a couple times in the car on the way up.”

  “Last time was at least an hour ago.”

  “So what?”

  “So, this.” He stuck his forearm in front of my face. He’d forgone his usual suit coat, since we were “on vacation”, for a thin tee that faithfully molded to his hard torso. His arm was bare.

  Automatically, I latched on and started gnawing.

  “Exactly. Tiny body, fast metabolism. You’re hungry. Add in Baby Ralph and you need to eat even more frequently.”

  “We’re not naming him Ralph. Maybe Stormageddon, Dark Lord of All.”

  As I spoke, Julian set two spinach leaves very precisely on top and flipped the mayonnaise-laden bread onto it.

  He handed the sandwich to me. “Just feed him, all right?”

  I stuffed sandwich in my face. “All right.” I barely chewed before I swallowed.

  After I ate and we unpacked, we took a walk. Everything was different here in the north woods. Not just the inky blackness of the sky. Not just the haphazardly-growing trees, so different from Meiers Corners ruler-straight gardens and parks. The noises were different, whoo-whoo and snick-snick instead of clickity-clack and vroom. The air itself was different, cooler and drier than the heavy sea-level end-of-June heat we got near Chicago. And it smelled, not of diesel and dust, but of tangy pine.

  Like Christmas in summer.

  Knots dropped out of my shoulders as we walked. The cool, sweet air soothed me, and I enjoyed the puff-puff thuds of our feet on the fine dirt between trees. I even got used to the brrs and clicks of life all around us, different, yes, but a music all its own, like nature’s symphony.

  This is nice, floated through my brain.

  As if he’d heard my thoughts, Julian said, “Wouldn’t it be pleasant to have a getaway place like this?”

  “Maybe.” A place to dip out from the beep-beep-bustle of the city, leaving it all behind…I couldn’t pretend it didn’t appeal, at least for a moment. “It’s quite a drive, though.”

  “Mmm.” He made that noise he makes when he thinks he’s right but won’t argue because he’s convinced I’ll come around to his point of view given time. It irritates me no end. What, just because he’s a over thousand years old when I’m not much over a quarter century, he has a monopoly on wisdom?

  Tonight it didn’t bother me in the least. It was too nice, walking hand in hand through the sweet-smelling night. Together we eased down the steep hill of the cabin’s front yard, found a set of rustic steps, and descended the rest of the way on wooden four-by-fours embedded crosswise in the dirt.

  The stairs emptied onto a pier jutting out into a glass-smooth lake. I stood in awe of the black mirror twinkling with Mother Nature’s tiny white holiday lights, glad she didn’t take them down after the New Year.

  A four-seater boat bobbed gently next to the pier. A motor was mounted to the back. “Ann’s boat,” he said. “If we came here regularly, we’d buy our own.”

  “No pressure.” I jumped off the pier—or at least the preggers version of jumping, that is stepping down—onto a small strip of sand that limned the lapping water of Chipmunk Lake.

  By silent mutual consent we walked east, toward the main house. We passed another similar but empty pier.

  On the second empty pier, I paused to take off my shoes and socks. The sand was cool and wet between my toes. I smiled. Another tight muscle in my neck loosened.

  As I stuffed my pink-striped socks into my shoes, I heard the rmmm of a motor, and looked up.

  A boat, maybe fifty yards out, was heading for the third pier, maybe twenty yards from where I sat. One person was in the boat, sitting at the back holding the motor’s steering stick—or I guess they’re called tillers. Obviously one of the quiet fishermen Ann had told us about.

  The boat docked. The man tied it to the pier and got out. He was a thick-bodied guy, hoodie drawn tight but I caught a bulldog-like face in the puckered opening.

  He ignored us to drag a tarp out of the boat. Bundling it under his arm, he started for shore, his enormous feet thudding and shaking the boards of the pier. He disappeared up the hillside into the dark woods.

  Julian and I exchanged a look. He hadn’t carried fishing tackle.

  “None of our business,” my husband murmured.

  “Yeah.” I stood. “But we were headed that way anyway.”

  “True.” He took my hand and we sauntered over. We didn’t go out of our way to mount the pier—much—and peer into the boat.

  No tackle in the boat either.

  “None of our business,” he repeated.

  “Right.”

  We stood there, both of us thinking dark thoughts, until Julian shook himself. Without a word he ushered me off the pier and hustled me along the strip of sand toward the owner’s house.

  Then he slowed, looking back, that studied frown on his face. He shook his head. “Vacation.”

