by Eddie Jones
Same rule for my sister. I have a drawer full of hand-painted picture frames I’ll never use.
From Thanksgiving to Christmas last winter, I worked at the print shop and learned a lot about books — or at least a lot about how books are printed. Every time Mom complains about boys my age not reading anymore, I want to scream, “Give me a break.”
And I mean it. I need a break from reading. It’s all I do. I read textbooks and tests and term papers. My school forces me to read awful novels because there’s this requirement that says every student must read a certain number of books by the end of the grading period. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find an “approved” book that’s interesting? No wonder books about boy wizards and teen vampires and children killing each other are so popular. At least the stories are interesting.
“May I help you?”
I stopped scanning the back cover of a book called The Incomplete Idiot’s Guide to Natural Cures, Curses, and Potions.
“You the owner?”
“Yes, Phillip Raintree. Finding everything okay?”
Raintree was a lean man of medium height with curly blond hair tinged with gray. He wore wire-rim glasses with round lenses. He had on a green tartan vest over a white dress shirt, faded jeans, and Birkenstock sandals with gray socks.
“Do you have any books on the history of this area?”
He flashed a toothy, nicotine-stained grin. “Was there a particular era you’re interested in? We carry an extensive collection that covers the early years dating all the way back to when the Cherokee inhabited this area. Makes for an interesting read. Is this for a class project?”
Ignoring his question, I asked, “Anything more recent?”
“There’s also an excellent set of works that covers from the Revolutionary War to the antebellum era.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of the town’s beginnings; how it got its name, the history of prominent figures, family secrets, and that sort of thing.”
“Wait right here.”
I went back to reading the instructions for how to cause a wart to sprout on someone’s nose by mixing celery, cumin, and goat cheese. The accompanying pictures looked hideous. But hey, if I really could learn to grow a wart on my sister’s nose … Raintree returned with a hardback with gold-tipped pages.
“Everything you could ever want to know about Transylvania is in here. The writing is a bit dry, but the author did a thorough job of documenting his sources. This book is quite rare. Published in the early nineteen hundreds. Out of print, of course. Lucky for you, we have one of the few remaining copies available.”
“Does it explain how the town got its name?”
“Of course. But you do not need a book for that. Transylvania is derived from the Latin phrase trans meaning ‘across’ and sylva meaning ‘woods.’ As you have no doubt noticed, we are surrounded by woods and rolling hills. Any suggestion that our town is linked to the region in Romania and the so-called birthplace of vampires is purely unintentional.”
“But not unwelcome.”
His smile faded. “Excuse me?”
“This shop, these books.” I nodded toward the rack of vampire novels. “Having a bookstore known as Dead Lines in a place called Transylvania can’t be a coincidence.”
“Oh, I suppose a few customers do drop in hoping to find books on the supernatural. And I did choose the name for obvious marketing reasons. But I assure you books of that nature make up only a small portion of our sales. Romance novels and historical fiction is where we make our money.”
I put the idiot’s potions book back on the shelf and gave him one of my Cool Ghoul Gazette business cards.
He studied the card, frowning.
Before he could brush me off, I said, “My editor sent me because he thought the victim was a vampire. What do you think?”
Raintree tucked the card into his vest pocket and glanced away, as if anxious to get back to helping other customers. “I do not speculate on things of which I have no knowledge or interest.”
“But you did hear about the body they found, right?”
How could he not? He ran a bookstore dealing in the dead and the occult. If he denied knowing about Forester’s death, that could only mean one thing: he was in on it.
“Of course. It’s not every day a body is found staked to a putting green.”
“What can you tell me about Randolph Manor?”
His eyes widened, making me wonder if my comment had knocked him off stride.
“I … ah … know of the place, sure. Some years ago I expressed an interest in purchasing the property. Not that I could ever afford to own it outright. There isn’t that much money in selling books. But as a lark I formed a nonprofit organization and appointed myself chair and began soliciting funding to establish a conservancy on the land. The town council thought it was a wonderful idea and gave me their blessing. The idea was to turn the property into a wildlife preserve. You may not know this, but the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service is reintroducing red wolves to this area. They, along with black bear and coyote, have been almost hunted into extinction.
“Once I had secured adequate financial commitments, I approached the two owners with what I believed was a generous offer. The two Randolph brothers made it clear neither had any intention of selling. I dissolved the nonprofit soon thereafter and put all my energies into making this store a success. That’s the extent of what I know about Randolph Manor.”
“So who owns it now, the same two brothers?” I knew the answer, but I wanted to see if Barlow’s story lined up with the Raintree’s.
“I should say not. Not long after the Randolph brothers rejected my bid, the younger of the two brothers ran into financial difficulties and petitioned the court to dissolve his grandfather’s agreement. The patriarch of the family, Rupert Randolph, had deeded the estate to the two grandsons in such a way that precluded either heir from selling their half of the estate without the other’s permission. The younger Randolph grandson argued that he was paying property taxes on an asset that he could not sell nor afford to maintain. The judge ruled in his favor and shortly thereafter the brother sold his half of the mountain to a consortium of investors led by Victor Hamilton. The ink was hardly dry on the agreement before the trucks and tractors rolled in and began knocking down trees and building that revolting golf course resort.”
