World Tree Girl

by Kerry Schafer

  “And where is this coroner now? I haven’t seen any arrest notices.”

  My turn to shrug. “She took a flight to France, interestingly enough. There is talk of extradition, but they haven’t found her yet.” I let that hang between us.

  Jill still doesn’t rise to my bait. She toys with a ring, diamond and ruby. Her face gives away nothing. The pressure to fill the silence grows, and I resist. If I talk now, if I feed her some line about the Manor and make up a reason why Phil bought it or gave it to me, she’ll know I’m lying. She’s playing the silence the same way I am, watching me for reactions.

  I know my tells and focus on keeping my right hand quiet at my side, the left busy with the cigarette, eyes always on her. In the background, though, I’m aware of time passing, and I know I need to get her out of my suite. Soon. When I get down to ash, I crush the butt into an ashtray, and say, casually, “Perhaps he didn’t think you’d be the safest around a bunch of helpless old people.”

  “Right,” she retorts. “You’re clearly the perfect choice for that.”

  “Clearly.”

  “You’re really not going to share those smokes?”

  “No.”

  “I have hired an attorney,” she says. “To go over the will.”

  And there it is, finally. The real reason why she’s here. When I first discovered Phil had left the Manor to me, I would gladly have turned it over. Not now, though. It holds too many secrets.

  “It’s a free country,” I tell her. “Have at it. But trust me—running the Manor isn’t fun and games. Nor is it particularly lucrative.”

  “What do you want with it then?”

  I shrug. “Nothing better to do. Divorce. Nowhere else to be.”

  “Such a shame,” she says, sarcasm piled so thick I can almost see it materialize into a black cloud above her head.

  A tap comes at the door.

  Whatever is out there, it’s not opportunity or salvation.

  Another knock, louder this time.

  Jill’s features sharpen, the patient cat who has finally spotted a mouse. “You look tired, Maureen. Shall I get it for you?”

  Without waiting for my response, she dislodges the cat and crosses the room to open the door. When she sees Jake standing there, she spins around back to me.

  “How did you do that?”

  “How did I do what?”

  “Call the cops. You didn’t even pick up your phone. Wait. It was that obnoxious teenager, right? She called.”

  Her behavior, strongly indicative of guilt, is a matter of interest. What has she done, or what is she planning to do, that she thinks the police would be interested in her?

  “Come on in, Sheriff,” I say, keeping my voice formal and willing Jake to pick up the cues. “This is Jillian. What’s your last name, now, Jill? Have you married?”

  Jake’s sharp eyes take in the chaos of boxes and furniture in one quick sweep, then focus in on Jill. Although he’s old enough to be her father, she flashes him a killing smile and drops her voice to a low purr. “I have no idea what they told you, but I can assure you I’m not making trouble. At least not that kind of trouble.”

  Her accent is suddenly more French. She even looks more French.

  “You would be Phil Evers’ daughter,” Jake says.

  She bats her eyelashes at him. “Oh, trés bien. How did you guess?”

  “He had a picture of you on his nightstand.”

  For just a fraction of an instant her face darkens with what might be grief, the expression gone before I can pin it down.

  “I would love to have this photograph. Is it with his personal effects? And must I come to the station to pick these up?”

  “No need,” Jake says. “All of his belongings remain in his home. I’ll get you the key and you can go over there any time you wish.”

  “Now would be good,” I say, burning a hole into Jake with my eyes. “She needs a place to stay.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. I am so very tired,” Jill says. “I don’t think I’m safe to drive.”

  “I’m pretty sure Jake would give you a lift.”

  Her eyes, the same damn shade of ice blue as Phil’s, well up with tears and she sniffs, pitifully.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice breaking. “But I just—I can’t face that now. Not yet, so soon after my trip. And to be there alone all night in the place where he died…” She shivers, dramatically.

  Jake’s face softens. I roll my eyes. “Fine. Let’s get you a hotel at once.”

