by Merrin,Blair
“What do you mean?” Dash asks.
She hesitates, and then says, “I haven’t rented the manor house in quite some time. Upkeep is quite expensive, and people don’t come by like they used to. I’m hoping to recoup some expenses with the wax exhibit, or else…” She sighs again. “I may have to attempt to sell it. Dexter Maximoff has made an impressive offer, privately, but I shudder to think what he might do to the place.”
I can’t say I blame her. Maximoff is an eccentric millionaire that lives in a similar Victorian house, just outside of the ‘burbs, but last time he bought an old property he tried to turn it into a haunted hotel attraction. If he bought it, Middleton Manor would likely become Middleton House of Horrors or something.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Cynthia,” I tell her, trying to sound reassuring. “But listen, Sam and Vinnie do seem like nice guys, and they want this to be successful just as much as you do. I think you should give them another shot.”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
“And hey,” I add, “The exhibit opens in two days, right? You could hire someone as security. Dash here probably isn’t doing anything.”
Cynthia looks up brightly. “That’s actually a good idea.” I frown at her use of “actually,” but I don’t say anything. “Would you come around to keep an eye on things, Mr. Hamilton?”
Dash glares at me briefly, but smiles at Cynthia. “I’ll have to check my schedule, but I think I could make some time.”
“Wonderful. Come by the manor office tomorrow and we can work out details.” Cynthia turns on a heel and marches out of the diner without so much as a goodbye.
“Thanks, Cass,” Dash mutters. “Like I don’t have anything better to do than stand around an old house all day?”
“Hey, you get to hang around all those creepy wax figures you seem to like so much. Sam is working on a wax Roger Corman.”
Dash furrows his brow. “You know who Roger Corman is?”
“Duh. Doesn’t everyone?”
CHAPTER 6
“Okay,” Dash says excitedly, rocking on the balls of his feet. “We’re going to start with House on Haunted Hill, and then we’ll watch The Bat.” He opens a DVD case and pushes it into the tray. “Then we’ll go from there, wherever the mood takes us.”
“Free-form Halloween movie night. I like it.” I stretch out on Dash’s leather sofa, feeling very much like a teenager at a slumber party. There’s an enormous bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, and I came over in a hoodie and yoga pants (my preferred PJs) for maximum comfort.
House on Haunted Hill is kind of cheesy, but it’s actually a pretty fun movie. There are some cheap scares that may have worked in 1959, and I can’t help but giggle at Vincent Price’s facial expressions; his wide eyes and arching eyebrows give him the impression of a man perpetually intrigued.
“I’d spend a night in a haunted house for ten grand,” I tell Dash as the credits roll. “Heck, I’ve done it for free.”
“I know you would,” Dash agrees. Ghosts and unseen things don’t really bother me all that much. Dash, on the other hand, has a hard time handling that sort of stuff, despite being born and raised in Bandit Hills. “But the point of the movie is that it’s the living we have to fear, not the supernatural.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” I grumble.
After that we watch The Bat, an even cheesier horror flick about a faceless murderer that tears women’s throats out with steel claws. I know that sounds freaky, but it’s not. The funniest part of the movie is when the maid gets bitten by a bat and thinks she’s contracted “the rabies.”
Because I am both an adult and mature, I spend the rest of the film with my hand on my forehead, dramatically feigning a fever and telling Dash that “I think I’ve contracted the rabies.”
“Knock it off,” he says, shushing me.
“Please, Dashiell, move on. Find someone else. The rabies…”
“Sometimes I don’t like you.”
“But… the rabies…”
“Fine. I’m putting on House of Wax.”
“Wait, I want to see how it ends. Does the rabies get her?”
Dash sighs, exasperated. “It’s the police lieutenant, okay? He’s the killer.”
“Huh.” I honestly didn’t see that coming.
House of Wax turns out to actually be creepy, mostly on account of the lifelike wax figures. I figure out the plot pretty quickly though.
