by Tegan Maher
When my stomach reminded me for the fourth time in twenty minutes that I'd skipped breakfast, I dropped my feet to the floor. I wasn't accomplishing anything there, and a cheeseburger and fries couldn't hurt. Maybe something would pop into focus if I let it simmer in the back of my brain while I ate.
I noticed Sam's door was open and pecked on his doorframe to draw his attention away from the fishing magazine he was looking at. He looked up and smiled at me. "Hey kiddo. I didn't see you there. What's up?"
"Just heading down to Sully's to grab a burger. Wanna go?"
He shook his head. "I had a late breakfast, but go on. I did some checking on Tabbie's boyfriend, a guy by the name of Billy Braxton, and I don't think he did it. He's never had so much as a parking ticket and his story checked out. He'd made the reservations earlier in the week, and his coworkers had nothing but good things to say about him. Said he was hinting he was going to pop the question."
Huh. Still, I wanted to talk to him just to make sure I covered all the bases. But not before I had my cheeseburger.
I almost made it past the front desk before Ms. Ellen, our receptionist, called my name. I cringed and squeezed my eyes shut—I'd almost made it. I stopped in my tracks, took a deep breath, and spun around on my toes to face her. I already knew who was on the phone thanks to my Spidey sense—my Mom. And I did not want to talk to her.
"Sorry to interrupt sweetie—and trust me, in this case I mean it. But your mama's on line three." Her nose curled when she said it. There was no love lost between those two. My mom referred to her as "that bible-thumping old bag," and Ms. Ellen returned the love by calling my mama "that painted-up hussy whose nose is so high in the air it's a wonder she hasn't drowned in a rainstorm." Apparently, they went way back.
Ms. Ellen was staring at me over the rims of her '60s-style cats-eye glasses, replete with rhinestones, waiting for a response. More precisely, she was waiting for me to come answer the phone.
Everybody loves—and fears—Ms. Ellen. She's five feet tall if she's wearing her two-inch block heels and is seventy if she's a day. She has her blue-black hair curled and her roots done once a week at the beauty shop, and I've never seen her in anything other than a flowered little-old-lady's dress. Despite her diminutive stature, I've seen her shame petty criminals young and old into apologizing and changing their ways.
As she stood there holding the phone out to me, I cringed at the thought of talking to I wasn't ready to deal with her yet, especially on an empty stomach. She'd called my cell twice already and I'd let it go to voicemail.
I shot Ms. Ellen my most ingratiating smile. "Tell her I'm at lunch? Please?"
She narrowed her eyes at me for a couple of seconds, then picked up the phone and punched the button. "She says she's at lunch, Miranda. I venture to say she's avoiding you for one good reason or another."
I rolled my eyes and huffed out a breath; I should have known better than to ask her to lie. She held the phone out from her ear and I could hear my mother's tirade about rude, ungrateful children and snippy old bats.
With raised brows, Ms. Ellen just dropped the receiver back in its cradle with a decisive nod, then smiled at me. "I won't lie, but I won't listen to that kind of ugly, either. Now you go on and have a good lunch."
I could have hugged her. Not many women—or men for that matter—had the fortitude to stand up to my mother, but Ms. Ellen doesn't take guff from anybody.
"Would you like me to bring you back anything?"
"No, dear. I'm meeting with the auxiliary to discuss the fall festival. You wouldn't believe some of the things they're wanting to add this year. But thank you anyway."
I took my opening and hustled out the front door, wondering absently what kind of "crude" entertainment had drawn her ire. Last year she'd protested the junior league's dunk tank because she said it was unseemly that the girls were going to display themselves in skimpy bikinis at a family event. When it passed anyway, she stopped at the booth five times, dunking the president and vice president of the junior league, plus a couple of their minions.
Brittney Williams, the president, had dressed up in her sequined bikini and her Miss Mayday ribbon. Her tiara was nestled into a perfect big hairdo, and she was perched on the swing blowing kisses to the crowd when Ms. Ellen dunked her. The expression on Brittney' face when she'd surfaced was priceless. Her tiara was tangled in her matted hair and her ruined makeup made her look more like a clown than a beauty queen.
