by Sharon Joss
Lou tapped his gloved finger against the skin. The skin was hard and stretched tight and hard as a tambourine.
“Roll him over,” I said. “Let’s see if he has any marks on the other side.”
In his stiffened, dehydrated state, Lou flipped the body over with as much apparent effort as flipping over an empty pizza box.
I leaned in close, looking for any marks, but found nothing. “Was he human?”
Lou shrugged. “Possibly. The mayor is a registered paranormal, but maybe Willy-boy here was unregistered. Brunson could tell you.”
I made a face. “Tell me what? Why is this my problem?”
“Because once I call in the feds, I’m out of this. They’ll be all over Brunson; monitoring his cell phone activity. I won’t be able to get anywhere near him without attracting unwanted attention. Attention I don’t want or need. That new FBI agent, Roper and his damn demon-sniffing dog, for example.”
Roper and his djemon-dog Jager were the least of my worries, but they had the entire AI community on high alert.
“And I can?” I couldn’t keep my eyes off the ghastly expression on Wiley Willy’s face. Was it agony or ecstasy? Hard to tell.
“Sure, you work in the same building. You’re the guest of honor and Grand Marshal of the Festival. Nobody will think twice about you talking to the Mayor. Especially since now you’re probably gonna need a new band for the Spirit Ball.”
“What?” Lou was moving a little too fast for me. I still wasn’t certain that this bit of jerky was Wiley Willy.
“The drummer, Kid Harsh, was found dead by the side of the Throughway two weeks ago. Based on the desiccated condition of the body, the coroner couldn’t determine the cause of death, but concluded he’d been hit by a truck and probably been dead for weeks before someone discovered the body. Now I’m not so sure.”
Road kill. I shivered in the stuffy room. “And you’re certain you saw him walking around a few hours ago.”
“I wouldn’t lie to the Hand of Fate.”
“And now he’s a frickin’ raisin.”
CHAPTER 3
The Cassowego Spiritualist Camp is a former summer resort situated on sixty wooded acres twelve miles east of Shore Haven. Established in 1907, it’s listed on the New York Historical Register. There are about 35 of the original cabins still standing, and another 60 newer cabins, built in the swingin’ sixties. It was originally set up as a non-traditional religious retreat, but the current residents are all paranormals, although many are unregistered. They’ve been living and doing whatever they do in harmony for more than a century. About 20 of the residents are mediums who offer counseling from their homes. The International Spirit Festival had its roots here—it developed from the annual camp meetings in the 1930’s.
The morning sun was already shining above the treetops when I stopped at the front gate and pushed the button on the intercom. “Welcome to the spiritual heart of New York,” the disembodied voice droned. “Please state your name and the purpose of your visit.”
“Mattie Blackman here for Madame Parry.” I hadn’t wanted to come, but Mayor Brunson didn’t want his aunt Marjorie to get the news about her son over the phone or from the feds. “Jim Brunson sent me.”
Lou called in the tip about Wiley Willy anonymously, so the mayor’s office wouldn’t be directly involved. That way, the Feds would be more likely to start looking for the real killer, rather than looking for skeletons in the mayor’s not-exactly-human personal life.
“Just tell her what you told me,” Brunson instructed me. “Aunt Marjorie is a medium. She’ll know the truth in your words, and maybe she’ll even be able to tell you something about what happened to Willy. She can help you find his killer.”
I didn’t have the heart to say no.
The light on the top of the intercom turned green, and the ornate, wrought-iron gate slowly opened before me. I goosed the gas in my trusty Honda, and followed the rutted road as it wound through the groves of maple, pine, and birch.
Fourth house on the right, Brunson had told me. The term ‘house’ was a generous one. Based on the architecture, the tiny turquoise structure looked more like a garden shed, to me. Must’ve been one of the original cabins.
Aunt Marjorie, dressed in a blue plaid flannel robe, was waiting for me on the porch. I guessed her to be in her late fifties. She wore her dark hair, shot through with silver, pulled back into a tight ponytail. Broad cheekbones and olive skin gave her a decidedly exotic look that was handsome, rather than pretty. Hard blue eyes drilled into me like cold steel as I stepped out of the car. Once she got a good look at me, her mouth thinned to a disapproving line.
