“No.” It came out sharper than she’d intended.
Noah jerked in surprise at the volume. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I should go.”
“No, it’s all right,” Priscilla said. “We’re the ones intruding. Is there an empty room we could use?”
“It looks like Mr. Porter’s room is unoccupied at the moment,” Noah said, a bit of wry humor coloring his tone. She didn’t see what was so funny about the situation.
“Where is it?” Jack asked.
“Second floor, third on the right.”
Jack offered her a hand and she took it. She’d apologize to Noah about the bottom of his chair later. For now, she needed to get out of the kitchen with its blood-stained floor.
They mounted the stairs two at a time. “So what is it you needed to tell the chief so badly?” Jack asked.
“Not here,” Priscilla whispered. She didn’t trust that Mr. Brown was not still prying into police business.
At the top of the stairs she found a long table with pictures of the Brown children atop it. In the very center of the table was a china bowl filled with rose petals in water. Priscilla wondered if this was the reason for Kierra’s last-minute addition of rose-shaped mints to the menu. Jack led her down the hall until they reached the room Noah had indicated. The door was slightly ajar, and the light was on.
The room was in shambles. Clothing slopped out of the chest of drawers or lay in piles on the floor. Wadded up paper hadn’t managed to make it into the wastepaper basket in the corner. A plate of food lay untouched on the nightstand and the bed looked as if it had been slept in by an anxious bear. The bedclothes were strewn about, stained with sweat, and a brown substance that looked suspiciously like ...
“Is that …” Jack asked, letting the question hang in the air between them.
“Blood,” Priscilla confirmed. “I could smell it to check, but I’m fairly sure.”
“It’s not much,” Jack said. “What do you think it is?”
“I’m not sure. Vomiting blood can be a symptom of ricin poisoning, but you’d think it would be a bigger stain.”
“Hm. So what is it you needed to tell the chief?”
“I think I know where our killer got the castor beans they needed to make ricin.”
“Where? Landry’s?”
Priscilla shook her head and slid her hand out of Jack’s. In light of what had happened, she didn’t want to get either of them in trouble with Arthur for fraternization with a married man. “Landry’s doesn’t sell castor beans. I asked them about that years ago. So I checked at Kennedy’s. He was sold out, and he got squirrely when I asked him about it.”
“That’s great,” Jack said, sounding genuinely pleased for the first time that night. “Do you think it was Tobias?”
She’d been afraid this might happen. She shook her head vigorously and took a step further into the room. “I don’t think so. But he wouldn’t give me the receipt when I asked for it, and rescinded my invitation, to boot. I think Arthur will need to subpoena the records in order for him to hand it over.”
“Easy enough,” Jack said, scratching his chin. “We’ll call Judge Brimsey in the morning and put in for one. Good work, Pratt.”
She was only half listening to his musing. She was more focused on the bloodstain on the bed. Her eyes roved over the room again and again, looking for anything out of place like a broken vase, or a sharp corner that had a trace amount of blood on it as well. Only one thing really stood out to her. Books and folders had been stacked by the bed, the only part of the room that seemed to maintain any semblance of order. She knelt and picked up the thick volume that lay on the top.
“The Collected Works of Faulkner,” she read aloud.
“That mean anything to you?”
“They liked the short story A Rose For Emily.”
“Really? I always thought it was kind of creepy.”
“That wouldn’t have been a mark against it, believe me,” Priscilla said. “They’re horror junkies, all of them. This is positively tame.”
She overstepped and knocked the pile over. It was incredibly clumsy of her, and said just how hungry she truly was. What was wrong with her? Usually a pint or two a week satisfied. It didn’t sate the hunger completely, but it was enough. Was it the recent exposure to human blood that had stirred her appetite? Or was she actually losing her touch?
One of the folders landed face down and spilled its contents all over the carpet. Priscilla muttered an obscenity beneath her breath and bent to pick it up. The folder read “For Matt” in curling script, undoubtedly Kierra’s. Inside was a list of tasks to complete, as well as a wish list for the perfect wedding day. She’d also included a booklet in which he was to write his own vows.
The thing that caught Priscilla’s attention was a receipt printed on yellow paper. The transaction was for $2,000. She peered more closely at it. What sort of gift had cost such an exorbitant amount? Her mouth fell open when she read the name of the purchase.
“What is it?” Jack asked, checking his watch. “We need to get back to the station pronto or the chief is going to have both of our behinds.”
She handed the receipt to him wordlessly.
“One murder,” Jack read aloud, voice rising in pitch as he continued. “To be carried out October 19th, at eight p.m.”
“Right after the wedding,” Priscilla said grimly. “Only someone changed the timetable.”
“We need to tell the chief,” Jack said.
“No, we need to find Matthew Porter. Now.”
Chapter Eight
The lights and sirens of Jack’s squad car cut the night air like a knife.
“Are you sure this is wise?” Priscilla asked, back flattened to the seat, clutching at her door handle with white-knuckled panic as the needle on the speed gauge inched closer to 80.
“Darby and Evans are guarding the roads out of town. They’ve got his plate number and vehicle description, so he’s not getting out that way. That means he’s still in town. I’m hoping the lights and sirens will flush him out.”