“So your offer was too early.”
“And woefully underfunded. Our small nonprofit never would have paid what Hamilton’s people did. His group had some serious backers. Shame, too. He created such a mess of the streams that the North Carolina Department of Environment and Natural Resources threatened to shut him down.”
“What about the manor and the land around it? Did this fellow Hamilton buy that too?”
“Actually, no. When the elder Randolph brother became ill last summer, he put his half of the mountain up for sale. There was a nasty bidding war between Hamilton’s people and a man from up north, Barnabas Forester.”
Now my eyebrows shot up. I could almost feel myself leaning in, listening harder.
“Of course by then I had long since lost interest. The whole matter was, as they say, too rich for my blood.”
“So Forester bought the manor?”
“Indeed he did. It tickled me to no end to see Hamilton bested at his own game.”
“Sounds like Forester had money?”
“It would seem. And now he is dead, which I suppose is the point of all your questions.”
“Did you ever meet him?”
“Forester? He came in once asking questions and inquiring about certain books, much as you are doing right now.”
“What types of books?”
“Old burial grounds. Historic churches. I remember him behaving strangely.”
“Strange in what way?”
“He carried a leather satchel and refused to put it down. Kept it in his hand at all times.”
“Do you know if he did much work on the manor a
fter he bought it? Or if anyone else was living with Forester?”
“To my knowledge, no. Rumor has it Forester and his wife purchased the property and moved into the guesthouse. Maybe they planned to fix up the mansion; I can’t say for sure. As I mentioned, I only saw him a few times. But unless I’m badly mistaken, no one has lived in the manor since before the elder Randolph passed away.”
I could tell he was getting antsy by the way he kept shifting his weight and glancing around the store, so I hurried to get in my last few questions. “And Mrs. Forester? Do you know much about her?”
“Lucy? Yes, of course.” He pointed out the front window. “Down that street and to your left you will find her gallery. She is quite famous, you know. Her works are on display in New York and Paris. And all over town, of course. She has her art studio behind her home. For a while she and Forester tried to turn the guesthouse into a bed-and-breakfast. I’ve never met two people more ill suited to be in the hospitality business.”
Feigning surprise I asked, “So the B&B is closed?”
“I think Lucy knew that venture was doomed from the start. That’s why she returned to the little house she had been renting in town. As I said, Mr. Forester was somewhat eccentric. I can imagine he might have been difficult to work with.”
“You mean ‘live with,’ ” I said, correcting him.
“That too. I was thinking about the couple’s strained business relationship.”
Nodding toward the clippings next to the register, I said, “Couldn’t help but notice that you’re something of an authority on vampires. Does the store have a website?”
“Of course. Any business that does not have a presence on the Web will not be in business for long. We also have a smartphone app and are active in social media. Now then, is there anything I can show you in the way of reading material?”
His comment was an obvious dig at my persistent questioning, but if I was going to get to the truth, it couldn’t be helped.
“One more question. Did you kill Forester?”
“Don’t be absurd — of course not. I was out of town the night it happened. I explained all this to the police. Even gave them a copy of my hotel receipt.”
“Any idea why someone would kill Forester? And in the way they did?”
“I can’t speak as to the method, but the motive seems obvious, doesn’t it? Randolph Manor. If you are looking for someone with motive, I suggest you speak with that snake in the grass Victor Hamilton.”
I thanked Raintree for his time and exited the store. At the small bridge I paused to study my reflection in the goldfish pond. Dead Lines Books appeared to be doing okay. Customers milled around the cash register. The shelves were orderly and well stocked, baseboards swept clean of spiderwebs. By all indications, the bookstore was surviving.
But I wondered: How many books does Raintree have to sell each month to pay the rent? Retail lease space can’t be cheap, not on Main Street. Figure the net profit per book sold is a couple dollars and he’d have to sell, what? A thousand books a month? Ten thousand?
I had no idea what sort of income Raintree earned from selling books. But I couldn’t help but wonder if serving as head of a nonprofit would provide Raintree with a nice salary — maybe a very large one. Which made me wonder: What would Raintree do for another shot at the Randolph estate? Would he go so far as to kill Forester? And if so, who better suited to make Forester’s death look like a vampire slaying than a man selling books on witches, potions, and deadly curses? I decided the one person best suited to answer that question would be the man in charge of the murder investigation.
I pulled out my map and located the police station. Folding the map, I tucked it in my back pocket and started down the sidewalk toward the Red Wolf Gallery to meet Aunt Vivian.
CHAPTER SIX
DEADLY GAMES
Google ‘Dead Lines Books’ and see what comes up.”
We sat outside a coffee shop on Main Street. I’d met Aunt Vivian at the Red Wolf Gallery, picked up Meg at the coroner’s office, and swung by her house so she could get her laptop. Now the three of us sat huddled around a table sipping coffee and discussing the case. Well, actually, Meg and I were discussing the case. Aunt Vivian was busy with her knitting.
“It’s a chemo cap for one of the women in my prayer group,” Aunt Vivian explained. “I’m stitching the words of Psalm 23 into the pattern.”