  “I tried to make a reservation before I left France,” she says, very nearly swooning with sudden onset weakness. “All the hotels are booked. Some sort of a convention, I understand. I’m on a waiting list, but nobody has called.”

  “What kind of convention could possibly be happening in Shadow Valley?”

  “Wildlife management,” Jake says. “Every year.”

  “Apparently Ed managed to get a hotel.”

  Jake blinks. “Who is Ed?”

  I draw a deep breath. “My husband.”

  “Ah,” he says, noncommittally. An awkward silence threatens.

  “I’d love to stay here, at the Manor. Maureen and I have so many things to talk about.” Jillian smiles bravely, tears glistening beautifully on her cheeks. She presents the perfect expression of a weary, bereaved damsel in distress. “And I’m here already, n’est-ce pas? Surely that’s the easiest thing. I noticed an empty suite across the hall? It’s old-fashioned, but clean. I’m sure it will do for a few days.”

  Hellfire and damnation, she’s good. Jake looks torn between her misery and me. And I’ve got no valid objection to make. At least if she’s across the hall, I can keep an eye on her. If she finds the secret passage in that room, it won’t lead her to anything more exciting than the junk Shadow Valley residents have hoarded away in the basement.

  She reads acquiescence in my silence. “Bien. Good. Are there sheets for the bed? Towels?”

  “This is not a hotel.”

  “She’s a stranded traveler. Surely we can scare up some bedding and a towel,” Jake says.

  “Fine, I’ll have sheets and towels brought up, but you’ll have to make the bed yourself. Dinner is at five, downstairs in the dining room. Please be prompt.”

  “You can count on it. Do you think someone could bring up my bags? I truly am just so exhausted.”

  “Leave me your keys. I’ll ask Matt.”

  Jill shrugs and hands over the car keys. When she leaves the room, the cat makes to follow her, but I scoop him up and keep him with me. He knows too much, and I don’t trust the two of them alone in a room together.

  Chapter Five

  “What was that all about?” Jake asks, as soon as the door closes behind her. “Good God, Maureen, the woman is grieving her father. You’re acting like she’s a terrorist about to blow up the whole damn place.”

  “Wouldn’t put it past her.”

  “What did you do to her?”

  “Me? How on earth is this my fault?”

  “Only reason I can think of that she’d be out to get you is if you did something to her.”

  I sigh. “She’s Phil’s daughter. Who knows what he might have taught her? If she’s half as smart as he was, she’s more of a nuclear warhead than a suicide bomber.”

  His eyes soften. “Her showing up must open a whole can of worms for you.”

  He means grief. There is that, too, if I’m honest, but he has no idea the can of worms that Jill represents. Mutant worms. Teeth. Fangs.

  Fortunately, there’s no need to explain things further, as he’s distracted by the state of my suite. “Lovely place you’ve got here. What sort of discount moving company did you hire?”

  Ed and Glenda is not a topic I care to address with the sheriff, or with anybody, for that matter. I can’t begin to imagine what possessed the man to drive a moving truck to Shadow Valley. Fortunately, Jake’s question was only rhetorical and he’s already moved on to practical matters.


  “I’m feeling a draft. Is that slider sealing properly?”

  He makes his way through the mess to check the door, but I know that’s not the source of the lingering chill. “Looks okay. Are we on for the meeting?”

  “As far as I know. Sophie went to find a container for Phil.”

  “You might need to explain that,” Jake says.

  “What?”

  I’m wading through the boxes, each one identified with a list of contents written in Ed’s strong, precise hand. Maybe something will be useful for this investigation.

  “Why does Phil need a suitable container?” Jake says. “He’s still dead, I presume?”

  There’s just a hint of a question mark behind the sarcasm. Poor Jake has had a steep learning curve about the paranormal world.

  “Oh, that. Yes. As far as I know. Sophie and Jill just spilled him all over the floor in a tug-of-war over possession of the ashes. Which reminds me, I should probably vacuum up what’s left.”

