5 Death, Bones, and Stately Homes

by Valerie S. Malmont

  "What would you like to see first?"

  "Cows? Corn? I really have no idea. Why don't you surprise me?"

  His green eyes sparkled as he looked at me, and I lowered my age estimate by a decade. "You're not going to see any cows here. Go that way."

  After driving for a few minutes through dense forest, we came upon several buildings in a clearing.

  Bruce led me to the largest of the buildings, which was of dark wood, two stories high, and in an uninteresting style. He should have spent the extra bucks and hired an architect, I thought. But when he opened the nondescript white door and I looked inside, I was overcome with the magnificence of the interior. Instead of the two-story building I had expected, there was a great room that soared up to a beamed cathedral ceiling. One whole wall was native limestone, with a fireplace set in it that was big enough to walk into. There were several groupings of huge white leather sofas, draped with Indian blankets, and coffee tables of heavy oak.

  The other side of the room was devoted to dining and kitchen areas, which were set under a balcony. There was one door leading onto the balcony, and I could tell from where I stood that it was a bedroom. Several other doors opened off the great room.

  But what was most dumbfounding of all was the display of animal heads high on the wall. There must have been a hundred; mostly deer, but also elk and wild boar.

  A stuffed wildcat was draped on a ledge above the fireplace. A hawk, or maybe it was an eagle, spread its wings as if preparing to soar across the room. A pair of squirrels cavorted in an endless dance on a coffee table. Small dead animals lurked in every corner.

  "Welcome to the BL Deer Hunting Preserve."

  I nodded, too dumbfounded to speak.

  A man was sitting at the dining area table, with a laptop computer in front of him and a portable telephone held to his ear.

  "Meet Sal," Bruce said.

  The man glanced up and nodded, then clicked off the phone. "Got a couple of bucks lined up for you to take a look at."

  "Where?"

  "An Amish farm in Ohio."

  "Good. We can fly over on Monday to see them."

  "That's what I told him. And I've got two more hunts booked for October."

  "I don't know what I'd do without Sal," Bruce said as he slid open the glass door and gestured for me to step outside.

  The view from the deck took my breath away. I hadn't realized I'd come so high, but now I was looking over the treetops, at the Tuscarora Mountains on one side and South Mountain on the other.

  In the valley below lay Lickin Creek, resembling a small, charming village like the ones people put under their Christmas trees. Miniature church steeples reached skyward over the borough's two- and three-story buildings. On the outskirts of town, farms were a patchwork quilt of greens and golds.

  "Too bad it's so hazy," Bruce said. "Otherwise you'd be able to see all the way to Maryland."

  "This is quite enough for one day," I told him.

  "I hope you'll come back another time." There was something in the tone of his voice that made me wonder if he were making a pass.

  We reentered the great room, and I crossed over to the dining area wall, which held a number of photographs and certificates. Most of the photos were of men holding up deer's heads with huge antlers, but one was of a small country-western band. Bruce noticed what I was looking at and said, "That's me in the middle, with the guitar. Once I actually thought I might make a career out of music. Come sit down."

  We sat on facing sofas. "I understand this is for a feature for the Chronicle. Am I right?"

  "Yes." I took out my notebook and a pen and waited.

  "Questions?"

  "Just tell me what you do here, in your own words."

  "I raise deer for hunters who want trophies. In order for a deer to grow a trophy-size rack, it takes about four years. Most public areas around here are so overhunted that a hunter is lucky to bag a two-year-old."

  "How much are people willing to pay for the bigger antlers?"

  His answer caused me to drop my pen. By the time I'd retrieved it from beneath the couch, I'd recovered enough to ask, "What kind of person has that kind of money to spend on a hunting trip?"

  "Movie stars, NASCAR racers, CEOs of Fortune Five Hundred companies. There's a lot of people out there with a lot of money"

  I was astounded. "I've never seen a celebrity in Lickin Creek."

  "They don't go into town, Tori. They come directly to the BL Hunting Preserve, stay here, hunt, and go home with their trophies."

