Skull Creek Stakeout (Caden Chronicles, The)

by Eddie Jones

  “It wasn’t like Barry couldn’t be outside at all. Just between you and me, I think he liked it when people gossiped. But his physical problems were minor compared to the psychological ones.”

  “Oh?”

  “Barry and I were polar opposites. I’m a California beach girl; Barry grew up in upstate New York. I’m sure you noticed the arrangement of flora when you arrived. Blue sky and sunshine and being around other people: these are my channels of energy. Barry hated crowds. When I wasn’t home, he’d draw the blinds and sit in the dark.”

  “Is that why you two split up?”

  She readjusted the easel to catch more of the afternoon light coming through the rear window. The portrait was coming along fine — a violent orange sunset behind purple mountains. In the foreground was a gray wolf with hungry yellow eyes.

  “Opposites attract, but that doesn’t always make for a good marriage. Funny thing is, we moved here from New York because I thought the change in climate would help.”

  “So you two are not long-time residents?”

  “Hardly. Took me awhile to convince Barry to move, but once he found that mansion up on the mountain, he agreed. As I said, he’s set in his ways. I’d hoped he might take up hiking. Or biking. Anything to get him out of the house. I’m a hopeless romantic and a terrible businesswoman. We turned the guesthouse into a B&B, but we never had the first guest, thank goodness. Can you hand me that rag?”

  She cleaned paint from her hands and handed it back to me.

  “Did you know your husband was involved in a vampire gaming website?”

  “Barry?” she said, chuckling. “He could barely turn on a computer, much less navigate the Internet. If I were you, I’d go back and check my source on that one.”

  I let the comment pass. Could be she really didn’t know what went on up in the manor. “How about you? Do you have a website for your gallery?”

  “There is a man in town, a friend, sort of. He helps me make changes to my blog. I can’t even remember my password.”

  “So your husband never mentioned visiting graveyards or poking around crypts? That sort of thing?”

  “Barry loved books. He was engrossed in them, all kinds. That was the world he roamed. No, to my knowledge Barry never visited any graveyards.”

  She put her brush down, stretched, and worked her neck side to side, releasing the tension.

  “Look, my husband was not a monster or freak. Just a very sad man.”

  “Who is dead.”

  “Please, you needn’t remind me.”

  “I’m just saying, he had something someone wanted.”

  “I cannot imagine what. As I said, there was no insurance money. The estate goes to a nonprofit. Or at least, I think it does. Barry was in the process of amending his will … again. He did that quite often.”

  “Do you happen to know which nonprofit he named in his will?”

  “I think he mentioned something about a wildlife preserving group, but I could be wrong about that. Now, then, I have this painting to finish. The gallery is expecting it for this weekend’s showing. We’re doing a private affair for some New York buyers.”

  I studied the portrait of the oversized wolf with its hollow cheeks and hungry eyes, and wondered if Lucy Forester had studied the wolf dog and memorized its terrorizing bulk and features. I thanked her for her time and mentioned I might stop back by later.

  “Not to chat,” I explained, “but so my aunt can see your work.”

  “The gallery in town would be the best place for that.”

  I told her I could find my way out and left.

  The widow certainly seemed pleasant enough. She was amiable and transparent, a California beach girl with a “live and let live” attitude. She expressed none of the nervousness I would have expected from a murderous spouse. Either she was an excellent liar or completely clueless as to the dangerous game being played at the manor.

  It occurred to me that if Forester had planned to leave the estate to Raintree’s nonprofit and then changed his mind, that would give the bookstore owner a possible motive for murder. Or maybe Forester was in the midst of changing the will so Victor Hamilton could buy the estate. Could be Forester had grown tired of the vampire game idea and just wanted to sell the property so he could move back to New York.

  Only way to find out is to visit the scene of the crime and ask Hamilton.

  CHAPTER TEN

  MURDER AS (AND AT) THE LAST RESORT

  Your boss must’ve shipped the body off to be autopsied,” I said. “It’s the only plausible explanation.” At least I hope that’s the case. Otherwise Forester just might be a vampire and the creature that mugged me in the alley.