More than anything I wished I was wearing something other than Mel’s ridiculous tacky pirate costume. I couldn’t even get rid of the stupid plastic sword, because it was glued to the apron, and without the apron, I was just a girl in frilly black panties, fishnet stockings, and a bustier.
“You didn’t have to come. I know William is dead. I felt him go.”
I stood on the porch, my hand glued to the railing. Her aura pulsed with the same odd blue-green-black that Mayor Brunson’s did. I wondered if it was because they were family or because they shared the same paranormal profile. Probably both.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Parry. Mayor Brunson asked me to bring you the news. He didn’t want the feds to be the ones to tell you.”
A ghost of a smile softened her expression. “Jimmy was always a good boy.” She inclined her head toward the front door of her cabin. “Come inside. I must speak to you.”
The one-room cabin gave me her whole life’s story at a glance. To the left of the front door, her reading table sat below the window, where a hand-painted ‘OPEN’ sign hung from the upper sash. In front of the window, a simple round painted table sat with two wooden chairs, the obligatory crystal ball centered on the tabletop. The right side of the room was set up as a kitchen, around a soapstone sink with an old-fashioned pump-handled copper faucet. An open corner cupboard held cups and dishes, and the wood-burning stove squatted like a toad in the center of the room, its pipe vented through the peaked roof overhead. Next to it, a tiny table held an old, pedal-operated sewing machine—Brunson told me his aunt earned extra money sewing decorative banners of nylon and canvas. Next to it, brightly-colored pieces of fabric were draped over the back of a gun-metal grey folding metal chair. In the back third of the room, partially screened by a gauzy veil, a mattress slumped on the floor against the back wall, cradling limp but brightly-colored pillows in one corner. Opposite, a narrow bunk sat empty, but for a bare mattress. The morning sun had not yet reached the shaded clearing; the cabin was lit only by oil lanterns and lit candles. The walls were plastered with photographs—I recognized Mayor Brunson as a boy in several—arm-in-arm with a younger boy, the future Wiley William, I presumed. The family resemblance was hard to miss.
She motioned me to sit—the intensity of her expression made it an order I chose not to question. I took a seat at her reading table. She didn’t seem all that upset about losing her son. When she spoke, her voice was strong.
“Where in hell did you get that costume?”
I felt the heat rise in my face, and not just from embarrassment. Really? Your son is dead and you want to lecture me about what I’m wearing? My sympathy for her cooled considerably. I ignored the question. “He was found at the motor lodge next to the amusement park. Do you have any idea what he was doing there?”
“Neldene’s been designing for the Festival for decades. Her taste is impeccable. She would never dress you or any woman in something like--.”
I cut her off. “Listen to me! I’m trying to talk to you about your son.”
She stared at me as if I was the one who as nuts. I took a deep breath and tried again. “It was an unnatural death. We won’t know exactly how he died until the coroner finishes his investigation, but I saw the body. I’ve never seen anything like it—don’t you care about what happened to him?”
; “I said where did you get that costume?” She reached across the table and put her hand on my arm. “Oh.” Her eyes stared off into the distance as her fingers gripped my wrist. A line of spittle leaked from the corner of her mouth.
I frowned. Her hands were ice-cold. A sheen of sweat gleamed on her forehead. Her aura began to fade. There was something seriously wrong with her. “Are you all right, Mrs. Parry? Shall I call someone?”
She shivered and seemed to come out of it. Her blue eyes once again bored into mine. “Listen to me, you stupid girl. I knew he was in danger from the beginning. I tried to warn him, but he wouldn’t listen. Always too trusting, that boy. I mourned William’s passing for six months before he died. My tears were spent months ago—I felt only peace when he finally went. Have you any idea how it is for a mother to lose a child? Even a grown child. It should never happen. No one would listen to me.” She grabbed my hand again, and her voice dropped to a deeper register. “I told Jimmy, and I’ll tell you. You’ve got to trust the vampires, lest you suffer the same fate, child.”
