by Tegan Maher
Ms. Ellen snorted. "Honey, I live for moments like this. Putting Gert in her place will be the highlight of my day." She put her hand to her chin and considered the hawkish woman standing in front of her. "I don't suppose we can leave her like that for a while and put her outside as a pigeon roost, can we?"
Grinning, I shook my head. "I'm pretty sure somebody'd notice. Though I doubt we'd get any complaints."
A wicked twinkle shone from behind her cats-eye glasses as she picked up Gert's arm, arranged her hand so that her pointer finger stood out, then stuffed it up her nose.
"Ms. Ellen!” I said, choking on a laugh. “That's terrible. And hilarious." I backed toward the door, pointing toward it over my shoulder. "I'm just gonna—"
She smoothed her flowered dress and waved me off. "Skedaddle. I'll handle the old battle axe."
"Bless your heart, Ms. Ellen. I owe you big."
"Pht. Prove it in my Christmas bonus." She cast a quick glance and a wink in my direction. "Now go on. Don't you have a murder to solve?"
"I do." I pushed open the door and stepped through it, unfreezing Gertie as I did.
"For the love of god, Gert," I heard her say, "get your finger out of your nose. You're in public. And as far as your complaint, I happen to know for a fact that when you were forty years younger and fifty pounds lighter, you was caught up at the public swimmin' hole more than once givin' new meanin' to the breast-stroke in a whole lot less than what Margo Finster wears in her own backyard!"
Lordy, it was all I could do to leave without seeing that reaction, but unless I wanted to listen to the woman rant about Ms. Finster and Ms. Ellen for half an hour, it was best to duck out before she caught wind of me.
The heat blasted me like a furnace when I stepped back into it; the quick blast of air conditioning that had hit me when I'd gone inside had felt good. I hurried to the far end of the wide veranda that graced our courthouse and skipped down the steps and around to the back door. Sam was just pulling in, so I waited for him.
He cast a confused look between me, my Jeep, and the front of the courthouse. I explained.
"Oh, good grief," he said, rolling his eyes. "I dodged a bullet, then. I almost parked in front because there wasn't a space here when I pulled in the first time. I saw someone pull out and swung back around, though. I'da been a goner for sure. Last time she caught me with a skimpy-clothing complaint, she turned everything all sideways 'til she said I was a perv just like all men. Worst part about it is I actually felt guilty. That woman needs help."
"The blessings of living in a small town," I said as we stepped inside.
He hmphed. "Curse is more like it."
"Look at it this way: it gives Ms. Ellen a chance to keep her wits sharp."
"That woman doesn't need any help in that department. Her wits are already sharp enough to shred paper."
He wasn't wrong. Ms. Ellen had a finger on the pulse of the entire community. Very little happened without her knowing about it. It's a good thing she wasn't a gossip because if she were, the whole town would be in trouble.
We made it to our adjoining offices. I plopped into my chair and began to pull together a case file on the murder.
"So what did Sean Castle have to say this morning?" he asked over the divider as he checked our email.
I gave him the blow-by-blow and he frowned. "In my limited experience," he said, "vampires are pros at using language as more than a communication tool. You sure you didn't leave any loopholes he can use to get out of the deal? Not that he's not honorable, but it's good to close the gaps."
Thinking back over the conversation, I shook my head. "I don't think so. It was straightforward, and I believe he has the best interests of everybody involved at heart. He's in a tough spot because he's progressive and would like to see vampires work more closely with other species. That's not a popular view in certain crowds."
"Somethin' tells me that he can hold his own," Sam grumbled.
"I agree, but nobody's invincible. Best-case scenario is that the killer's a vampire. Worst case is he's a shifter. Aside from being paranormals who fall under stricter laws, we're not exactly popular with a portion of the undead crowd."
“Colleen emailed us a copy of what she has so far,” he said.
“Lemme know if you see anything that may help,” I said. I’d pull up the file and look at it later.