“What if he panics and kills someone else? He didn’t seem to have a problem hurting the chief.”
“We’ll hope it doesn’t come to that,” Jack said grimly, pressing on the gas. The car shot forward and Priscilla’s stomach lurched uneasily. She didn’t know if vampires could experience motion sickness, and didn’t want to find out this way.
“Can we please slow down?” she begged. “We’re going to hit the square soon, and you know some people don’t stop. I’d survive a crash, but I doubt you would.”
The car slowed to a more reasonable 60 miles per hour as they approached the cobblestone streets of the square. At this speed though, Jack would still tear holes in his tires if he hit a pothole. To her relief they did come to a complete stop at the intersection, and Jack paused briefly to see if there was anyone trying to breeze through the stop sign without halting. There was no one. Jack was preparing to ram his foot down on the gas pedal again when Priscilla saw it.
“Wait!” she cried. “There it is!”
“What? There what is?”
“That’s the Volvo,” she said, pointing to their right. The blue Volvo was parked in front of the courthouse and by the alternating light, she could see footprints in the snow. “He went that way.”
Jack took the right turn at an incredibly sharp angle and zoomed into a parking spot outside the courthouse.
“Stay here,” he ordered, reaching for his door handle.
“I can help you,” she insisted.
“You’re a civilian, Priscilla. And you’re completely unarmed.”
She laughed and flashed him a smile. “Unarmed, you say? I’m equipped with lethal weaponry.”
Jack looked dubious. “Still …”
“Mr. Riggs, which one of us is bulletproof?”
He blew out a breath. “Fine. But you better watch yourself, Pratt. And if you get into trouble, scream. I don’t care if you think you’re invincib
le, you’re taking this.”
Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out something short and metallic. “It’s a pocket knife,” he explained. “I know you can kill without it, but I’d rather not have to explain to a coroner why there are fang marks in his neck.”
She nodded and tucked the blade into the pocket of her jeans. It was a reasonable precaution, especially since she had to be in very close proximity to a person to bite. She could conceivably throw the knife and incapacitate her attacker. Her sire had taught her how, back when she’d still been human and vulnerable.
They mounted the steps together and she followed one set of tracks around one side of the building, while Jack followed another. The sidewalk was hard to distinguish from the grass yard, and she found herself straying off the beaten path often as the tracks continued forward. She passed the pewter bell that used to signal that court was in session. Now it was rung every Sunday morning to signal the start of church. The shrubs boxed the courthouse lawn in, making Priscilla feel a bit claustrophobic. The flashing lights of the car didn’t penetrate here, and she could pick out only what the lamp post across the street illuminated. Though she could see well in the dark, she wasn’t a bat, making her way through the night by echolocation. She did need some light for her vision to interpret shapes and colors correctly.
She rounded the next corner warily and could make out the outline of the stocks and gallows. Something was moving on top of the latter, though she couldn’t make out exactly what it was. It was too large and oddly-shaped to be a dog or raccoon.
“Jack?” she called out tentatively, hoping the shape would and raise a flashlight in her direction. Instead the figure started and then stepped forward, falling off whatever it had been standing on.
The shapes resolved themselves with horrifying clarity and she let out a choked shout. “No!”
The stool that the figure had been perched on wobbled and fell sideways, removing any support the man had beneath him. It was a sickening sight to watch the legs twitch in a familiar rhythm. It used to be public entertainment to watch a hanging, and Priscilla knew what it looked like.
“Jack!” Her shriek sounded too loud to her own ears and echoed in the night air.
She ran forward, heedless of the snow and ice beneath her feet. She knew she only had a minute or so before the man asphyxiated. Another shout rent the air and she heard heavy footfalls coming around the other side of the building. She couldn’t blame Jack for swearing. If she’d had any thought besides saving the man, she’d have been cursing too. The wavering light of his flashlight illuminated a purple-faced Matthew Porter, dangling at the end of a rope.
They arrived at the base of the gallows at roughly the same time. There was a confused second while they tried to figure out which of them was mounting the steps forward. Thankfully, Jack decided not to play the gentleman and pushed past her, mounting the stairs with astonishing speed.
“We need to cut him down!” Jack shouted. “Do you still have the knife?”
“Yes,” she panted, following behind him. Jack seized Matthew roughly around the knees and lifted him as far as he could. It let enough slack into the rope that the awful choking sound cut off, and she could make out Matthew’s wheezy breathing over the sound of Jack’s labored pants.
“Cut him down.”
She righted the fallen stool and climbed onto it, putting her level with Matthew’s head. She seized a hank of rope from above his head and yanked the knife from her pocket. It opened with a barely audible snick and she began to saw at the rope with all her strength. It didn’t take long for the strands to break apart. After all, the noose had been exposed to the elements for many, many years now. She was astonished it had held the full body weight of an adult man long enough to strangle him.
Matthew Porter collapsed on top of Jack. Priscilla could see tears still wet on his cheeks as she knelt by both of them. Deciding that Matthew’s need was greater than Jack’s, she moved him off of the fallen police officer as delicately as she could and braced her hands on either side of his head.