  "Can you give me some names?"

  Bruce shook his head. "Sorry. My client list is confidential. They pay for privacy as well as trophies." He was interrupted by the arrival of a young man, who paced impatiently while Bruce was speaking. "This is Kevin, Tori."

  Kevin nodded in my direction and smiled, showing me he was missing several front teeth. His black hair was shoulder-length and his goatee was sparse, and he had bright blue eyes rimmed with black lashes.

  "Kevin's in charge of the grounds. Another invaluable employee."

  "You wanted to see me, boss?" Kevin broke in.

  "You'd better come outside, Kevin, and see what I've got in the truck. I'll be right back," Bruce said to me. "Sal will get you some coffee."

  Before I had an opportunity to decline, Sal had a mug of steaming coffee in front of me. He sat on the sofa Bruce had vacated and smiled at me.

  "How long has this ranch been in operation?" I asked him.

  "About six years."

  "And how big is the ranch?"

  "Fifteen hundred acres, more or less."

  "I had no idea there was a property that large near Lickin Creek."

  "Not many locals know about it. That's why the boss thought it would be a good-will gesture to get it better known."

  "It must have cost Bruce a fortune to buy a piece of property this large."

  "It would have, but he didn't have to buy it. It's been in his family for years. He's the third, no, fourth generation of Laughenslaggers to own it. Used to be they just used it for their own hunting place, but Bruce was the one who thought it could be a moneymaker."

  The front door slammed as Bruce entered, followed by Kevin. There were two red spots of anger on Bruce's cheeks.

  "Damn coyotes," he muttered. He unlocked a gun case, removed a rifle, and handed it to Kevin, along with a box of shells.

  "Go get him," he snapped. "Can't afford to have any more bucks killed."

  Kevin nodded and left with the gun.

  "I'm sorry," I said, feeling inadequate.

  "We do what we can, but one gets in every now and then. They're worse than bears." As he spoke, the red spots began to fade. "Ready to go for a drive?"

  "I'd love to."

  Outside, instead of walking toward the parking area, he turned right and led me to a small outbuilding with a chain-link fence around it.

  "This is where we bottle-feed the fawns." He tapped on the fence, and immediately about ten adorable little baby deer came bounding out of a small opening in the side of the building.

  They came right up to the fence, and I was even able to touch one of them on its soft little nose.

  "They are so cute!"

  "We'll put them in the large pens with the other young deer when they get a little bigger."

  A fence enclosed a large area behind the fawn house, and now I saw it contained a dozen or more deer.

  "We keep them there till they are two, then move them into the back fields."

  "How can you tell how old they are?" I asked.

  "Notice the little tags the fawns have in their ears? Different color for each year."

  As we walked toward his four-wheel-drive vehicle, he pointed to several other small outbuildings. "Butchering room there. Cooler next door."

  "Do you do your own taxidermy?"

  Bruce shook his head. "There's a local guy we recommend if people ask, but lots of people like to take their trophies home and have them mounted by their ow
n man." He held the door open for me and closed it once I was in the vehicle. A real gentleman, I noted with a small smile.

  The forest was thick and dark overhead, but the lower branches of the trees were bare. The road was little more than a trail, and I hung on with both hands to keep from bouncing to death. "Sorry about the bumps," Bruce apologized.

  "It's okay," I said through clenched teeth.

  "There's some," he said, slowing down and pointing to the left.

  At first I couldn't see the deer because they blended in so well with the background, then gradually they took shape. A tree branch became an antler, a sun-dappled clump of bushes turned into a face, a fallen log was really four deer huddled together. As my eyes adjusted, I saw more and more animals. "Beautiful," I said. "They are so beautiful."

  "Bad rack on that one. Nobody will want to hunt him," Bruce said, pointing to one of the deer. "Gonna have him for dinner soon."

  We continued through the forest, seeing hunting blinds, feeding stations, a large lake full of waterfowl, and eventually coming to the fence that encircled the area. A large gate stood open, and Bruce cursed and slammed on the brakes.