Meg hit keys on her laptop and looked over the top of her screen at me. “What makes you think he’s lying?”
“Raintree? His eyes. When I asked if he’d killed Forester, he looked up and to the left. That’s a pretty good indication he was making up his answer. If he’d looked to the right, it would have indicated he was trying to remember something.”
“Is this what you’re after?” Meg spun the laptop so I could see the screen.
I scooted my chair around the table and studied the bookstore’s website.
Our paranormal section is designed to help you find books related to your specific vampire reading interests. For example, we have vampire books for children, young adults, and adults. We also have a section dedicated to Dracula, plus historical novels, urban fantasy, and, of course, romance.
At the bottom of the page was a row of icons for sponsors. Pointing to a button of a gothic mansion, I said, “Click that one.”
Another browser window opened, bringing up a new page for THE FULL MOON VAMPIRE SLAYER GAME. At the top of the game’s web page was a black-and-white picture of Randolph Manor. Meg and I read silently, scrolling down every few seconds to study the gruesome images.
Finally she said, “Seriously? Who would pay that kind of money to chase a vampire around a spooky mansion?”
“Judging from the customer comments, lots of people. Told you Raintree was hiding something. When I asked if he knew anything about the manor, he told me no. But obviously he knows something if he’s willing to link to this game’s site from his bookstore page. Click on the Frequently Asked Questions tab.”
Under a banner offering “half-off Tuesdays” were the game’s pricing levels. Five hundred dollars for a single player staying overnight in Transylvania’s Randolph Manor. There was a button to click for reservations. When you arrive you will be greeted by Dr. Barlow, vampirologist and innkeeper of the Randolph Manor. A description of the accommodations showed pictures of the inside of the manor and even an image of the canopied bed I’d slept in the night before! Under the player’s equipment section was a medical bag similar to the one Barlow had given me.
The player’s ranking page showed a list of FULL MOON ULTIMATE VAMPIRE SLAYERS. Head shots featured “failed and felled” players, most with bloody mouths and bite marks on their necks. The “About Us” page displayed a picture of the “Dark Coven Master.”
“That’s Forester,” I said. “Even dead I can see the resemblance. Knowing that Barlow, the guesthouse, and Randolph Manor are tied together helps with the case.”
Meg said, “It does?”
“Well, sure. Here’s how the virtual games work online. There’s an innkeeper who welcomes the players and gets them settled in for the game. Inside the castle is a Lord or King or, in this case, the Dark Coven Master. The object of the game is to combat demons and dragons, escape mazes and dungeons, and capture weapons and prizes until finally you confront the head bad guy.”
“But you’re not talking in real life, just as a game?”
“Right. D&D online gaming is huge. Except with what we’re looking at here, the game isn’t virtual; it’s real. You want to know what I think? I think the game got out of hand and someone accidentally killed Forester. Or maybe Raintree really did kill Forester in order to get the estate. I’ll know more in a few minutes.”
“What are you doing now?” Meg asked me.
“Sending my editor a text message asking him to send me the IP address of the form submission that tipped us off to the case. If I can trace the address, I can find out where the sender was when he or she filled out
the form.”
After sending the message, I put my phone away and pulled Meg’s laptop toward me. “Mind if I drive? There’s something I need to check.”
I typed in the URL for my group’s TV Crime Watchers website. When the log-in screen appeared, I entered my ID and password.
Meg said, “And now?”
“Pulling up our database of television shows.” I typed in key words like haunted, spooky, ghosts, vampires, and séances. “If there has ever been a television show featuring a haunted house as a plot element, I’ll find it.”
“But I thought you just said Forester died because of a game that got out of hand.”
“That’s one theory, sure. And probably what happened, but to be sure …”
The screen refreshed and a list of popular crime shows popped up on the screen: CID, CSI, FBI, JAG, NCIS.
“But those are all legal shows,” said Meg.
“Sorts uppercase first.”
More shows appeared: Colombo, Dead Like Me, Deadly Bones, Ghost Whisperer, Magnum PI, Matlock, McCloud Monk, Kojak, Paranormal Witness, Rockford Files, Six Feet Under, The Mentalist …
“How many in your database?”
“Hundreds.”
“And you’ve watched them all?”
“Not all. But we’re constantly adding members to our group, so someone watched and loaded the synopsis into the system. Now I’m going to refine my search of the episodes to ones that only feature paranormal murders.”
“How long will that take?”
“Awhile.” Opening a second browser window, I asked, “Want to see where I work?”
The Cool Ghoul Gazette website popped up.
Meg pointed to one of the tabs on the page and asked, “Breaking Noose?”
“That was my editor’s idea. Here, let’s see what’s happening in the world of the weird and paranormal.”
I clicked on the button and a Breaking Noose article appeared.
The headline at the top of the page read GOAT MAN SPOTTED IN WYOMING MOUNTAINS:
Local law enforcement agents report that a man hiking near Big Sky Peak spotted a person dressed like a goat among a herd of sheep. “A couple of hunters heard what they thought was an animal in distress,” officer Barry Cade said. “But it turned out to be a man in a dress wearing goat horns.”