  I sat in the backseat of Aunt Vivian’s Cadillac, my elbows resting on Meg’s front headrest.

  “Either Charlotte or Chapel Hill,” I said, “and I’m guessing Chapel Hill.”

  “No way,” Meg responded. “If it was on its way to Chapel Hill, Dr. Edwards would have told me. Getting a recommendation from anyone at UNC’s medical school would be huge on my college admission application. Dr. Edwards knows I would have begged him to let me ride along.”

  I let the comment go and turned to another page in Vampire Mythology: The Curse of Darkness.

  Another contributing factor to the modern vampire myth is Vlad Tepes, the central figure behind Bram Stoker’s Dracula character. Tepes came to power in Wallachia, a part of modern-day Romania, in 1447, and enjoyed a short but brutal reign. He ordered villages destroyed and their residents killed. Impalement was his favorite method of execution. He is rumored to have slaughtered over one hundred thousand people, and according to some scholars, Tepes employed the “stake” as an insult to Christians who have long held that Jesus Christ died in a similar way as punishment for the sins of all humankind.

  I closed the journal and said to Meg, “Maybe your boss took the body and he’s hiding it in a freezer.”

  “Are we back to talking about that? Why would he do such a thing?”

  “Because he could be the killer.”

  “That’s so dumb I’m not even going to comment.”

  “You just did.”

  “Did what?”

  “Commented.”

  “I did not,” she countered.

  “There, you did it again.”

  “Did what?”

  “Commented.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Would you two lovebirds stop arguing?” said Aunt Vivian. “It’s distracting me from driving.”

  “Think about it, Meg. Who better to cover his tracks and destroy evidence tied to the crime than your boss?”

  “But why would Dr. Edwards want to kill Forester?”

  “Can’t say. Won’t know that until I review a summary of the shows that mirror this case.”

  “So you’ve already decided Mr. Edwards is the killer?”

  “No. I’m only saying he had access to the body. And now that I’m poking around and asking questions, I think I have the killer worried.”

  “You really do think a lot of yourself.”

  “Like you don’t?”

  “Oh, please. You think I’m impressed by you?” Meg asked me.

  “I meant you think a lot of yourself.”

  “You know, you two make a great couple,” said Vivian. “You remind me of Mr. and Mrs… . Now what was that couple’s name? They had a cat called Snickers. An ornery calico that hissed every time I walked past. No, Snickers was their dog. Or was Snickers the name of Helen Copeland’s poodle? Wait, couldn’t have been, Helen hated animals. Must’ve been … oh, poo, I just missed our exit.”

  My phone buzzed and I found a text message from Calvin giving me the IP address of the form submission that tipped us off to the vampire murder. Entering the address into an IP lookup website returned the following information: State/Region — North Carolina, City — Transylvania. So someone in town had tipped off the Cool Ghoul Gazette to the murder of Forester. Someone who maybe, quite possibly
, wanted us to feature the story on our website. Question was, who and why? I could think of one person: Raintree.

  Half a mile later we turned off the main highway and onto a private drive by short stone walls. Crape myrtle shed purple petals onto lush green grass; deer grazed at the edge of a fairway. Across the road, painted white lines marked a golf cart crossing. Aunt Vivian barely slowed as we blew past the guardhouse.

  “Look! We’re here!” Aunt Vivian announced as she whipped the car into the parking lot. “Meg and I will hit the gift shops while you do whatever it is you need to do to find that man’s killer, but don’t take too long. It’ll be dark soon. Don’t want to be out wandering around with a vampire running loose.”

  The crime scene was a putting green on thirteen. Yellow tape fluttered from pine branches. Tire tracks in matted grass hinted at the route the ambulance had used to drive away. I snapped a few pictures with my phone and wandered down the service road to the maintenance building. Maybe if I spoke to the witness who found the body I could get a better idea of what happened.