I'd asked Ms. Ellen the next day where she'd learned to throw a ball like that and she'd just smiled, patted me on the arm, and said, "The Good Lord helps those who play on his team, dear."
I was still smiling at the memory when I walked into Sully's. I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the dim interior of the pub. The smell of burgers and onions frying on the grill made my mouth water as I slid onto a black-cushioned bar stool and dropped my wallet on the bar. Since it was only ten, I had the place to myself.
A bear of a man—and I mean that literally because he's a bear shifter—finished polishing the beer glass in his hand and lumbered over to me, his bearded face split into a wide grin. "And how's the head of Castle's Bluff's finest? Ye'll be wantin' yer usual, lass?"
Though he'd been in the US for forty years and adapted mostly to American English, he still carried his Irish lilt. I stood on the brass foot-rail and leaned across to give Sully a hug. "That sounds great, and I'd be doing better if there weren't a werewolf killing people in my woods."
The mirth slipped from his face. "To be sure. Bad business, that. We've been keeping our noses to the ground for ye, but so far, not even the barest whiff."
"Have you had any strangers in?" That time of year was usually slow around there; School had just started, so most of the tourists were gone, at least until ski season. Right now, it was mostly locals.
"We always have a few, but nai that stand out." He eyed me speculatively as he sat my Coke in front of me. "Though I did see a long-lost face the other night."
Sully has known me all my life; I was the same age as his youngest son, Alex, and we' been friends from childhood. He and his wife Sarah, his high-school sweetheart, still called me up to go out every few months. That meant that he knew all about Zach. I heaved a sigh. "Yeah, I know. I've already bumped into him. He was at the crime scene yesterday."
Sully raised a brow. "And what would he be doin' there, then?"
"Hunting wolves."
The words fell between us like a lead balloon.
Concern etched his face. "Hunting as in Tracking?"
Everybody knows about the Trackers, or at least everybody who has two forms. "I don't think so. He's more of a bounty hunter. He thinks we're looking for a regular wild wolf gone bad, and I'm doing my best to keep it that way until I can figure out who's doing it and take care of them."
He nodded and started to say something, but the kitchen bell dinged, indicating that my food was up. He paused to grab it and slid it, along with a condiments caddy, in front of me.
"Have ye heard from yer folks?"
"Yeah, Mom's called me three times today, but I've been dodging her. I'd like to have something to tell her first so that she's not tempted to send in the pack." I layered the lettuce, tomatoes, and onions on top of my burger and squirted a puddle of ketchup by my fries.
"Well if this keeps up, you're going to have the FBI and the Trackers poking their noses in, too."
I dragged a fry through the ketchup and popped it into my mouth. "Trust me. I'm well aware of the walls closing in here. I just can't seem to catch even the smallest thread to pick. I'm going to head out to Billy Braxton's place tonight and see if I can get a read off of him, though I don't know how he'd be connected to the rest of them."
He shook his head slowly. "Yer barkin' up the wrong tree with that one. I've known that boy since he moved here five years ago; he doesn't have it in him. 'Sides, he loved that girl to distraction, and she returned the sentiment." He paused.
That was the second time in
an hour I'd heard that, but no relationship was perfect. That still didn't open the door to murder, though. I shrugged. "If the feds or the pack do sweep in and I haven't talked to him, that'll be one more mark against me. I'll cover the base all the same."
"I suppose it's the right thing to do, lass, especially considerin' he's a werewolf. It would be remiss of ye."
I put my burger down. "Wait, what?"
He leaned an elbow on the bar and furrowed his brow. "He's a werewolf. Ye didn't know?"
"Well, no! It's not exactly something that would be on his public record, though he's not on my roster, either."
"I sniffed him out the first time he came in here. I don't know why he didn't check in, but like I'm sayin', he's a good boy."