He was flipping through pictures of the crime scene and I almost had the preliminary report done when my phone rang. I groaned when I glanced at the screen—it was probably too much to hope that my mother—one half of the alpha couple for the entire Southeast werewolf coalition—was just calling to say hello.
I squeezed my eyes shut and answered.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"HEY MOM. HOW'S DAD?" I knew that using that as an opening line probably wouldn't soften her up, but it may throw her off her game.
"Hey sweetie,” she answered, her voice suspiciously pleasant. “Dad's fine and so am I, thanks for asking. I'm just calling to check in because I haven't talked to my favorite daughter in a while. How are things going down there?"
I pinched my lips together and furrowed my brow. My mom was a lot of things—nosy, meddlesome, manipulative, and shrewd to name a few—but she was about as subtle as a brick to the face. This sounded more like an interfering-mom call than something involving pack business, so maybe she hadn’t caught wind of the murder yet.
"There's something we need to discuss, but you go first," I said, curious where she was going.
She paused for a dramatic sigh. "I'm just checking in to see how things are going with Alex."
Ah, so it was a meddlesome-mother call. For once, I considered that a good thing.
Alex Dixon was a werewolf/witch hybrid Mom had sent to help me when we’d had the rogue werewolf on the loose and I was hitting brick walls in every direction I turned. We'd hit it off, but were still feeling things out. I counted him as one of my best friends and I was definitely attracted to him—and vice versa—but we weren't in any hurry. Besides, he still had business interests in Charlotte, where my parents lived.
He wore a cerulean crystal nearly identical to mine, and for the same reason. We’d speculated the stones were from the same source, but there was no way to prove that; all we knew is that they looked the same and they worked.
Being a combination of two paranormal creatures wasn't easy, and it was nice to hang out with somebody who understood that. We had a ton of other mutual interests, and we were enjoying getting to know each other.
"Things are going great with Alex, Mom. Just maybe not on the timeline you're hoping for. We're taking our time. Getting to know each other."
There was another complication, but she didn't need to know that. Zachary McClure, my high-school love, had moved back to town and was having problems figuring out why we couldn't make another go of it. Normally, it would just be a matter of shooting him down once and for all, but there was nothing normal about Zach’s situation.
Saying he moved back to town was a colossal oversimplification. In a nutshell, he'd come back to kill werewolves—any werewolves he could find—when news of the rogue got out. Since that's another story, I won't go into details, but suffice it to say he ended up having his entire life upended and reinvented. I felt a responsibility for him, and so did Alex. We were working on it.
"Not to put too fine a point on it, sweetheart,” my mom said, snapping me back to the conversation, “but tick-tock. I'd like to have grandkids sometime in this millennium."
I rolled my eyes. "You have six grandkids."
"Yes, but no granddaughters. I'm beginning to think it's going to be up to you or Mila, and she doesn't appear to be interested in anything other than running her shop. It's so humid and hot down there that her eggs are probably cooked, and the boys aren't coming through, either."
Mila was my older sister and had decided to walk her own path when she’d moved to a paranormal town in Florida and opened a cute little holistic shop. She’d always
been the free spirit in the family, and though I sometimes resented her a little for getting away, I wouldn’t have done it even if I’d had the chance. Castle’s Bluff was home.
I decided it was time to change the subject. "I'll get right on that, then, just as soon as I solve this murder." Talking about murder and politics was infinitely preferable to discussing my relationship status and the viability of my eggs.
"Murder?" she said, switching from meddling mother to pack leader. "What murder?"
I explained it to her, and then told her about my discussion with Sean.
"The death penalty wasn't your call to make, Cordelia."
"I know, Mom. But as regional alpha, I had to make an executive decision. I want this solved, and I want to work with the vampires rather than against them."
I stopped to collect my thoughts. "Besides, it's not like that wouldn't be the sentence, anyway. And I did exclude accidents and self-defense."