  A young man in a mousy-gray work shirt and pants saw me coming. Eyeing me cautiously, he gripped the starter cord on a riding mower and yanked hard. The motor spit and hissed and almost caught. Several more tugs left him winded and the odor of gasoline in the air. I casually wandered over.

  “Spark plug could be fouled.”

  Without looking up he gave the cord another tug. “Don’t use this one much.”

  His dark bangs were tangled, greasy, and fell into his eyes. Thick, furry sideburns spread to his jaw. He yanked the cord once more without luck.

  “Want me to hold a screwdriver on the plug and wire while you pull?” I asked. “See if it sparks?”

  He straightened and tossed his bangs back. He was a big, husky boy, soft around the middle, with crescent sweat stains under his arms.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Nick.”

  “I’m Henry.” Looking over my shoulder he said, “Did you lose your ball or something?”

  “No, just looking for someone who might know something about what happened on hole thirteen a couple nights ago. You see anything odd that night? Or the next day?”

  “I couldn’t help you with anything like that. Couldn’t help you at all.” With a long, lumbering stride, he walked quickly into the building and started sorting tools on a workbench. “You’re not supposed to be down here. Guests are supposed to stay on the course.”

  “Thing is, the man they found on the course was dressed funny. I thought maybe you might know something.”

  “You need to leave. I could get into trouble if someone sees you down here talking to me.”

  He continued putting sockets into their slots, drill bits in their places.

  “Don’t want that to happen,” I said. “I know how important rules can be.”

  “You’d better know it!”

  I suddenly realized who he reminded me of — Bruce. Bruce was a boy in fifth grade who got put into a learning disabled class. Thing was, there wasn’t anything wrong with Bruce except that he was a slow reader and stuttered when he got nervous. He defiantly wasn’t a “retard,” which is what the other kids in the class called him.

  “Say, Henry. Mind if I try starting that mower? Would that be all right?”

  His eyes moved from me to the mower and back. “Sure. I guess that’s okay.”

  I bent over the mower and scowled as if I were deep in thought. Truth was, I really had no idea how to get a flooded lawn mower started. My cousin Fred, now, he’d know. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Henry watching me.

  Guessing at the problem, I went to the workbench, found a spark plug socket, a screwdriver, and a wrench, and walked back to the mower. Henry kept moving tools around but with less energy. I pulled the spark plug wire and spat into the cap. Using the flathead screwdriver, I scraped away rust until the sides and bottom of the tiny thimble were shiny. With the socket wrench I removed the plug and cleaned the contact points and put it all back together.

  I gave the cord a hard tug and the motor coughed and hiccupped, then roared to life.

  “You sure know how to fix things,” Henry said, hurrying over. He knocked back the throttle and said to me, “Say, you wanna help me cut? I only gotta do that bank over there.”

  “Better not. There’s probably rules about letting guests use the lawn equipment.”

  “Hey, you’re right! Boy, you are smart. What’d you say your name was?”

  “Nick Caden.”

  “I’m Henry.” He thrust out a greasy hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Henry. How long have you been working here?”

  “Awhile now. I get to go to school a different way because I’m such a good worker. My uncle says a smart boy like me should be thinking about his future. He says cutting grass on a golf course is a really important job, and once I get a little older, I can maybe start my own landscaping business. My uncle Ralph is a real smart man.”

  Uncle Ralph? “Your uncle, he isn’t a police officer, is he?”

  “Hey, you know my uncle?”

  “We met earlier today. Your uncle and I were talking about … something. He’s the one who told me how you found that thing we cannot talk about. Just curious, what time do you normally get to work?”

  “Early. I have to turn on the water for the sprinklers. If I don’t turn on the water, the greens get all messed up and guests can’t play golf. That’s why I don’t go to school during the day. My job here is too important.”

  “I can see that. So when you arrived a couple of days ago, was it still dark out?”

  “Only a little bit dark. In the summer I get to ride my scooter. In the winter I can’t because it gets icy. I chained my scooter to the light post like always. Why’re you asking so many questions?”

