A Nip of Murder

by Carol Miller

  “Don’t forget the hibernation part,” the biologist interjected.

  The conservationist gave a little snort. “Of course not. It should have been the first clue that something was wrong.”

  “The hibernation part?” Daisy echoed with a frown. “But the bats aren’t hibernating. Just about an hour ago, we—I—” she amended quickly, “saw a whole swarm come around the side of the mountain and fly off toward Fuzzy Lake.”

  “That’s exactly it,” the conservationist replied. “The bats aren’t hibernating yet, and white-nose syndrome doesn’t appear unless they are hibernating. The fungus can only grow in cold conditions. That’s why humans aren’t at risk. We’re too warm. But during hibernation the bats’ body temperature drops significantly. Combined with the cool cave in winter, it’s the ideal recipe for infection.”

  “So what does that mean?” Daisy asked him. “The fungus has adapted to warmer temperatures? It can attack bats in fall after the heat of summer is over but before they settle down for hibernation?”

  “I was worried about that,” he said. “I was worried that it might even be a new variety of the fungus. When we looked at the bats roosting in the cave from a distance, there were white spots on their wings and muzzles, but on closer examination it seemed to be a more solid substance than the typical powdery residue.”

  “That should have been the second clue,” the biologist muttered.

  With a nod of agreement at him, the conservationist continued, “It was strange, but we followed the standard procedure—the same as we have at dozens of other sites where white-nose syndrome has appeared and been confirmed. As an emergency measure to keep anybody from inadvertently carrying the fungus to the other caves on their shoes or their gear, we immediately blocked all access to the area. Then we took samples and sent them away to be tested. The results came back yesterday morning.”

  “And?” She gazed at him expectantly.

  “And it’s not white-nose syndrome,” the two men responded in unison.

  “Then what is it? Some other nasty fungus?”

  The men looked at each other and laughed.

  “Nope,” the biologist chortled. “Not a nasty fungus.”

  The conservationist chortled too. “It’s cream cheese.”

  Cream cheese. The blood drained from Daisy’s face, and the lustrous stars above her head spun like a golden carousel.

  “All things considered,” the conservationist said more earnestly, “we were very lucky. I’ve seen far too many instances where people have vandalized and even torched caves. There’s never any reason for it—other than ignorant cruelty—and tens of thousands of bats have died as a result. Thankfully in this case, whatever idiots decided to spray something on them, at least they didn’t use paint. That would have killed the bats for sure. But cream cheese is a natural product. As far as we’ve been able to tell, it hasn’t injured them.”

  “The really funny thing,” the biologist added, still chortling, “is that it hasn’t gone bad. Based on when we received the report of the discovery from the geocachers, the cheese must have been sprayed on the bats this past weekend, but it hasn’t spoiled. The cave worked just like a refrigerator, and the cheese is fine. You could eat it today the same as you could have a week ago.”

  “If you don’t mind a bit of bat fur on your bagel,” the conservationist remarked dryly.

  “And you would have to be able to catch one of them to scoop some of the cheese off,” the biologist returned.

  They started laughing again.

  Daisy didn’t laugh with them. She heard their words, and she understood them, but she was too dumbfounded to make a sound. The cream cheese that had been stolen from her bakery wasn’t rotting at the bottom of a farm pond. Nor was it sitting in a great melted, mushy, stinking pile on the edge of a field by Rick’s nip joint or with the rest of the trash behind Chris’s cabin at the campground. It wasn’t stinking or rotting at all. It was apparently in good condition inside a cave and flying around Fuzzy Lake. Ninety pounds of cream cheese on the muzzles and wings of hundreds—or thousands—of bats.