"Still, it wasn't your place to make a deal with Sean Castle, especially when it was his friend that was killed. And we're not making a blanket agreement to the death penalty. If it was a shifter, he'll be tried and sentenced according to our laws, and you know as well as I do there may be other considerations besides an accident or self-defense. Just resolve it as soon as you can and hope it's not a shifter."
Like that wasn't already the outcome I was hoping for. I didn't want it to linger any longer than it had to. "Will do."
I managed to hang up before she could twist the conversation back around to Alex. Considering she'd accepted most of my deal with Sean, I labeled the conversation a success.
"Well?" Sam asked.
I put down the purple pen I’d been using to doodle on my desk calendar. "It seems I overstepped my authority, and she says the pack won't necessarily honor the deal I made with Sean if there are extenuating circumstances."
"Ouch." He furrowed his brow. "So what are you going to do?"
I shrugged. "The best I can, I guess. I'm going to solve a murder, make sure the town's safe, then deal with the political fallout when—and if—it becomes an issue."
"If it makes you feel any better, this doesn't feel like something a shifter would do," he said, pressing his lips together. "Stabbing's too sneaky."
I’d thought about that, too. It wasn’t the way I would have handled it, but then again, everybody wasn’t like me. "I don't know. If it was a matter of opportunity or temporary loss of control, I can see a shifter doing it. Love—or more accurately, betrayal—is a huge motivator and can make even the most sane person crazy, regardless of species."
His lined brown eyes flashed sympathy at the possible outcomes I was facing. "Let's not borrow trouble. We have enough already."
Truer words. I switched back into investigative mode. "See anything new in the pics we didn't notice last night?"
He shook his head. "Not really, but I'm still confused as to why somebody would have dumped the body there, if that’s what happened. It makes more sense the guy was killed there."
It was possible the guy'd been murdered in the alley, but it would have been crazy risky to kill somebody outside a busy bar in broad daylight. He had a point about the location, though. We had a huge lake and miles of mountain trails that would have been better places to dump a body, so why, if he was killed elsewhere, leave it in an alley behind the Hook?
I glanced at the time on my phone; the Rusty Hook didn’t open for two more hours, but Sully would be opening his doors any minute.
"I say we go talk to Sully. He keeps track of every face that walks in or out of that place, and with who."
Sam pulled his hat off the rack and slapped it back on his head, then followed as I headed out the door. Time to move things along before I had to tell Sean that my mouth may have written a check my butt wasn't going to be able to cash.
CHAPTER NINE
SULLY'S WAS BLESSEDLY cool when we pushed through the glass door. Even with my werewolf vision, I had to blink a couple times to let my eyes adjust to the light.
Meanwhile, Sully, the perfect stereotype of a bear shifter, flung his bar towel over his shoulder and lumbered to the end of the bar to greet us. Though he'd been in the States for decades, he still had a fair amount of his Irish accent left, and I suspected he always would. It had turned into a pleasant mishmash of Irish and Southern.
"Marnin', lass. Sam. I reckon ye're not here for a beer." He poured two glasses of tea and set them down in front of us.
"Mornin', Sully," I said, taking a grateful sip of the cold, sweet goodness. "I wish we were. But we need to talk to you about the body."
His warm brown eyes clouded. "Aye, I figured it was along those lines. I'm not sure what I can tell ya, but I'll help in any way I can."
I pulled a picture of Charles Vanderveer from the folder I was carrying and flipped it around so he could see it.
Glancing at it, he nodded. "He's been in a few times, both over the years and recently. Runs with Sean's crowd—usually Sean himself—when he runs with anybody. He's usually by himself, though. Unless, of course, there’s some candy on his arm. I use the term loosely."
"Does he start problems?" I asked, skipping the last part for a minute.
He shrugged. "Depends on what ye consider problems. He's always friendly and respectful to me and other customers, but he does have a proclivity for the married ladies. And he wins considerably more than his fair share of games of chance, though I've never been able to catch him doin' anything untoward."
"So when you say married ladies, do you mean anyone in particular?" Sam asked, taking a big gulp of his tea.
