by Blair Merrin
Whump! We both jump again. This time a canvas painting framed in wood falls off the wall. I check the nail to see if it’s bent. Nope. Straight as an arrow. And it’s a painting of a man on horseback.
“This is weird, right?” Dash asks.
As soon as he says it, I get what he’s implying, and I pinch the bridge of my nose in annoyance. “Oh, god, please don’t tell me another—”
“Cassie, look out!”
I duck just in time as a glass carousel horse ornament flies at my head. It hits the wall behind me instead and shatters.
“Hey!” I shout to nothing in particular. “That’s enough!”
Silence. Dash and I both look at each other, tense, waiting for something else to happen. After a few moments, nothing does, so Dash says timidly, “About that dinner…?”
Despite being a Bandit Hills resident his whole life, he doesn’t do as well with the supernatural stuff as others do. Me, I’m used to it. When I was little I had an imaginary friend that turned out to be the ghost of a butler of one of Bandit Hills’ richest families. I called him Mr. Droopy on account of his jowls. We had tea parties. Anyway, my point is, when weird stuff like this happens, I don’t shriek or faint or call my sanity into question. I put my foot down.
“Whoever you are,” I say sternly with a finger in the air, “stop breaking my stuff. If you’re trying to send a message, find another way.”
More silence. Dash looks at me and shrugs. Behind him, on the counter, I see Xander’s statue start tipping slowly.
“Dash!” I shout, pointing.
He turns, leaps, and catches the thing mid-air right before it would have hit the tiled floor. Phew!
“Nice save!” I turn back to the empty air. “And you! If you don’t knock it off, we’re leaving.”
I know, it sounds silly, like a parent threatening to leave without their child if they don’t put their shoes on, but it works. Most of the time, if a spirit is messing with your stuff, they’re trying to tell you something. Except for Billy at the motel. He really is just a dirty thief. So I beckon Dash and the two of us start toward the door, the statue still tucked under his arm.
“Alright!” I call out. “We’re leaving!” I push the door open.
Behind me, Dash yelps. As I turn, I see his feet fly out from under him. I’ve never seen a ghost do that before. Suddenly he’s in the air, and so is the statue—it goes flying out from under his arm, and it’s like I’m watching it all in slow motion. Dash thuds to the floor first, landing hard on his butt, and the statue, sailing in a wide arc, smacks down with a resonant clang.
“Ow, my coccyx,” Dash groans.
I rush over. “Aw, nuts,” I say, lifting the statue gingerly.
“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” he mutters behind me.
Nothing broke off, but the silvery tin strips that Xander used to make the horse’s sternum are all bent out of shape. “How am I going to explain this to him?”
Dash, rubbing his sore rear, gets to his feet and looks over my shoulder. “Just bend them back into shape. Shouldn’t be that hard.”
“Wait a sec.” I snake two fingers between the bent tin ribs of the horse. “There’s something in here.” I feel around, and something cuts me. “Ouch!” I pull my finger out quickly and stick it in my mouth. “Yup, definitely something in there.”
“Give it.” Dash takes the statue, reaches in carefully, and pulls out… a knife. “What?” he whispers, drawing out the word.
The knife is only about eight inches long including the handle, and it looks expensive. The hilt appears to be carved from black stone, onyx or obsidian, with a guard that I’m certain is real silver. The blade is elegant, slightly curved, and wickedly sharp. I take it from him carefully. The whole thing would look really pretty, even for a knife, if it wasn’t so dirty. Bits of moist black dirt stick to it, rubbing off on my hand.
“Message received,” I say aloud. I use my sleeve to wipe the dirt from the blade, but it’s stubborn.
“Cassie, stop,” Dash says.
“What? It’s a nice knife. I’m sure Xander will want it back—”
“No, I mean stop wiping.” He points at the obdurate dirt. “That’s not dirt. That’s dried blood.”
CHAPTER 8
“We need to bring the knife to Phil,” Dash tells me.
I lower my forkful of gnocchi and shoot him a flat look. “You sound like a broken record. Every time we find something that may—or may not—have something to do with a murder, you want to run to Phil.”
Dash stares at me incredulously. “Okay, first off, we solved one murder. Second, do you know how to test for DNA?”
I stick the fork in my mouth and shake my head. “Mm-mm.”
I know, I know, considering everything, it should feel wrong to still have gone for food. But I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. So after we stashed the knife in a safe place beneath the register and bent the horse statue’s ribs carefully back into place, I convinced Dash to take me to Paradise Pasta, the only Italian joint in Bandit Hills. So this is the second time he’s given me his incredulous look tonight. I told him I think better on a happy stomach.