Adrenaline shot through me. “Vampires?” Lou and I had checked the body for bite marks—we hadn’t found any. The only vamp I knew of, Enrique, had run against Jim Brunson in the last election and lost. There were rumors he’d been the one behind a whisper campaign which ultimately forced Brunson to come out as a Paranormal. Fortunately for Brunson, the plan backfired and didn’t hurt his popularity much—he won anyway. Odd that Marjorie would be on their side, though.
“They will not do you wrong. Stop this thing before the Spirit Ball or we all die.”
Her eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped over in her chair.
“What! What thing? Mrs. Parry!” Panicked, I jumped up to feel her pulse, even as the light of her aura went out. Madame Marjorie was dead.
* * *
Sheriff Reynolds arrived in minutes, just before the ambulance. I waited for him out on the porch, just as Madame Marjorie had waited for me, and then followed him inside. He checked her pulse and lifted her eyelids. He nodded once, and then scowled when he noticed my outfit. “What happened here?”
I silently cursed Mel for the hundredth time for making me wear this damn thing. “I was just talking to her and she keeled over.” Outside, the siren announced the coming of the ambulance.
His scowl deepened. “What were you talking about?”
I felt the heat rise in my face. See, I’ve known Sheriff Reynolds nearly all my life. He’s got a reputation as straight shooter and an ace lawman, but I don’t think he really sees me as a fellow officer, even though, arguably, parking control is part of the Picston Police Department. I think his opinion of me has been forever tainted by that time he arrested me for murder. The real murderer ended up being somebody else, but I don’t think it mattered to him. He’s the kind of lawman who wouldn’t forget about something like that. I’m pretty sure he still holds it against me.
And he’s smart. The last time he interrogated me, I lied through my teeth, and I’m pretty sure he knew it, because he was already looking at me as if I was going to lie to him again. His cynical expression made that pretty clear.
If Wiley Willy’s body hadn’t been found yet, it soon would be. If I told the sheriff I was here to inform Marjorie of her son’s death, he’d want to know how I knew. I’d be opening a huge can of worms—not just for me, but for Lou Scali and Mayor Brunson—something to be avoided at all costs. The Sheriff’s department had jurisdiction over Shore Haven, so the corpse lying on the bed at the motor lodge belonged to him. Once Willy’s body was found, Reynolds would immediately make the connection. He might have even been on route to tell her about her son’s death himself. Yeah, chances were better than good he already knew about the recent demise of Wiley Willy.
Obviously, I had to lie. Besides, he was expecting it. Something innocent and plausible, yet impossible for him to verify.
I took a deep breath. “I needed a dress for the Spirit Ball.”
* * *
Three hours later, I was still in Sheriff Reynolds’s interview room. They believed me about Marjorie—they’d have to let me go soon. It was pretty obvious that the poor woman had suffered some sort of heart failure or aneurism.
I could barely keep my eyes open, even after six cups of coffee. All I had to do was keep cool and not say anything stupid. Reynolds had asked every question four or five different ways, and my answers had been consistent. We both knew he had no reason to keep me.
There was a soft knock at the door, and Agent Roper came in, waving a clear plastic evidence bag. “We found this at the motor court. It was caught on a splinter in the broken door.” His eyes never left my face.
Ted Roper is the new paranormal investigator assigned to the Monroe County FBI office. His dog, Jager, has been trained to alert on djemons. Oddly enough, Jager is a djenie dog—a djemon who was freed from servitude when his master died, and chose the form of a black dog when he transformed into a djenie. Whoever found Jager at the pound, didn’t know the dog wasn’t really a dog at all. Jager is aces at sniffing out djemons, but he’s not mortal, so he answers to me above all others.
Agent Roper is generally thought of as a bit of a hard-ass. The AI community is pretty much terrified of him, but I think that’s because nobody knows him or what he’ll do. Monroe County is his first assignment as a paranormal investigator, and from what I hear, he’s been more than a little frustrated that he hasn’t found any illicit paranormal activity to investigate. Shore Haven is second only to New Orleans in terms of a registered paranormal population.
Roper tossed the evidence bag onto the desk. “There’s your smoking gun on the William Parry murder, Sheriff.”