“Oh, please don’t tell me those are people under that wax.”
“Hush. Just watch.”
“I don’t wanna watch if they’re people.” I think of the wax figures in the manor house and shudder.
“Just wait and—” Dash perks up suddenly. “You hear that?” He mutes the TV, and I hear it too, sirens screaming in the distance. They get closer. Dash parts the blinds a few inches in time to see a fire truck, an ambulance, and Phil’s police cruiser scream by.
“Something big is going on,” he says. He checks his watch. “It’s almost one a.m. Wonder what’s up.” He cranes his neck to try to see the direction of the emergency vehicles. “Looks like they’re heading up toward the ranch.”
“Let’s go see!” I jump up from the couch.
“Cassie, we’re not sticking our noses in something that doesn’t concern us. Besides, you just want to go out there because it’s Halloween and it’s probably something horrible and weird.”
“But what if it is the ranch? What if Bonnie or Steven are hurt? That definitely concerns us. They’re our friends.” I stare at him pointedly, knowing his sense of propriety will win out.
“Fine. Put some shoes on, I’ll get my keys.”
Two minutes later we’re in Dash’s classic midnight-blue El Dorado, driving a little faster than we should up toward the ranch. We reach the gravel road that leads up to Bonnie’s place, but we can’t see any flashing lights or hear any sounds.
“There, see? It’s not Bonnie’s. Let’s go back and finish the movie.”
“No way, Jose. They came up here… maybe down Castle Road?”
Dash sighs and turns around. “Fine, but then we’re going back, ‘kay?”
It doesn’t take long to find the source of the emergency. Down Castle Road, Phil’s cruiser blocks half the street, parked sideways with its lights flashing and the driver’s side door open. The fire truck and ambulance are both parked at the curb, and beyond them, Middleton Manor is engulfed in flames.
Bandit Hills volunteers, in thick yellow fire suits, spray the powerful hose over the first floor of the manor, but the blaze is strong, curling from the open windows and licking up toward the second floor. Dash screeches to a halt beside the ambulance and we both jump out.
Sheriff Phil stands on the front lawn with a hand over his mouth. Phil is just a couple of years older than me, Bandit Hills’ youngest sheriff in history and a darn good one at that, but right now he just looks helpless.
“Phil!” I call out. “What happened?”
He shakes his head. “We don’t know yet, we just got here a few minutes ago.”
“Is anyone still in there?” Dash asks urgently.
“We don’t know,” is all Phil says.
Nearby, only a few yards away, Cynthia Middleton sits on her knees in the grass, sobbing into both her hands. Dash runs over to her and touches her shoulder.
“Cynthia! Is anyone still in there?”
She looks up at him, her face puffy and wet. “Those two men… I think…”
Dash takes off toward the house.
“Dash! What are you doing?!” I screech. He doesn’t stop. “Dashiell James Hamilton, get back here this instant!”
He pulls his shirt up over his nose and mouth and charges toward the house. Just as he reaches the front door, two firefighters emerge, carrying a smaller man between them—Vinnie. Dash helps them carry him a safe distance from the fire and lay him gently in the grass.
Vinnie immediately rolls over onto his stomach
, coughing and hacking. His ponytail smolders and his face and arms are streaked with soot. In between his wheezing and coughing, he chokes out one word, over and over.
“Sam! Sam!”
CHAPTER 7
The next couple of hours are a blur. Phil has to physically restrain Dash from going into the burning house after Sam. The firefighters try to go in as well, but the first-floor ceiling collapses, making it impossible. Eventually Deputy Sharon shows up in her mini-van, wearing sweats and a light jacket. She’s a no-nonsense woman; she takes Dash firmly by the arm and half-drags him to her van, where she sits him down until he calms down.
I try my best to console Cynthia, but I’m not very good with the living. I settle on sitting beside her in the moist grass with my arm around her shoulders as she weeps. She doesn’t try to shrug me off, so I just sit there, not saying anything and letting her cry. I can’t blame her; the manor house has been in her family for at least six generations that I’m aware of. Maybe even more.