  She could only think about how wrong she had been—completely and utterly wrong. Beulah and Aunt Emily and Deputy Johnson had been wrong too. So had everybody who believed that the theft of the cream cheese was nothing more than a simple act of mischief. A silly, childish prank that had gone horribly awry when Brenda stabbed Jordan Snyder. Except it turned out that Jordan and his partners in crime didn’t take the cheese merely to cause trouble. They weren’t dim-witted hooligans as everyone had been so quick to assume. They had purposely chosen the cream cheese because they had an actual purpose for it.

  The conservationist was right: it wasn’t an ordinary case. He had been referring to the cheese, of course, but the real reason that it wasn’t ordinary was it had nothing to do with vandalism or ignorant cruelty. At its heart, it didn’t even have anything to do with the bats. They were just a convenient tool, and the white-nose syndrome was no more than a cunning deception. It was all about the cave and getting into the cave, to the exclusion of everybody else. Daisy could see that now. She could see it as clearly as her fingers could feel the rosewood grip of the Ruger in her jacket pocket.

  It was a brilliant plan, and the timing had been executed perfectly. Take the cheese from the bakery on Saturday morning. Spray it on the bats in the cave on Saturday afternoon or Sunday. Report the supposed discovery of white-nose syndrome to the appropriate officials on Monday, and the area was promptly closed. That was precisely what Jordan Snyder—before his untimely death—and his partners in crime had wanted to happen. They were there entirely because of the area.

  Daisy had already begun to guess it in regard to the maps that had been stolen from the historical society. She had wondered if they were the reason why Jordan and his partners chose to attend this particular geocaching event. Although she still didn’t know how exactly the maps helped them, she was certain that the hunt allowed them to make a meticulous examination of the mountain. No one paid any attention to where they climbed or dug or poked around, because they were expected to climb and dig and poke around, along with the rest of the geocachers. And when they thought they had at last found the right spot, they wanted to protect it.

  The fake fungus worked beautifully. The other geocachers were forced to leave, so there was no risk that any of them would stumble across the correct cave, or the correct chamber inside the cave, before they did. Then when the officials learned that the bats were safe and there was no white-nose syndrome affecting them, the area was reopened. Even that had been superbly calculated. As the conservationist had said, paint would have killed the bats for sure, and the area might have been closed indefinitely for a full-blown investigation. But the cream cheese didn’t cause any permanent damage, which meant that everyone just shrugged, chuckled, and walked away. The rogue geocachers were able to go about their business without a lick of interference. They were all alone, just them and the maps, which were perhaps necessary for the ultimate step—finding the treasure.

  For so long Daisy hadn’t been able to figure it out. She couldn’t get the pieces to match in any sort of rational manner. But finally they fit together for her. The cheese had started the puzzle, and it had also solved it. The only question left was whether the lost Confederate silver truly existed. How right—or how wrong—was Henry Brent on the subject? Were there thirty-nine kegs of Mexican silver dollars buried somewhere in southwestern Virginia? And were they under Danville, or were they in the mountains around Fuzzy Lake? Could the maps offer a clue as to their location?

  As she stood on the dark trail listening to the men grouse about their wasted work over the past week, Daisy felt a growing sense of impatience. Precious minutes were rapidly ticking by. Now that she knew how intelligent the geocachers were and to what lengths they would go to ensure that no one reached the treasure before they did, she worried more than ever about Laurel and Chris.

  Laurel was supposed to be getting marri
ed tomorrow. She wouldn’t be gone both yesterday and today unless something bad had happened. And Daisy was increasingly beginning to fear that it was something really bad. No doubt Bobby was getting anxious too. He was probably twitching on the fallen birch like a jumping spider. From his standpoint, she had been talking to the men for a very long time, especially if he couldn’t hear them or didn’t fully understand what they were saying. She had to find a way to get the men to continue down the mountain, so that she and Bobby could continue up it.

  “I sure do appreciate you telling me the area is open again,” Daisy interjected the moment there was a break in the discussion. “I’m also sure you want to get on home. I won’t keep you any longer.”

  Nodding appreciatively, the conservationist adjusted the pack on his back. “I won’t lie. This thing is getting heavy.”