“DNA is in the nuclei of white blood cells,” he explains, “which can degrade over time and with contaminants. Considering that you’ve already gotten your blood on it—contaminant—and that more than twenty-four hours has presumably passed since the murder, I think we need to get that thing into the right hands as soon as possible so that they can at least try to get something from it.”
“Totally,” I say around a mouthful of food. “Are you sure you’re not going to eat anything? Makes me feel weird.”
“I honestly don’t know how you can eat right now.”
“Look, we’ll bring the knife to Phil. Tonight. I promise.”
He sighs, reaches over and snatches a piece of garlic bread from my plate. “Are we really going to ignore the elephant in the room?”
I look around quickly, and then grin. “Kidding. What elephant?”
Dash raises an eyebrow. “That knife was inside Xander Cruz’s statue. It has blood on it. It looks like it was buried, and then unburied, recently.”
I gape at him. “I can’t believe you would even suggest such a thing! Xander couldn’t do something like that.”
“Right, because you know him so well. Just because he’s attractive and likes you doesn’t mean he couldn’t commit a murder.”
“First off, Mr. By-the-Books, we don’t know that the knife we found is the murder weapon. Let’s not jump to any conclusions.”
Even as I scold him, I’m very much aware of how silly that sounds. Because knives with blood on them just pop up everywhere. “And what’s this really about? You don’t like him. Admit it; you’re jealous.”
“Jealous!” Dash exclaims, a bit too loudly. “Please. I’m using cold, hard reasoning here. Knife. Blood. Statue. How are you not seeing this? My feelings have no bearing on the matter.” He pauses, and then adds quickly, “But for the record, no, I don’t like him at all, and I think this whole ‘I love animals and they love me’ thing he’s got going would be the perfect cover for a murderer.”
“Dashiell James Hamilton!” I scold.
“Please don’t do that—” he winces. Only his mother says that.
“I’m surprised at you!” I cut him off. “How would you feel if someone said the same thing about you? ‘Private investigator, helps out the police, couldn’t possibly be him.’”
He thinks about it. “Actually, that would be a pretty good cover too… That’s not the point! Look, he brought the statue to your store the morning the body was discovered. He said, ‘Sell it for whatever price you think is fair.’ He wanted you to get rid of it quick, with the knife safely stashed inside it!”
Well… shoot. I hadn’t considered that. But Dash isn’t through yet.
“And now there’s a ghost in your store, again…”
“I know, right? Do I have the words ‘avengers-r-us’ tattooed on my foreh
ead or something?”
“…that is very clearly pointing us to horses. Horses! He’s the horse whisperer!”
“Well, animal whisperer, really.” As much as I want to dispute it—I mean, Xander? A murderer?—it makes sense. I don’t believe it for a second, but it holds water.
“Compromise,” I tell him. “We bring the knife to Phil tonight to do their DNA thing—”
“Okay…”
“But let’s not go throwing accusations around, either. Like you said, we let the cops handle it. If they suspect Xander, they’ll investigate. And I’m sure if he has nothing to hide, he’d submit to a blood test, right?”
Dash leans back in his chair and sulks. “So Curious Cassie just disappears when Xander becomes a suspect?”
“You’re acting like a child.”
“You’re acting like a child.”
I grunt in exasperation.
“And just so you know,” he says, “if they bring me in on this case, he’s my first suspect.”
“Fine.”
“Fine!”
I finish my meal in silence while Dash munches on my garlic bread. After we eat, we return to the store and carefully wrap the knife in a plastic grocery bag before heading over to the police station. Turns out Phil already went home for the day, but Deputy Sharon is still there, so she takes the knife and promises to submit it for testing.
“Where exactly in your store did you find this?” she asks. I might have been a little vague on the details.
Before I can come up with a way to skirt around the question, Dash blurts out, “Inside a statue made by Xander Cruz.”
Sharon appears startled, but then she nods curtly and thanks us. Once we’re back outside and in the car, I punch Dash in the arm.
“Ow! What gives?”
“You know what gives! You couldn’t wait to drop his name, could you?”
“I’m not lying to the police again, Cassie.”
“Lying is not the same as omitting!”
He gets really quiet, then says, “You really want to start a relationship on that premise?”
“I…” I don’t really have a good answer to that. “No. Of course not,” I say quietly. “Sorry for punching you.”
“It’s okay. You punch like a girl anyway.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him rubbing his shoulder, and I smirk a little.
CHAPTER 9
I didn’t really sleep much last night, so I’m feeling pretty worn out this morning. But at least there wasn’t any more paranormal activity, so I had that going for me. Mom comes in around nine and greets me cheerfully.
“Good morning, sweetheart! How was your evening?”
“Meh.”
“I see.”