  “No reason. So you the first one here most mornings?”

  “Yep. ‘Cept the other day. Mrs. Forester got here before me.”

  “Mrs. Forester, you sure?”

  “Uh-huh. Her car was in the employees’ lot. No one is supposed to be in the employees’ lot ‘cept employees. We have a rule about that.”

  “You’re sure it was her car?”

  He nodded his head. “She keeps flowers in the cup holder. Not plastic ones. Real daisies. She’s a nice lady, Mrs. Forester. Did you know she paints pictures? She made me a picture one time. I put it on the wall of my bedroom. That’s why she comes up here sometimes, to paint. But Mr. Hamilton, he doesn’t like it when she does. That’s why she comes early before he gets here. I don’t think her painting bothers anybody, though.”

  “Except Mr. Hamilton.”

  “Right.”

  “You positive Mrs. Forester’s car was here when you got to work? No chance it was somebody else’s car?”

  “Oh, it was hers all right. But she left right after I found the … Hey, I told you! I’m not supposed to talk about that!” With his thumb Henry gunned the throttle.

  Over the roar of the motor I shouted, “Thanks, Henry. You’ve been a big help.”

  Henry aimed the mower at the wide swath of grass on the bank and rode away, his pudgy midsection jiggling.

  I felt bad about taking advantage of Henry’s childlike innocence, but I needed answers, and though I hadn’t exactly come away with a clearer picture of the killer, I did have another piece of the puzzle. Problem was, Henry’s account didn’t square with Lucy Forester’s. If her car was in the shop at the time of the murder, how could it also be at the golf course the morning after her husband was found dead? Maybe all her pretending to need an alibi was just an act. Maybe Lucy Forester was just another pretty woman lying about the murder of her husband in order to inherit his estate before he cut her out of his will.

  I also wondered if Henry might have seen more than he remembered. Like, say, someone lurking in the shadows of those pines on hole thirteen. If so, that might make Henry a valuable witness in a murder investigation.

  And a possible target for the kill
er.

  At the top of the drive I turned and waved at Henry. He threw up his hand in a casual way and I felt better. If he was still sore at me, he was already beginning to get over it. Too bad everyone isn’t that forgiving, I thought as I headed toward the clubhouse to meet with Henry’s boss, Victor Hamilton.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  DEAD LAST SUSPECT

  The front desk clerk told me I would find Victor Hamilton in the Rhododendron Grill. I stopped at the hostess station, scanned the room, and saw him sitting at a table overlooking a putting green. The managing partner of the Last Resort was a lean man with hair going just a little gray. He had on the same pale blue sport shirt, khakis, and loafers I’d seen him wearing at Lucy Forester’s. I introduced myself and asked if he could spare a few minutes.

  “You look familiar — do I know you?”

  “We almost met earlier this afternoon. I was coming to see Mrs. Forester as you were leaving.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry you had to see that. Don’t know what came over Lucy.” Smiling, he put out his hand. “I’m Victor Hamilton. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m doing a story on the murder of Barnabas Forester. But first I have to ask, any idea why Mrs. Forester chased you off her property like she did?”

  Chuckling, he said, “You don’t beat around the bush, do you, kid? I like that. Fact is, I honestly don’t know what came over Lucy. We’ve known each other a long time and I’ve never seen her fly off the handle like that. Can’t say as I blame her, though. Losing her husband and all. Tragic. But the way she reacted, you would have thought I killed her husband.”

  “Did you?”

  Still smiling, he narrowed his eyes slightly. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Nick Caden. I’m a reporter for the Cool Ghoul Gazette.”

  “Reporter, that’s interesting. Perhaps I should get you a copy of our media kit. We received a new batch from the printer’s this week. It could be helpful for your story.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Hooking an arm over one corner of his chair, he studied me more closely. “Fine, I’ll play along with your little game of twenty questions. What possible reason would I have for wanting to kill Barnabas Forester?”