  “Mine too,” the biologist griped, adjusting his pack as well. “We wouldn’t have to carry all the equipment if somebody hadn’t stolen our ATVs.”

  “Someone stole your ATVs?” Daisy said.

  She wasn’t overly surprised at the news. In comparison with the cream cheese, the revolver, and the maps, the ATVs had probably been the easiest for the geocachers to steal. No windows needed to be broken, and nobody was shot or stabbed in the process.

  “Thieving bastards,” the biologist spat. “I hope they ride right off a cliff.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know what direction they were headed?” Daisy asked.

  The conservationist shook his head. “We thought we heard them driving on the trail this afternoon, but we never saw them. Everything around here echoes, so we couldn’t tell if they were actually on the trail or just near it. For what it’s worth, it did sound like they were going up and down the mountain. Joyriding, I presume.”

  There was a distinct rustling in the undergrowth behind her. She knew it was Bobby. He must have heard the remark. It wasn’t joyriding. On the contrary, it was exactly what they had discussed earlier at the trailhead. The ATVs were how the geocachers had gone between the trail and the campground so quickly. If she and Bobby could find the vehicles, then they would in all likelihood find the geocachers—and hopefully also Laurel and Chris.

  “Well, thanks again.” Daisy tried to sound casual and not suspiciously eager to have them move along. “Hope you have a nice weekend.”

  “It will be if we ever get out of here,” the biologist grumbled.

  Shifting his light toward his feet, he started walking down the trail. The conservationist followed suit. Daisy pretended to head in the opposite direction, hoping that Bobby would be smart enough to wait until the two men were a good distance away before appearing.

  After only a few steps, the conservationist suddenly spun around. “Wait!” he exclaimed.

  Reluctantly, Daisy turned back.

  He shone his light on her face. “You never told us why you were up here.”

  “Stargazing.” She gestured toward the bulky pocket in which her hand was still holding the Ruger. “I have my binoculars. Now I just need to find the perfect spot.”

  And as she said it, Daisy moved swiftly out of the light, before the man could see how badly she was fibbing.

  CHAPTER

  24

  After a long moment of hesitation, the conservationist finally turned back around and continued with his colleague down the mountain. Daisy listened to their departing footsteps with a mixture of relief and regret. She was happy not to have to answer any of their questions, but at the same time, there was some security in their company. She didn’t know how many geocachers there were—two at a minimum and maybe more. The conservationist and biologist were numbers in her favor. With the generally poor reception in the area, it was unlikely that she would be able to use her phone if she needed to get help. At least she didn’t have to worry about the ATVs driving around in the dark.

  Bobby wisely waited until the lights from the two men were once again no more than flickering fireflies off in the distance, then he emerged from the undergrowth.

  “How’s the knee?” Daisy asked him.

  “It’s okay.” He bent his leg to test it. “A little stiff, but nothing serious.”

  “That’s good.” She paused, not quite sure where to begin.

  “Did you understand them?” Bobby said, taking the initiative. “All that stuff about the bats and the fungus and the cream cheese?”

  “I did,” she answered truthfully.

  “It’s your cream cheese, isn’t it, Daisy? The cheese that was stolen from Sweetie Pies last Saturday?”

  “It must be, especially considering the timing.”

  Bobby nodded. “Do you think it was some of the geocachers?”

  She nodded back at him, pleased that he was able to make the connection without her having to give a lengthy explanation.

  “If it was them,” his voice quivered, “then Laurel’s in real trouble, isn’t she?”

  “I’m afraid so, Bobby.”

  “But what do they want from her? And what do they want with the caves?”

  Daisy chewed on the inside of her cheek, debating what to tell him. It couldn’t hurt if he knew. It might even prove useful somehow.

  “I think they’re looking for treasure,” she responded. “I think they’re looking for lost Confederate silver.”