Werewolves living in the territory were supposed to check in with me in order to ensure the security and safety of both the pack and the individual. Pack wars had been started by one bad apple causing trouble in somebody else's territory, so it was pretty much the rule of the land that you check in with the local leader.
It wasn't carved in stone, but it was atypical not to give a heads up, if for no other reason than to protect yourself while in wolf form. Strange wolves flying under the radar weren't always handled gently if they ran into a group of locals.
"I'll keep that in mind, but I still have to question him, especially now."
He refilled my coke. "So I suppose ye've heard Sean Castle's back in town."
My head snapped up and irritation flared. I should have known the minute he came back. "No, I hadn't."
"Well don't go gettin' your knickers all atwist," he said when he saw my expression. "He just came back last night. Only reason I know is because I was his first stop after he arrived."
I'd met Sean Castle a couple of times. Always charming and affable, but his eyes always held a little darkness. There was no doubt the man was lethal, and from what I'd heard, he could be ruthless when he wanted something.
I shrugged. "I guess since he founded the place, he should be able to come and go as he pleases. I assume he's here under an alias?"
"Nay," he said, picking up his rag and polishing more glasses as he talked. "He's using his real name this time around."
"Well at least that'll make it easy for me if I run into him in public," I said around my last bite of cheeseburger."
He held the wineglass he was polishing up the light coming through the window, checking for spots. "Ye should know, he's not happy about these murders, and a few other things goin' on about town. I'm surprised he hasn't already contacted you."
I heaved a sigh. "Wonderful. Another person disappointed in my job performance." I pushed around the last few fries on my plate. "It's not like I'm resting on my laurels. I need help, but pack politics are so precarious right now I hate to ask officially."
He folded the towel and laid it on the beer mat. "Have ye considered askin' for local help?"
"What do you mean?"
"What I mean, lass," he replied, scowling, "Is you haven't bothered askin' for outside help. You have a bear clan, a fox clan, and fellow wolves that live here, too. We don't like what's goin' on any more than you do. Just ask."
I hadn't considered that, but he was right. I didn't want a posse, but it sure couldn't hurt to spread some info and ask folks to keep an eye out. An organized search party wasn't such a bad idea. Even just having extra ears—and noses—looking out would be good.
"You're right. I hadn't thought of that. I'll make some calls and get a party organized. I have a tuft of fur, so if nothing else, we'll all have his scent."
We chatted some about Alex and Sarah and town gossip while I finished my burger. When I left, I headed straight to Billy Braxton's house.
CHAPTER SEVEN
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, I pulled up in front of an old but well-maintained trailer on the outskirts of town. The front porch sagged and the paint was faded, but bright pink and purple petunias flourished along the cracked walk. The yard, though bald in some spots, was neatly trimmed. Whoever lived there had invested plenty of heart into making it a home, but not a lot of money.
There was an older black pickup with primer on the fender and a beat-up Mustang parked out front and one of the white lace curtains by the living room window fluttered a bit. Somebody was home and already knew I was here. I tilted my head a bit as I made my way up the rickety porch steps. Heavy footsteps pounded toward the other end of the trailer and back again.
I rapped on the front door.
"Billy Braxton? Castles Bluff PD." I figured it might be best not to identify myself because he'd likely recognize the name. I didn't want to spook him before I had a chance to feel him out.
I waited a few seconds and thought I heard a soft thump from what would likely be the back bedroom. I raised my hand but before I could knock again, the door swung open and a petite brunette in her early twenties opened the door.
"Yes?" Her chocolate eyes were a little puffy and bloodshot but she wore the same suspicious, slightly freaked-out look that most people her age had when the cops were at the door. The unmistakable scents of weed, werewolf, and apple-cinnamon air freshener floated out.
"Hi. I'm looking for Billy Braxton. Is he home?" She paused for just a heartbeat before responding. Something flashed across her face, but it was so fleeting that I wondered if I'd imagined it.
"Sure thing." She turned her head and tucked it behind the door. "Billy, there's a lady from the sheriff's office here to see you."