  Jake, who is standing pretty much where the spill happened, looks down at his feet and then back at me. Before he can say anything else or I can look for the vacuum cleaner, there’s a sharp knock at the door, repeated at precisely five seconds once, and then again.

  Matt and Sophie come in together, Sophie clutching a large plastic container labeled POTATO SALAD.

  “It’s only temporary,” she says. “Where is she?”

  “If by she you mean Jill, she was last seen entering the suite across the hall.”

  “You’re going to let her stay here?” Sophie asks, incredulous. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  She stalks through the room, into my walk-in closet, and I hear a creak as the secret door opens.

  “That needs some WD-40,” Matt says. “What’s up with Soph?”

  “Who ever knows? Come on, let’s go.”

  Matt and Jake follow Sophie. I take the time to lock all of my deadbolts and set my security system. If anybody tries to break in, there will be no warning lights or alarms, just a discreet buzzing in my pocket. If Jill decides to come back into my suite for some snooping, I’ll know all about it, but still, I take care to close the closet door behind me, and then the secret passage doorway in turn. The last thing in the world that we need is for her to find her way down to the laboratory.

  According to my best guess, the underground passages in Shadow Valley Manor originated as fallout shelters. Shadow Valley Manor was built as a Cold War military installation. When it was decommissioned, it became the Home for Unwed Mothers (known to the locals as HUM) before it was repurposed into a retirement home for seniors. In reality it’s more of a high-end boarding home complete with meals, laundry service, cleaning, and a 24-7 staff member to respond to any other needs.

  The secret stairway built into the closet in this suite leads to a warren of small rooms and then a long passageway that culminates in a clandestine laboratory. The operators of HUM used it to conduct human-paranormal research on the fetuses of the young pregnant girls who came here seeking shelter.

  This laboratory is where my new Paranormal Investigative Team—composed of me, Jake, Matt, and Sophronia—holds its regular meetings. Sophie says we need an interior decorator, and I’ll admit that this room looks harsh and a little creepy. A clandestine lab is a clandestine lab, and there’s not a lot you can do to change that.

  I have visions of getting some decent forensic equipment in as soon as we can scrounge up the money. My wish list includes a powerful computer, fingerprint equipment, chemical analysis, maybe even a DNA sequencer.

  For now, we get by with bulletin boards, a laptop, and a projector. We’ve brought in a card table and four folding chairs.

  By the time I arrive, a coffee maker gurgles cheerfully on the counter beside an antiquated centrifuge, and the others are all seated and waiting for me.

  “So the blogger’s been murdered?” Sophie asks, before I even get settled into my chair.

  “We don’t know that,” Jake protests. “It looks like a suicide. And we don’t know if he’s our blogger.”

  “He’s our blogger. And it wasn’t suicide.” I load crime scene photos onto my laptop from the camera’s SD card and project the images onto the wall one at a time.

  “First lead we’ve had since that blog popped up a month ago,” Matt says. “If these pictures are identical to the ones on Underground Weird, then I think we can assume there’s at least a connection between our new vic and the World Tree Girl.”

  “Suicide,” Jake says. “Until we have a reason to believe otherwise.” He holds up his hand to stop my protest. “A real reason. Something other than one of Maureen’s hunches.”

  I cue up the Underground Weird post on my laptop, scrolling through the photos and then making a split screen for comparison.

  “They look like the same pics to me.”

  Jake makes a noncommittal sound in his throat. “Let’s look at that article again.”

  I scroll back to the top.

  The blog header features a tasteful drawing of a crow with a bloody eyeball dangling from its beak. A human heart sits on one side of a balancing scale, a black feather on the other. I have no objection to the imagery, but the article was written by an idiot:

  In the darkness where the creepy crawlies lurk something is afoot. Gather round, children, and let me tell you a tale. Don’t be misled here by the pretty face; this is clearly the body of an alien who has chosen to de-animate. The ME is looking for a killer, but we know better.