Reynolds held up the bag for inspection and my heart skipped a beat.
Even from across the interview table, I could identify the bit of snagged black ruffle from my pirate uniform panties.
Suddenly, Sheriff Reynolds looked wide awake. “Well, well. What do we have here? Stand up, Mattie. Let’s get a better look at that get-up you’re almost wearing.”
I smothered a groan and kept my hands on the desktop, my face expressionless. The jig was up. In two minutes or less, they’d know for certain I’d been inside Wiley Willy’s room. I wasn’t about to stand up and let them inspect my ruffled assets for clues.
I said what I should have said three hours earlier. “I want to speak to my attorney.”
CHAPTER 4
I don’t know what strings Gerard Fontaigne pulled to get me out of there, and I had to give Sheriff Reynolds my waitress uniform as evidence, but I was on my way home four hours later. Reynolds impounded my ancient Honda, Trusty Rusty, to search for evidence, but it was almost worth walking out of the Sheriff’s station wrapped in a blanket to see the look of frustration on his and Roper’s faces.
Almost.
Fontaigne gave me a ride back to Shore Haven in his Bentley. I’d never been in such a posh car. The door panels were inlaid with gorgeous rosewood trim, smooth as satin. The leather upholstery was butter-soft. “Thanks for coming, Gerard. I really thought Reynolds was going to arrest me for murder. That gung-ho federal agent was pushing pretty hard.”
Fontaigne had been my great-grandmother’s attorney for decades. Not that she ever got arrested or anything—Gerard is a tax lawyer. But this isn’t the first time he’s dealt me a ‘get out of jail’ card.
“Think nothing of it, my dear. You should have called me earlier. I doubt you would have been charged with murder. After all the bad press the last time, Reynolds is too smart to arrest you for anything without solid evidence.”
“That scrap of fabric from the ruffles on my uniform puts me at in the room with Willy Parry.”
Fontaigne gave me a self-satisfied smile. “Ah, but Wiley Willy’s death has not yet been classified as a homicide. And I suspect the coroner will have a difficult time determining Madame Marjorie’s as well. Suspicious, yes. But murder…” he shrugged. “Charges for both cases, if they come, will be at the discretion
of the District Attorney. For now, you are a person of interest.”
I glanced at the speedometer. We were humming along the Throughway at 110mph with hardly a whisper; the ride so smooth, it felt like we were flying.
“They both died the same night, Gerard. That’s more than suspicious, and I’m the common denominator. People have been convicted on a lot less.”
Another non-committal shrug. His silver hair perfectly matched the exterior of the Bentley. Always impeccably groomed, a tiny blood-red rosebud peeked out of the lapel of his understated Italian suit.
“You are hardly common, Mattie. In the last few years, the Spirit Festival has become a truly international event. Last year, it brought more money into Monroe County than the Lilac Festival and Clothesline Art Festival combined. I suspect the DA is going to be reluctant to press charges against the Grand Marshal of the Spirit Festival for failure to report a dead body. Certainly not before the festival--the international publicity would be disastrous. He’ll do nothing until he has the coroner’s findings.”
Great. A sense of doom settled over me. Marjorie probably died of a heart attack, but Willy’s death was definitely suspicious. I had no doubts at all that his cause of death would be supernatural in nature. People don’t just die and get turned into mummies. And it was hard to understand how both of them died within hours of each other. Heck, I knew I hadn’t done anything to either one of them and I felt guilty. Of course I would be the obvious suspect. The only suspect.
I wrapped the blanket more tightly around me. “What if the coroner’s finding points to homicide? How long do you think I’ll have to wait?” I couldn’t help but feel that for every little step forward, I took three giant steps back. All I wanted was to earn a little extra cash working at Dave’s, and now I was a person of interest in two suspicious deaths. I thought wistfully of Rhys, safe in Scotland, and belatedly wished I’d gone with him.
Fontaigne flipped on the right-hand blinker and braked for the Picston exit. The Bentley decelerated as gracefully as a falling star. “I’m afraid I cannot answer that. It takes a long as it takes. There is no statute of limitations for murder.”