The girl moved back and a dark-haired guy in his mid-thirties took her place. He was barefoot and wearing faded jeans and an unbuttoned flannel.
"I'm Billy. Do you have news about ..." The blood drained from his face as he caught scent of me and realized who I was. He cleared his throat and recovered, though his voice wavered a little. "Do you have news about Tabbie?"
I raised a brow at him, silently calling him out, but I couldn't say anything in front of the girl. I picked up a wave of what felt like fear with my other sense, but it was fleeting. "Can I come in for a minute? I'd like to ask you a few questions."
He hesitated for a couple of seconds, searching my face, but I was careful to keep my expression neutral. He shrugged and stepped back from the door, careful not to get to close to me. "Yeah. Come on in."
The smell of pot mingled with air freshener was strong on the porch, but it was obnoxious once I stepped inside that it was all I could do not to ask if they'd rather talk on the porch. Actually, I was surprised that he hadn't suggested that; that's the normal reaction that I get from potheads.
The inside of the trailer was cute, decorated with what I guessed to be thrift-store furniture. Pictures of Tabitha and various other people, including several of her and Billy, were arranged in a collage on one wall and a big flat screen hung on the other. Little dollar-store doilies held a variety of knick-knacks and a bright quilt was thrown over the back of the couch.
As with the outside, whoever did the decorating had more love than money, but managed to make the run-down trailer feel homey, nonetheless.
Billy motioned to a chair and sank down on the sofa across from it, trying to hide a cringe as he did so.
He didn't hide it well enough, though. "That looked painful. What happened?" I asked, thinking back to the drops of blood from the werewolf the night before. We heal quickly, but if Zach did a little more than graze the werewolf, it may still be tender.
"What?" He looked confused for a minute, then blushed. "Oh, I, uh, fell off the porch last night when it was raining. Bruised my tail bone."
Given the condition of the porch, it wasn't outside the realm of possibility, but something felt off. I took a deep breath through my nose, trying to pin down his scent, but couldn't because of the apple-cinnamon pot smell pervading my nostrils. He noticed what I was trying to do, and one side of his mouth tipped up; I had no idea what to do with that response.
The girl looked decidedly uncomfortable, standing with one foot crossed over the electric-blue-tipped toes of the o
ther. She was slender to the point of being gangly, with long, colty legs extending down from a pair of ratty cut-offs.
She stepped forward, tucking her hair behind her ear and chewing her lip. "Would you like a glass of tea or something?" She blurted. I almost wanted to say yes just to give her something to do, but decided against it.
"No, thank you ..." I let the sentence hang, pushing her for a name.
She sank to the couch to sit beside Billy. "Oh, Amanda. Amanda Baxter. I'm Tabbie's best friend. I live here. We're roommates. We went to school together and have known each other forever. She got me this cat when we were in the ninth grade ...."
She seemed to realize she was rambling and stopped mid-sentence, chewing on her lip and fighting back tears.
Billy rubbed her back, almost without thought and she leaned over into him. I looked back and forth between the two of them, trying to gauge the body language, but it was hard. There was nothing overtly inappropriate about it.
"So what can I do for you, Sheriff?"
"I just wanted to stop and follow up. See if you remembered anything else since you talked to Deputy Cassidy yesterday."
Sam had talked to Billy at the lumberyard where he worked. He'd also checked the kid's alibi, and it had checked out with the exception of a thirty-minute lunch break. It was tough to imagine he could have gotten away, killed her, cleaned up, and gotten back. Still it was possible, and he'd been off on the day Victoria Temple was killed.
He shook his head and a hank of his shaggy hair fell forward over his brow. "I haven't. I've been wracking my brain, trying to think if there was anything at all. I can't think of a single person who would want to hurt her. It sounds cliché, but everybody loved her. Seriously. She was known as the peacekeeper at work, and she and I never fought."
"Never?" I asked, skeptical.
Despite the gravity of the situation, he rolled his eyes. "Well, almost never. Nobody agrees all of the time."