  Look for the ligature mark around the neck. See it? No, because there is none. Deformities caused by broken bones? A caved in skull? So much as a bruise beneath all of those tattoos? No. Not a mark. Healthy brain. Healthy heart, lungs, stomach, kidneys.

  So what happened, then?

  The official verdict? Exsanguination.

  A reasonable conclusion, given that there is no blood in the body. But it’s a conclusion based on a faulty premise, and therefore it’s erroneous.

  Let me ask you this—where did all that blood go? How did it leave the body?

  Again, there is not a mark to be seen on her skin. No laceration, either internal or external, that would result in bleeding. Even if her throat had been slit, there would still be blood in the arteries and veins, a little pooling in the heart. But there is NONE. Only a strange, clear jelly that has yet to be identified by the geek squad at the forensic lab…

  The blog post is unsigned and a WHO IS search yielded the name Duncan Donut, with an address that doesn’t exist. Every trick I’ve tried has led me to a dead end.

  “Good thing we have screen shots,” Sophie says. “Because as of this morning, the blog is gone.”

  “Nothing’s ever gone on the Internet,” Jake says.

  “Well, this is. Poof. DNS address does not exist.”

  “That sounds like the Unit,” I say. “Take out Dason, obliterate the blog, erase all traces of evidence.”

  Jake rolls his eyes but refrains from comment.

  Anubis picks his way across the table and pours himself down into Sophie’s lap. She tickles his chin and he starts to purr.

  “What do we know about this dead guy?” Matt asks. “Where would he have seen the World Tree Girl?”

  “That’s the interesting thing,” I tell him. “Up until a few days ago, he worked at the city morgue in Spokane. According to his mother, the ME worked him to the bone and then fired him for no reason.”

  “Taking personal pictures of crime scenes and dead people not being sufficient, of course,” Jake says.

  The coffee pot glugs and gasps and goes silent. Matt gets up to fill our mugs. “If he had access to autopsies and we have evidence that photographing dead people was his thing, I’m with Maureen. He’s a good bet for the blogger.”

  “Bets are not enough,” Jake says. “We need evidence. Maybe he took the pictures and somebody else did the blogging. Mama said he was trying to sell the photos of our World Tree Girl.”

  “At least this narrows the ge
ographical area,” Matt says. “Probably Spokane County. If it had happened here in Shadow Valley, Jake would have been involved.”

  “Could have happened in Stevens, Ferry, or Pend Oreille,” Jake says. “All of those counties use Spokane for forensics. Plus, sometimes autopsies are done privately, which widens the field again.”

  “Well, at least we can rule out foreign countries, and the rest of the US. Evidence points to somewhere in Northeast Washington. I need a look at Dason’s laptop.”

  Jake glares at me. I hold his gaze, waiting, not sure just yet where he’ll draw the line between our collaboration and his legal duties. I feel hamstrung. I’m used to working cases with the full power of the Unit behind me. The feds have all the cool toys and access to any database they take a fancy to. Now I’m limited not only to what Jake can access, legally, from a rural sheriff’s office, but to what he chooses to share with me. Of course I can hack into the Internet, even into FBI files if I’m so inclined, but that’s like playing ding dong ditch on their front porch. I’d rather they believe I’m just wasting away here at Shadow Valley Manor, for now at least.

  “If the Unit killed Dason,” I say, after Jake fails to offer access to Dason’s laptop, “then they’ll be covering up the World Tree Girl’s death as much as possible. Keeping it quiet.”

  The Unit hushes up anything related to a paranormal attack. This is justified by the level of panic that would explode if the normal population ever discovers what is lurking in the world around them. Best to keep the sheep in the dark and let them think of paranormals as sheer fantasy they can be frightened by on TV shows or read about in books.

  “Sophie, do you have an inside track with the ME in Spokane?” Jake asks.

  “Kate? Are you kidding? Kate probably follows a manual on how to properly brush your teeth. If she knows anything, she’ll take it to her grave rather than break protocol.”

  Jake leans back in his chair. Anubis pads across the table and steps into my lap, where he begins purring like a steam engine.