“He needs a hospital,” she said urgently as Jack struggled to his feet. “Tell the first responders there could be a neck injury.”
Jack withdrew a cellphone from his pocket and dialed 911. He sounded a great deal calmer than he looked and reported exactly what had happened, and where to find them.
“They’ll be here in fifteen minutes,” Jack informed her, kneeling by Matthew’s prone body. “What in the name of Sam Hill was he doing that for?”
“Desperation, maybe. Maybe he just couldn’t live with it.”
Sound burbled from Matthew’s throat. The skin on his neck was already beginning to bruise. If he was unlucky, he was going to have a scar.
“Shh,” Priscilla said. “Don’t try to speak. You could injure yourself further.”
Matthew fell silent, but tears continued to streak down his cheeks. She wished she could wipe them away, but she couldn’t move her hands. Allowing his head to loll this way or that could potentially paralyze him.
It seemed an agonizingly long time before the EMTs arrived to take Matthew away. She kept Matthew quiet by quoting what she could remember from After Fifty Years, from Faulkner’s poetry collection. A severe-looking woman with blonde hair and a square jaw shot her an odd look as she took Priscilla’s place, stabilizing Matthew’s neck. Two others toted out a backboard and strapped him securely to it.
She watched their retreating backs with a mixture of relief and concern. “Do you think he’ll be all right?”
“He’ll live, thanks to you,” Jack said. “If I hadn’t heard you calling for me, I don’t know if I’d have gotten around to him in time.”
“If I hadn’t called for you, he might not have jumped.”
Several more police cars arrived on the scene, and they were joined by Officers Darby and Evans. Both were silver-haired with lined faces. Darby was the taller of the two, and Evans stood at around five-six.
“Caught the boy. Good on you, Riggs,” Evans said, slapping Jack on the back.
“Priscilla found him,” Jack said. “And he would have died if Priscilla hadn’t cut him down. The idiot tried to hang himself.”
“Why?”
Jack shrugged. “That’s a question to ask him. I’m going to take Priscilla and go ahead to the hospital. Has Arthur gotten back from the ER?”
Darby shook his head. “It’s gonna be a party when we get there. You know he’s not going to be happy about this.”
“We’ve caught the murderer. He’ll cheer up,” Jack said with a hint of a growl. It appeared Priscilla wasn’t the only one who was tired of Arthur’s grumpy attitude.
“Are you sure we shouldn’t drop Priscilla off at her shop?” Darby asked.
“We need her statement,” Evans said with a weary shake of the head. “She might as well come along. We’re in for a late night.”
Arthur had three stitches in his right cheek when they arrived at the ER. His face grew redder with every word Jack said.
“So you mean to tell me that you nearly let the prime suspect die on your watch?”
“He didn’t let Matthew Porter do anything,” Priscilla said, crossing her arms over her chest. It was the best expression of anger she had, in the small room. She and four officers stood in a ring around the bed. If she’d had enough room, she’d have been gesticulating wildly. “He tried to commit a murder suicide. As I understand it, it’s not that uncommon, Arthur. He snapped, killed his girlfriend, and then tried to finish himself.”
Arthur hissed as the stitches pulled. He was going to have an impressive scar when they came out. “You’re sure it said murder?”
“Positive. And I’m sure when you subpoena Tobias’ records, you’ll find out that Matthew bought the castor beans. Ricin poisoning is deadly, but it takes a while. He must have gotten impatient and tried to make it look like an accident.”
Arthur rubbed at his temples. She could tell she was getting through to him. “I think you s
hould question him. He’s clearly feeling remorse.”
“The doctors say he won’t be able to speak clearly for at least another day. There’s no spinal injury, but he strained his vocal chords and caused trauma to his trachea.”
“So there’s no point in staying overnight,” Evans said, shoulders slumping with relief. Every single person in the room looked tired. The circles beneath Darby’s eyes were the most pronounced, but Jack looked just about ready to collapse onto the bed with Arthur.
“Call Emmerson in,” Arthur said finally. “I want a guard on Porter’s room, and I want to know the instant he’s ready to talk.”
“I can stay,” Priscilla said. “I’m up until at least five anyway. You can trade me in for Emmerson in the morning.”
“Priscilla—” Arthur began.
“You’re running on fumes as it is, all of you,” she continued. “Get some rest, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
Arthur finally relented, giving her a radio so she could keep in touch. He was discharged with a clean bill of health by his doctor. She saw them out as far as the door and then took a detour to the trauma rooms. The man next door to Matthew was bleeding. She’d never been more relieved to duck into a hospital room than she was to enter his.
His eyes were still open and she found herself staring at him. His eyes were blue. She’d failed to notice it last time they’d spoken. His hand twitched on the bedspread when he saw her, tapping nervously.
“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” she told him. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
He frowned, but couldn’t do more than that. The bruise had darkened to a dark purple in the hours that had passed since they’d brought him in. It surprised her that no one had come to visit him. Didn’t he have friends in the bed and breakfast? Or were all the people present only friends of Kierra’s?
His hand continued to move spasmodically. He became more and more agitated the longer she sat there silently watching him.
“What is it?” she asked.
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