  He frowned at her. “You mean those thirty-nine kegs from Danville?”

  Her lips parted in astonishment.

  “I know the stories,” Bobby said. “We all know the stories. But I can tell you from personal experience, those kegs don’t exist. Or if they do, they’re not anywhere around here. Rick and I and most every other boy we knew used to go digging for treasure in these mountains when we were kids. You must have heard us talking about it. We’d head over the minute school let out in summer, and we’d always see a zillion old geezers roaming around with their charts and notebooks and metal detectors. They were looking for lost gold, lost silver, lost Confederate anything. And do you know what they found? The same as the rest of us. Nothing worth a bean. Rusted soda bottle tops and shell casings.”

  “Did you go into the caves?” Daisy asked him.

  “Naw. We crawled through occasionally, but most of ’em aren’t really big enough for people.”

  “Not enough to get in, or not big enough to move around once you’re inside?”

  Bobby shrugged. “The openings are only a foot or two, maybe three for the largest.”

  “The bats don’t need more than that as an entrance,” Daisy replied. “But the chambers further in the cave could be huge.”

  He squinted at her.

  “What if I told you the geocachers stole some old maps—”

  “Old maps?” he echoed.

  “From the historical society,” she said. “My guess is that they show this trail and the caves and something else which could be used to narrow down the location of the silver. The geocachers—”

  Not waiting for her to finish, Bobby turned on the heel of his boot and immediately started marching up the trail.

  “Bobby—”

  “We’ve got to hurry, Daisy! We’ve got to get to those caves.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “That must be why they took Laurel. She’s little enough to get in. She could crawl through one of the smaller openings when they couldn’t.”

  “Maybe, but—”

  “And now she might be stuck. She could be trapped in a cave and scared out of her mind!”

  Daisy couldn’t argue with him on that point. Being trapped inside a pitch black cave with threatening men and at least one revolver blocking your exit as countless bats swooshed continually over your head did not sound enjoyable. She wasn’t convinced, however, that Laurel’s size was the reason why the geocachers had wanted her. Now that she knew for certain their interest in Laurel didn’t have any relation to them gaining access to the area while it was closed, Daisy was more inclined to believe that it had some connection to Chris. It seemed to be too much of a coinci
dence to her that the geocachers were searching for Confederate treasure and the Confederacy was Chris’s area of historical expertise.

  “She might have been trapped since yesterday!” Bobby went on. “She’s probably cold and hungry and tired and thirsty—”

  He had darted ahead of her so quickly that Daisy had to rush to catch up. The trail seemed somehow easier to follow than it did before. Maybe it was because her eyes had fully adjusted to the darkness, or because the moon was particularly bright that evening.

  When she finally reached him, she touched his arm. “Hush, Bobby. Laurel’s not a hothouse rose. She won’t wilt from one bad day.”

  The litany of his fiancée’s potential ailments halted.

  “The important thing is getting to her—and Chris,” Daisy added. “But we need to do it quietly. We don’t want the geocachers to hear us if we can avoid it. It’s bad enough that they can see our lights.”

  Bobby promptly lowered both his voice and his flashlight. “Can you find the cave?” he asked her.

  “Which cave? That’s the question.”

  Although he kept walking at a rapid pace, Bobby hesitated before answering. “The one the bats came out of?”

  “I can try,” Daisy said. “Or at least I can get us near it.”

  She chastised herself for not asking the conservationist and biologist if the cave that she had seen the bats emerge from at dusk was the one with the cream cheese. She assumed that they were the same, but she didn’t really know. If the two were different, she could only hope that they were close to each other.

  They continued hiking briskly up the mountain. As they rounded another switchback, Daisy peered toward the opposite side of the ridge. It was much closer than it had been previously. The black spots that speckled in between the trees were significantly larger and more distinct. She could tell now that some were merely depressions and patches of bare rock, but others were definitely caves. They were all still. None appeared to have any movement in front of them—bat or human.