  “Yup.”

  He turned resolutely away. We
walked about half an hour amid the sweet-tart scent of wildflowers and pine, the fresh breeze from the lake and the gentle lapping of the water soothing us. Dawn was approaching, so eventually we turned back. When we neared our cabin about an hour after we’d started, I was pleasantly tired.

  We stopped at our pier so Julian could help put on my shoes. I was about to heave myself onto the wood slats when his arm shot out, barring me. His nostrils flared and his fangs erupted from between his lips.

  A growl came from the woods. My gaze flew up the hillside.

  A large form lumbered through the darkness toward us.

  My heart thudded bear.

  Chapter Four

  The growl resolved into words. “Nixie Emerson. You are a drag on the band. Your playing is boring, your idea of punk is silly and juvenile, and your singing is plain shit.”

  My limbs flash-froze to blocks of ice. My stalker?

  What the fuzzynucked heck was he doing here? Where had he come from? How could he have found us?

  But it was definitely the same gravel voice as the phone calls. Definitely the man who hated my music.

  Then his words hit. Shit singer. No, he didn’t hate my music. He hated me.

  He steamed out of the woods like a locomotive, headed for the steps. “Do us all a favor. Quit.”

  Here’s the thing about nasty words. If somewhere inside, there’s a little voice that agrees with them, they have power to wound.

  His accusations flew straight into my heart. I really wasn’t good enough. If I were, the band would be successful, right?

  My heart pumped hard. I tried to fight back, though the war was on two fronts. “Yeah? Well, you’re a fuc…a shi…a fuzzy doo-doo head!”

  As a defense against him it fizzled, concern for tiny ears forcing me to keep my best weapons holstered. As a defense against my own fears, it bombed. I should quit.

  The stalker chugged down the steps. Burly, his thick arms bared by a sleeveless white tee and worn jeans stretched across big thighs, he’d have been moderately attractive if not for the sneer distorting his face, the porn-star gold necklace tangled in his chest hair, and the food bits spackling his clothes.

  Although an amazingly good set of tattoo sleeves covered his arms.

  But his expression was the grill of a steam engine, and when the wind shifted, it brought the poisonous tang of his body odor, like a breeze off an open sewer.

  My arms crossed over my belly, automatically protecting Snagrat.

  Julian stepped in front of me. “Where did you come from? How the hell did you find us?” The growl in his voice meant his vamp-slip was showing.

  I peeked out from behind him.

  The guy stopped on the last step before the pier, maybe five feet away. His smell didn’t. Oh, for deodorant by the bucket.

  The stalker jabbed a finger at Julian. “I know you. You were at the concert toting amps. You’re just a roadie.”

  Julian snarled, “I’m also just her husband. Now answer me.” He hadn’t used his vampire-compulsion voice, but the threat in his tone was plain enough.

  “Why should I?” Either Stalker Guy had a mouth set on suicide or was looking for a fight or both.

  Julian stepped forward, his fists clenching like a blender.

  I stopped him with a hand on his arm. “What’s your name?” I asked the stalker. “Why did you follow us here?”

  “Please.” The stalker sneered, an expression both mean and triumphant, and stumped to the head of the pier. “Follow you? I knew where you were going.”

  My breath chilled. I’d felt vulnerable before because he knew where we lived. Now he’d outsmarted us as well?

  Normally I wouldn’t have felt quite so out of control. But normally, as a martial arts black belt, I could have defended myself physically. Now, not only was my weight distribution all out of whack for a step-behind sidekick or a slide-in roundhouse kick or a spinning anything kick, my hip joints were the consistency of melted butter.

  “H-how? How’d you know where we were going?”

  “You told me, you dumb bitch.”

  “Watch your mouth,” Julian growled.

  I put both hands over my stomach as if I could protect tiny ears. “I don’t think so.”

  “Remember Vanksy?” the stalker said. “I saw your private message to him on TwitFace.”

  “That was private.”

  Julian groaned. “Nixie, please tell me you didn’t post our plans on the Internet.”

  “It was a private message.” That rankled. What ranked worse was, this stalker ash-hole was a tattoo enthusiast like me? It rankled on a primitive level, like he’d applied roll-on porcupine to my soul. “No one else was supposed to see it.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter.” Julian’s jaw kicked up. “You.” He pointed at the stalker, who still hadn’t told us his name. “This is private property. You will leave immediately.”

  “This is a public resort.” The guy stomped onto the pier and put his nose in Julian’s face.