She leaves me alone most of the morning, sorts all the donation boxes, and even affixes some stickers for me. What a wonderful woman. Bonnie doesn’t show up again, but I don’t fault her for it; she’s no doubt busy dealing with the issues at the ranch. Some touristy-types come and go, and I find it difficult to smile and welcome them. Around mid-morning, the door chimes and Xander Cruz enters. Mom disappears into the back office with a wan smile and a wink.
“Hi, Xander,” I greet him, trying to keep the tiredness out of my voice. “How’s Franklin?”
Xander does not smile, nor do his eyes twinkle like they normally do. He gravely tells me, “He’ll be okay, thankfully. His leg will heal, but he won’t be able to gallop like he used to.”
“Well, that’s mostly good news.” Eager to change the subject, I ask him, “Did you come back for some more supplies?”
“The police came to my house last night. Sheriff Phil and Deputy Sharon.”
I sigh. “Jeez, Xander, I’m so sorry—”
“They told me that you found a knife inside my sculpture. Is it true?”
I nod meekly. “Yes. It… fell off the counter, and…” I trail off at the sight of his big brown eyes pleading with me.
“I’d never take a life, Cassie,” he spoke from his soul.
“I believe you. I don’t think you could. The police have to do their due diligence, though. Once they test the blood on the knife—”
Suddenly he looks visibly ill. “There was blood on it?”
I nod solemnly, wondering how much Phil told him, and how much I should be telling him now.
“Once they test it, and they test your DNA, they’ll know that it wasn’t you. Everything will be fine!”
“Cassie, I wish it were that simple,” he says sadly. “I can’t submit to a DNA test.”
Okay. That’s weird. “Why on earth not? It could completely exonerate you.”
“It’s… complicated.” He takes a deep breath, as if he’s about to tell me something difficult, when the door chimes and a boisterous, grating voice rings out, far too loud.
“So, Miss Cassie!” Henry Applegate hitches his pants, fixed with the big silver bronco buckle, as he approaches the counter. “You have a price in mind for me?”
I groan. Xander looks from me to Henry and back to me, confused.
“Why don’t you ask the artist himself?” I tell him. “Xander Cruz, meet Henry Applegate.”
The two men just stare at each other for a moment, sizing each other up, it would seem.
“How’s my horse?” Henry asks gruffly.
“He’s alive.”
“Good. Will he race?”
“No.”
Applegate scoffs. “Figures. No matter; he’ll make a decent birthday gift for my youngest.”
“So you’re interested in my sculpture?” Xander asks carefully.
Henry shrugs. “Thought it was interesting. How much you want for it?”
Xander thinks for a moment. “I don’t want money. I want Franklin. I will give you the sculpture for the horse.”
Applegate brays, his laughter sounding more than a bit forced. “A real horse for a statue of a horse? You must be out of your mind.”
“Perhaps,” Xander says mildly.
“No one’s taking that statue anywhere.” I was so caught up in the exchange I didn’t even hear the door chime again, but Sheriff Phil steps up to the counter, his fists squarely on his hips. “It’s being submitted into evidence until we get the results back on that knife.” He looks at Xander. “If it’s clean, you’ll get it back, and then you can do whatever you want with it.”
“What do you mean, evidence?” Applegate asks.
Without taking his eyes off Phil, Xander says, “It would seem that a knife was stashed inside of my statue somehow. And there’s blood on it.”
“You gotta be kidding me.” Applegate suddenly looks like he might be ill. “Keep it. I don’t want that thing now.” He heads straight out the door, muttering to himself about “these crazy rednecks.”
“It’s going to take a couple of days to get those results,” Phil tells Xander. “I’m not well enough equipped here to do it myself; had to send it out to a lab in Nashville. So maybe you stick around town until then?”
“I have no other plans,” Xander says evenly.
“Great. Be seeing you, then.”
Xander nods once and leaves as well, mounting his horse in one fluid motion and trotting away.
Phil turns to me. “I hate to do this, Cass, but I’m gonna need to ask you a couple of questions.”
“Sure.” I found the knife, so I figured something like this was bound to happen.
“Where were you between the hours of two a.m. and six a.m. three nights ago, on the fifth?”
“I was in bed sleeping.”
“Any chance anyone can corroborate that?”
I balk. These are not the kind of questions I expected. “Phil, are you asking for my alibi?”
He held his hands up. “Just gotta do my duty. You told Sharon your blood was on that knife; that means at least your DNA is going to come back positive on it, and who knows who else’s.”
“Just my luck,” I mutter, and then louder, “No, Phil, no one else can corroborate that I was i
n bed alone in the middle of the night.”
“Hey,” he says, “I know we go way back. Trust me; I’m not accusing you. I do need to put something down in the file that says I asked. That’s all, okay?”
“I get it. It’s fine.”
“Though I can’t help but wonder how you keep getting mixed up in these sorts of things,” he admits.