The paramedics attend to Vinnie. Besides some smoke inhalation and a few minor burns, he seems okay. And of course there’s the emotional turmoil of having lost his best friend. After about a half hour, when he’s able to speak again, he tells Phil that Sam was in the back room of the house, working on the Roger Corman figure. Vinnie smelled smoke and went to check it out. The odor was coming from the basement. By the time Vinnie investigated, several cardboard boxes were already on fire and it was spreading quickly.
“I tried to get to him,” I hear Vinnie say from my spot in the grass. He sniffles. “The door was locked. I’m sure he had his headphones on; he liked to listen to opera while he worked. He didn’t like to be disturbed. I couldn’t… I couldn’t get to him…”
In minutes the small fire had become a blaze. Vinnie called 911, but he refused to leave the house without Sam until the firefighters literally dragged him out.
“You say it started in the basement?” Phil asks.
“I’m sure of it,” Vinnie confirms.
“Likely faulty wiring,” one of the firefighters says. “Happens more than you’d think, especially in these old homes.”
Beside me, Cynthia has stopped crying and just stares at the still-burning house. The firefighters seem to have contained it, but it’s still a long way from out. “This is my fault,” she mumbles.
“No,” I tell her firmly. “Of course it’s not.”
“You heard him. Faulty wiring. I spent so much time and money making sure the house looked perfect. I didn’t think for a second something like this could happen.” Her voice is nearly a whisper, hoarse from sobbing.
“You cannot blame yourself for this,” I tell her. “This kind of thing could happen anywhere.” I don’t know if that’s true or not, but it seems like the right thing to say.
Then Morgan shows up.
At first, no one notices her, despite her odd apparel. She still wears her sundress and big brown boots, but now she’s added a bedazzled denim jacket over it. Honestly, she dresses like someone walked into my store and grabbed the first three things they saw.
She walks across the front lawn, looking all around. “Sam?” she calls out. “Sammy?”
Vinnie looks up at the sound of her voice. Their eyes meet, and in that moment, I see Morgan visibly deflate with realization. Then she goes haywire. She dashes toward the house, screaming “Sam!” all the way. It takes three firefighters to subdue her, and the paramedics have to administer a mild sedative to keep her from going into the burning manor.
***
At some point in the night, I’m not even sure what time it was, I climbed into Sharon’s van and fell asleep on the seat. Dash insisted that we stick around to find out how we could help, and though we expected push-back from Phil, he seemed grateful for the assistance.
I wake with a gentle shake from Dash. “Hey,” he says, “it’s morning.”
I rub my bleary eyes. “How long was I out?”
“An hour and a half, tops,” he says.
“I had the worst dream.” It comes rushing back to me in flashes. I dreamed that I was trapped inside a burning building, locked in a room as the flames drew nearer.
“Want to tell me about it?” he asks.
“Nope.” I climb out of the van. Though the house still smolders, the fire is out and a pair of firefighters are reeling in the long canvas hose. Through the skeletal remains of the manor, I can see at least three more of them in their bright yellow jackets, sifting through the wreckage.
“Where’s Cynthia?” I ask.
“Sharon took her in my car to a friend’s house,” he tells me. “We didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Oh, thanks. And Vinnie?”
“Paramedics took him to the hospital for a check-up. Morgan went with them.”
I lift his wrist to check the time. It’s only six a.m., but the idea of opening the store in two hours sounds horrible. “I should call Mom. She’s probably up by now.”
Across the lawn, two of the firefighters approach Phil to show him something in their gloved hands. Phil looks visibly concerned.
“What do you suppose they’re chatting about?”
“Not sure,” Dash says. I can tell he wants to know too, so we slowly head over to the group of men.
Phil rubs his temples and squeezes his eyes shut. He sees us coming and meets us halfway.
“What? What is it?” I ask.