Sully dipped his head. "Aye, most recently, 'twas Clifford Barker's wife, Carly."
I sighed. I'd hoped Soccer Mom #1 had been talking out her wazoo, but I should have known better. Considering they had the traditional gossip lines plus modern tech like camera phones, they were even faster and more dangerous—and much less considerate and empathetic—than the previous generation of gossips.
"Was he in here with her last night?" I asked.
He shook his head. "No, but he was the night before. He wasn't in here at all yesterday even though he's been stoppin' by for lunch fairly regular-like."
I started to tell Sully why he hadn’t been in, but decided to keep that to myself. Folks didn't need to know he was with Sean all day; that may help me trip somebody up or lock down an alibi at some point.
"Did Clifford know Carly was steppin' out on him?" Sam asked as he dipped his hand into a bowl of Chex Mix sitting on the bar. I winced and fought the temptation to smack his hand. I'd read the studies about what all lived in open bowls of bar munchies besides just Chex Mix.
"Wouldn't surprise me," Sully replied, polishing a wine glass. "She didn't try to keep it a secret." He scrunched his broad forehead. "Though thinkin' about it, I can't believe Clifford would let it pass if he did know. He's not exactly known for being level-headed."
Sam cocked a brow, but Sully shook his head. "Nope. Now that I think about it, if he'da known she was steppin' out, the whole town woulda heard the uproar. He's not the stewin' kind."
While we'd been talking, Al, Sully's cook, had edged his way over. He was a scrawny guy with a head a little too small for his body, and his Adam's apple bobbed a couple times before he spoke.
"Carly Sue ain't the only reason Cliff had for holdin' a grudge, though I'm with Sully about the Carly thing. I'd be surprised if he knew. But that city slicker beat the pants off him in a poker game over at the Hook a couple nights ago, then walked away when Cliff called for double or nothin'. Cliff was fit to be tied."
"When you say beat the pants off him, how much you talkin'?" I asked.
His eyes were wide and bright. "I didn't keep track, but if had to guess, I'd say a few grand. Maybe more. They were bettin' so heavy, the game got too rich for most folks and we moved to set up other games. Nobody stayed in for more than a hand or two, hopin' to win one."
"So Vanderveer was messin' with his wife and reachin' into his w
allet, both," Sully said, sliding the wine glass into the slot above his head. "If that's not askin' for a man to kill ya, I don't know what is."
CHAPTER TEN
CLIFFORD OWNED AND operated a local pawn shop, so we debated whether to catch him there or wait for him to get home. If he didn't know about Carly, then we figured it may be best to wait rather than have him lose his mind when he had ready access to everything from chainsaws to rifles. That meant I had the rest of the day to look for other suspects.
Mom called shortly after we left Sully's. She'd spoken with my father and the other council members, and they weren't down with agreeing to Sean's terms wholesale. Under no circumstances was I to allow him to interfere if the killer was human, and he had to respect pack sentencing if it were a shifter, but he would get a say-so with the sentencing committee. I didn't think that would be an issue, but I needed to button it up just in case.
Even though Clifford was looking good for the murder, I refused to phone it in. There wasn't anything other than circumstantial evidence, so as far as I was concerned, there were still a lot of rocks to kick. First, though, I needed something to eat.
I picked up my Jeep and drove the short distance to Pickles, the sandwich shop Zach owned. As always, I felt a twinge of guilt every time I looked at it; his story would always be a morale quagmire for me because his free will had been manipulated and he didn’t even know it.
Still, as was often pointed out to me by those who shared the secret, he was happy and leading a normal life. That was much more than I could say about him when he first came stomping back into town full of rage and bloodlust.
The little bell above the door jangled when I walked in, and the man I'd once believed I'd share my life with stood up from behind the counter where he'd been arranging pre-made sandwiches in the display case.
When he saw it was me, his face lit up and he came around and swooped me into a hug, his tall, lithe frame swallowing me up. His smile reached all the way to his eyes; that happiness washed my guilt away for the moment—or at least most of it.