  We were still on the strip of beach, so that put him higher than us. But my hubby is tall, so not by much.

  The stalker glared at Julian. “I’ll leave when I’m good and ready, which is not before I’ve done what I’ve come to do.” He switched his glare to me.

  My heart started racing. His eyes were glassy, like doll’s—and not a friendly doll but the freaky Twilight Zone kind. His irises were sickly pale, and his pupils were mad pinpricks, like Mr. Sanity wasn’t home. My hands twisted together on top of my belly.

  Julian leaped onto the pier, shoulder butting the guy away from me. “You’re leaving, now.”

  “Stupid punk bitch, ruined everything. She has to pay.” He dodged Julian and jumped down.

  Landing right next to me. My heart nearly kicked out of my chest. I fell back a step. The stalker grinned, shark’s teeth flashing white in the sliver of moonlight.

  I shrieked like a little girl.

  Julian abandoned all pretense at being human and flickered from the pier to thrust his tall muscular body between the stalker and me.

  This time it was the guy who backed a step. He flashed an arm up, as if expecting to block a punch.

  When none came, a crafty light entered his eye. Slowly he spread his hands, palms out. “Hey. No need to go ballistic.” He started to edge away, not straight reverse but around toward Julian’s right side, reducing the power of any potential right-hand punch.

  I wanted to shout, He’s planning something or Look out or even Nail him before he nails you.

  Julian is smart, which meant he already knew all of that. He’s also a vampire, which meant he’s a natural-born hunter and people are always in season.

  But here’s the kicker. He has trained himself for centuries to be reasonable. He tries to act human, or at least human-ish. So instead of knocking the stalker into next month he struggled to keep his inner predator on its leash, talons biting into his clenched fists.

  While Julian was fighting everything he was not to kill the guy, the jerk sucker-punched him.

  Roundhouse to the kidneys, wham.

  That punch would’ve sent a human rolling to the ground in agony. Vampires feel pain even more, but Julian’s only sign of the anguish he was feeling was his eyes, flaring bright violet.

  He grabbed the guy by the arm and reeled him in, face-to-face. “Last warning.” He panted it. “Leave my wife alone!”

  Then he released the stalker with a disgusted shove.

  The guy stuttered, then stomped into a Hulk pose. “No. That band had something. Something good, something strong. She killed it. She deserves to die.”

  Julian spun and punched the guy in the jaw, left jab to the side of the face. He pulled it—vampires are stronger than humans and old ones like my hubby are scary-strong—but even so the stalker flew like a semi had nailed him. Arms flailing, he hit the water with a sound like a gunshot and a splash that geysered.

  Julian whirled away, grabbed my hand and pulled me directly up the hills
ide. I ouch-ouched after him, my feet still bare. Yeah, the dirt between trees was powdery, but it was filled with pine needles and poky-stabby twigs.

  Clenching his jaw, he swept me into his arms. I levered a look over his shoulder. The stalker was spluttering and splashing behind us as my husband stomped up to our cabin.

  “He’s insane,” Julian muttered, watching the stalker from the big picture window in the cabin’s living room area.

  “Well duh,” I said. “I mean, negative reviews are one thing. Death threats aren’t usually involved.”

  Stalker Guy humped up the stairs. My neck tightened as he neared the cabin…but he stomped past.

  Julian strode for the back door. I scurried, duck-style, after him.

  Parked near our sedan in the back was a bubble of a city car. The stalker came into view.

  He turned toward the cabin and shook his fist at it. “Nixie Emerson. This isn’t over.”

  I ducked behind my husband while the guy stuffed himself into his car and took off.

  I released the death hold I had on Julian’s shirt. “Thank goodness he’s gone.”

  “He’s gone for now.” My husband released a breath, turned, and eyed me. “I think we need to take this in earnest.” The tips of his fangs flashed as he spoke, proving he was taking it very seriously indeed.

  I didn’t want to. I passed my nerves off as a joke. “Why? He’s gone and we’ll know if he returns. You’ll smell him. Heck, I’ll smell him.”

  He frowned at me, his eyes cooling from violet then sharpening to that drilling blue. A line of concentration sprung up between his sleek eyebrows. Since meeting me, he’d started to wear a permanent groove. “In Meiers Corners, you were worried about him. Now you’re not?”

  “Maybe I’ve had a chance to put things in perspective.” I played with my neckline, pretending I was cool. “We’ve faced down gangs of vampires and evil overlords bent on destruction. This is just one human guy. One, I might point out, that you decked pretty handily.”