“They found him,” he says simply.
“Sam?”
Phil nods gravely. “Poor guy.”
“But there’s more,” Dash says with an eyebrow raised.
“Yeah. We’ll need to investigate further, but the firemen just found what they believe is the remnants of a Molotov cocktail.”
“What’s a Molotov cocktail?” I ask.
“It’s a type of homemade explosive,” Dash tells me. “You stuff a rag down the neck of a high-proof bottle of liquor and throw it. The bottle breaks, the liquor spreads and ignites.”
“And if that’s the case,” Phil adds, “then we may not be looking at a freak accident. We’re talking about arson.”
Dash shakes his head. “And murder.”
CHAPTER 8
Once Sharon returns with Dash’s car, they swap keys and Dash takes me home. Despite my nap, I’m exhausted, and I’m sure he’s even more so. I call Mom, tell her what happened, and ask her to open the store for me.
“Oh my word!” she exclaims. “Was anyone hurt?”
I hesitate. “Yeah. One of the guys from the wax exhibit. He didn’t make it.”
There’s a long moment of silence on the other end. Then Mom says, “You take however long you need. I’ll mind the store.”
On the ride back into town, I stare out the window, my mind racing. I realize that I, too, was hoping for a nice, quiet Halloween, just like Dash was… but in the back of my mind, I also realized that something was going to go belly-up. Always seems to around here.
“Phil asked me to stop by Cynthia’s friend’s house and tell her about what they found,” Dash tells me.
“Does that mean you’re on the case?”
“I guess so. I mean, aren’t we always, unofficially?” He forces a smile. He’s referring to the many times in the past that Dash and I got involved, either because we were close to the victim, or unwillingly via paranormal circumstances.
“You know,” I say slowly. “That woman, Morgan, seemed to have a penchant for fire.” I try to sound as casual as I can, already knowing what Dash will say next.
“Cassie, we can’t just go making assumptions, especially before we even have any details from forensics.”
“I know. I’m just saying. You weren’t there, Dash; she was lighting those firecrackers and holding them like she didn’t care if they went off in her hand. I’m not sure she’s entirely… stable.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. You should really tell Phil about that, too.” He can’t deny that my sense about
people tends to be right.
He pulls the Cadillac up to the curb outside Miss Miscellanea. The sign is flipped to “Open,” so I know Mom is inside already.
“Vincent,” he says.
“Vinnie? What about him?”
“No, Vincent. Look.” Dash points to the storefront windows, and sure enough, the wax figure of Vincent Price is standing on display, leering out at passers-by.
I scoff. “Why on earth would Mom put him out there?”
“I have no idea. It’s kind of in poor taste, all things considered.”
“It’s probably part of her sometimes-misplaced sense of compassion. I’ll take it down.” Right after a shower, I think.
Dash drops me off and heads on to talk with Cynthia while I trudge upstairs to my apartment. I take a long, hot shower, and even though I want nothing more than to lie down and sleep for a while, I begrudgingly pull on jeans and a shirt and head downstairs to the shop.
Mom gives me a hug and holds me at arm’s length.
“You okay, honey?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks. Listen… the wax sculpture really shouldn’t be in the window, Ma.”
She stares at me blankly. “I couldn’t agree more. I have no idea why you moved it there in the first place.”
“Me? I didn’t do it.”
She laughs a little. “Cassandra, there’s no way I could move that thing by myself. It’s far too heavy.”
Ah, crap.
I rub the back of my neck. There are only two explanations for this: one is that someone broke into the shop for the sole purpose of moving Vincent Price into the window. The other… well, I’m far too tired to even consider the second notion.
“Can you help me move him back?”
Mom is right; the wax sculpture is surprisingly heavy, almost the weight of a real person. The two of us struggle to carry him back to the storage room, being extra careful as not to break him. After all, he might be the last surviving wax sculpture that Sam made, considering the rest of them were in the manor house at the time of the fire.