  "I've told them a hundred times to keep these gates closed," he snarled. "Can you help me swing it shut?"

  I nodded and got out of the truck. The gate was heavy, and it took both of us, putting all our weight on it, to push it shut. I watched while Bruce made sure it was secure, then locked it. At that moment, something whined by my head and slammed into a tree behind me, sending splinters in all directions.

  "What was that?" I spun around, saw the shattered tree trunk, and realized I had narrowly missed being shot. Another bullet whizzed past me, and I dropped to the ground with my hands covering my head, as though that could protect me.

  "Tori. Tori. Are you all right?" Bruce was on his knees beside me, trying to help me sit up.

  My head hurt, and when I touched my forehead I felt something sticky. "I think so. Am I bleeding?"

  "Let me check." Bruce parted my hair and stared intently at me. "A scrape," he said. "You must have hit something when you fell. Stay down. I'm going to find who did this."

  Terrified, I huddled next to the tree, hoping no more shots would come my way. Thankfully, nothing else happened. After a wait that felt like an hour, but was probably only a few minutes, Bruce returned, accompanied by Kevin.

  "Look what you did, you idiot. You almost killed her."

  Kevin hung his head and looked sheepish. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I thought you was a coyote."

  "You thought my head was a coyote? Five feet above the ground?"

  "I'm really sorry, ma'am."

  "I could have been killed." I didn't mind stating the obvious.

  "God, I am so sorry, Tori," Bruce said. "I'm very proud of our safety record here. Very few of my employees or hunters have ever been shot."

  I wondered how many "very few" actually were and was glad I hadn't become one of them. Then I realized he was probably trying to inject a little humor into the situation. I didn't appreciate it.

  Bruce and Kevin hauled me to my feet. My legs wobbled like jelly, and I needed to hang onto both men to walk to the truck.

  Back at the lodge, I transferred to my truck. Bruce got in and rode with me to the gate. Before he got out, he cleared his throat and asked if I'd go out to dinner with him some time. "I'd really like to show you how sorry I am."

  "I'm seeing someone," I fibbed. I actually found his rugged, tanned face and lean athletic build quite attractive, but he was nearly as old as my father. Besides, after my disastrous date with Haley Haley, I wasn't ready to chance another dating fiasco.

  "You look rather peculiar," Ethelind said from her armchair in front of the television, as I entered the parlor. "What happened to your head?"

  "I had a little accident," I told her, which explained nothing. "All I need is a shower."

  Fred followed me upstairs, entranced by the bits of twigs and leaves that dropped from my clothes. "Scoot," I said, shutting him out of the bathroom. "I don't need an audience."

  I almost didn't have the courage to draw the shower curtain, but this time there was no note in the bathtub.

  I scrubbed the dirt and deer smells off my body, then shampooed my hair three times before I felt clean. When I pushed aside the shower curtain, I found the bathroom door ajar and Fred sitting on the sink with a superior look on his face. He was my Houdini cat, who had taught himself to open a door by jumping up, grabbing hold of the doorknob, and hanging onto it until the door opened.

  "Hi, Mr. Show-off." I thrust my arms into my terry cloth robe, grabbed Fred up in my damp arms, and carried him down the hall to my bedroom. By the time I dropped him on the bed, his purr had come to a roiling boil.

  He stretched out on the antique quilt, rolled onto his back, and waved his paws in the air until I gave in to his demand. "Okay," I acquiesced, "just a quick tummy rub, then I have to get dressed."

  A few minutes later, with both of us feeling rather pleased with ourselves, I gave him a gentle swat on the rump, our signal that playtime was over. He closed his eyes and instantly fell asleep.

  I pulled the drawer in the mahogany dresser where I kept my underwear, and my heart nearly stopped as I saw the folded note.

  Maybe there are fingerprints, was my thought as I used two fingernails to pluck it from the drawer.

  I slowly unfolded it, taking care only to touch the edges. It was the same lined notebook paper as before, torn from a three-hole binder.

  PRETTY PANTIES, it said. I screamed, dropped the paper, and woke up Fred.

  "Come on!" I grabbed all my underwear out of the dresser and fled downstairs with my arms full and Fred behind me. I washed my clothes twice before I could bear to put anything on my body.

  Before we went to bed, Ethelind made sure the doors and windows were closed and locked. It was probably the first time in the old mansion's history that it had been so tightly secured.

  Sixteen

  "Where'd you get this, Tori?" Luscious leaned back in his desk chair, stretched his long legs out on the desktop, and dangled Rodney Mellott's diary from his bony fingers. Garnet's desk, I thought resentfully. It hadn't taken Luscious long at all to move his belongings to the more prestigious location in the back of the room. My resentment was unreasonable, and I knew it. Luscious was acting police chief and had every right to sit there.

  It was Thursday morning, and I was trying to enlist Luscious's help in finding a killer.

  "I told you. It was in a box of old scrapbooks Alice-Ann found in the attic at Morgan Manor."

  "Pretty active imagination for a music teacher."

  "It wasn't imagination, Luscious. This is a diary."

  "How do you know he didn't make it up?"

  "Would you make up things like this and keep it where your landlady might find it?"

  "Probably not, but it would be even worse if she found it and it was the truth, wouldn't it? He could have been arrested if he really did molest those boys."

  "I'm glad you agree with me that what he did was a crime."

  "I'm not saying that's so, Tori. I'm only saying that if it was true it would be criminal, but I'm not so sure that was the case. My dad was in high school back in the sixties. I don't like to think..." His voice trailed away, as he drifted off into the gentle days of Lickin Creek's past. After a moment he shook himself slightly, focused his eyes, and rejoined me in the Lickin Creek Police Department, the back room of Henry Hoopengartner's Garage.

  "Besides, he'd have had to be some sort of an idiot to keep a journal like this."

  "Maybe he was."

  "But he taught at the high school," Luscious argued, as if only geniuses and the pure of heart were allowed to be instructors in Lickin Creek High School's hallowed halls.

  "So you don't want to keep it?"

  Luscious handed the diary back to me. "Can't see any reason to. No mention of Emily in there, and I only have your word that Rodney was murdered."

  "Alice-Ann saw hi
m, too," I protested.

  "Funny thing. You say that, but I've called to corbotorate your story and left half a dozen messages on her machine, and she ain't returned them yet."

  "Corroborate." After I corrected him I wished I hadn't, for he looked so dejected. Poor Luscious, he really was trying to do his best in Garnet's absence. I knew I shouldn't be so hard on him.

  "What about the box of sneakers in Rodney's closet?" I asked.

  "I didn't see no box."

  It was time to change the subject. "Have you heard any more about Vonzell Varner?"

  The policeman's eyes brightened. "Matter of fact, I have. He was spotted the Monday before Memorial Day in a Giant Store in Washington County, Maryland. Stole a van from a used car dealership. Walked in, bold as you please, and asked to take it for a test drive. Never came back. Left a Chevy Tahoe with Kentucky license plates behind. Turned out that was stolen, too, from a sheriff's deputy, of all people. He's on the top of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms' Most Wanted List, not to mention the U.S. Marshal's list."

  I had been scribbling in my notebook, but something he had said registered and stopped me. The back of my neck tingled unpleasantly. "A dark green van?"

  "Let's see." Luscious shuffled papers. "Yup. A '98 Plymouth Grand Voyager with privacy glass. How'd you know it was green?"

  "Lucky guess. I hope the feds are still watching Mrs. Varner's house."

  "I dunno. It's been a long time. He'd probably be here already if this was where he was heading."

  "Maybe he is here, Luscious. I've seen a green van around town several times. It could be the one he stole."

  "Sure. There's only one in town, right?"

  "Only one that appears to be following me," I snapped back. "I saw it for the first time right after I wrote the first article about Vonzell Varner for the Chronicle. No, take that back. I saw it for the first time outside jenny Varner's house, even before I wrote the article."

  "Next I suppose you'll be asking for police protection. Well, I have to tell you Afton and I ain't got time to..."