Jezebel was frustrated by her inability to recall the dream that disturbed her so intensely. It bothered her that she couldn’t remember any details. Nightmares were nothing new to the sheriff. The end of her freshman year in high school had been marked by a series of frightening dreams serious enough to prompt her mother into seeking treatment for her. Luckily, the nightmares faded with time.
What time is it? She checked the clock on the microwave when she entered the kitchen.
“4:30 in the morning,” Jezebel said aloud. She hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since they found the body of Jeffrey Daniels. The stress of the case was starting to get to her. “Get a grip on yourself,” she muttered. Jezebel traced the outline of the coffee pot next to the stove. This would mark the second day in a row she was off to such an early start.
A soft noise outside startled her. Jezebel walked to the window, her nerves on edge. Other than piles of fallen leaves below the trees, there was nothing on her back lawn.
There it was again. She spotted a large crow a few feet from the window. Jezebel watched the bird for a few moments before shivering and closing the blinds. After what she had seen of the wreckage of Jeffrey Daniels’ truck, the sight of the crow was unsettling.
Suddenly she felt very alone, although such a feeling was not unusual for her. Even though Jezebel was both well-liked and well-known in the community, she didn’t have many close relationships. It wasn’t that she was incapable of making friends; Jezebel was very popular in high school. Unfortunately, her current position left her with little free time. What time she had left was often devoted to looking after her mother. Whenever she tried to reach out, her other obligations always seemed to get in the way. She could count on one hand the number of serious relationships she’d had since college.
Jezebel stretched and grudgingly started the coffee pot despite the unforgiving hour.
“Good morning, new best friend,” she muttered.
Today is going to be a long day. There was certainly more than enough on her plate. So far the search for Gary Davis was proving futile. The police in Thistlewood promised to keep an eye out for him, although Jezebel doubted he could make it that far on foot. Logan Randall assured her he would handle the search, and she reluctantly agreed. That would permit her to focus on the investigation and collecting evidence.
It was too early to jog, the one regular indulgence she allowed herself. Jezebel took pride in being athletic. Muscle came in handy to a woman in law enforcement. Her athleticism had helped her several times over the past few years, like when dealing with out of control patrons at Dale’s Bar.
Moving to the living room, she turned on a lamp next to her favorite recliner. Jezebel bent down and rooted through picture albums and records from the past in a cabinet below the television. Finally she found it. Her hands closed around the old yearbook, worn with time.
After flipping through its contents, Jezebel located Davis’ picture with ease. It was only a few pages away from her photo. He looked just like she remembered. When she said, “I know him,” it might have been an overstatement. More like she knew him, once.
Her memories of Gary Davis were foggy; they hadn’t been friends. From what she remembered, he was a bully. Since the two had been in the same grade, they shared a few classes together, and Jezebel could recall arguing with Gary when he picked on some of the more unpopular students.
Even if Gary remained just as cruel as he was in the past, Jezebel had a hard time believing anyone could do what he did to his family. Anger rose up within her at the image of the boy lying on the ground.
Why would Gary have wanted to kill Jeffrey Daniels? That was the real question. Regardless of the lack of physical evidence linking the two, Jezebel knew deep down the murders were connected.
Maybe he killed Daniels and his wife found out about it, she thought. That still doesn’t explain why he killed his son, too. Not to mention the fact that he didn’t even try to hide it.
She hoped Logan Randall would find Gary soon so she could start getting some answers. Jezebel retained deep reservations about letting Randall head the search. While he may have denied it earlier, she knew Logan Randall and Gary Davis were once friends, which was fitting, since the two were both miscreants during their adolescent years.
The potential conflict of interest troubled her. Regrettably, there was little she could do about it, since she lacked the manpower to keep him off the case. Her out-of-shape deputy Heavy Markham certainly wasn’t up to such an arduous physical task, and she needed to conduct the rest of the investigation herself.
It’ll be fine, she told herself. Gray Hollow was such a small town that almost everyone knew everyone anyway. Jezebel was certainly familiar with most of the people she put away. Just because Logan knew Gary didn’t mean he would break the law for an old high school buddy. I’ll just have to keep a close watch on him.
She closed her eyes for a moment to clear her head in an attempt to make sense of it all. The startling image of the withered scarecrow flashed in her mind. Seeing it in the bloody farmhouse bedroom had shaken her to the core. Jezebel was almost sure she had seen the scarecrow, or one just like it, years before. The connection was left out of the report because she wanted to be sure. As disturbing as the scarecrow was, Jezebel wasn’t sure how it related to the case.
Outside, the sky was beginning to grow lighter. Sunrise was on its way.
Find connection between Daniels and Davis, she wrote before heading to the shower. The words Thomas Brooks said to her still rang in her ear.
“Just so you know, sheriff, Jeffrey Daniels isn’t a stranger to Gray Hollow.”
She decided to give Thomas a call later and ask him what he meant. He could provide her with the link between the two men. Jezebel realized she needed to be careful with how she worded the request; the last thing she wanted was to tip off the attentive reporter to what was going on with Gary Davis before she had someone in handcuffs.
Hopefully, she thought while turning on the hot water, we’ll have this case wrapped up before anyone even has cause for alarm.
***
“I have a bad feeling this isn’t legal,” Max complained. The editor straightened his tie.
“Of course it’s not legal,” Thomas replied. “Do you think the sheriff would just let us waltz into the morgue?”
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this,” Max said as the two headed for the hospital doors.
The Gray Hollow Memorial Hospital was one of the larger buildings in town, which was ironic for something that started out as an animal clinic. Even into the early twentieth century, the hospital served as a veterinary clinic. Most patients traveled to the nearby hospital in Thistlewood to receive care, unless they wanted to wait for a weekly visit from one of the doctors at St. Francis’ Hospital.
Eventually, two doctors began sharing offices with the veterinarian when the small community began expanding. Two became four, and it wasn’t long until the successful practice led to renovations of the new hospital. After twenty years, a corporate hospital chain from the north, which provided new and desperately needed equipment, bought out the close-knit community hospital.
“Last chance,” Max said before the pair passed through the mechanically operated doors. “Sure you don’t want to give the sheriff a call? Haven’t we bent the rules enough already?”
“Not a chance. If she hadn’t moved the bodies already, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”
When the two arrived at the home of Gary Davis the previous day, it was evident Thomas’ timing was perfect. Jezebel and the other officers were nowhere to be found. Thomas had no problem crossing the caution tape. Max required a bit more prompting. They took pictures of the two outlines at the crime scene, then split up to ask the neighbors if they heard anything about what happened the night before.
The search didn’t last long. There were only three neighbors who lived anywhere close to Gary Davis’ large farm. After talking to a middle-aged
woman named Cindy Williams, Thomas learned a great deal about Gary and his family. He’d had a wife named Mary. They’d had a son together, Ben. It was Max, however, who found the most valuable witness. Mike Brinkley told Max everything that he saw when he went into the house, including his conversation with the sheriff. Thomas couldn’t believe their luck.
“Remind me again why we need to be doing this? We have Brinkley’s statement.”
“Brinkley also told us we couldn’t quote him. It’s easier this way. Relax. It’s not like we’re breaking into the morgue to see the bodies for ourselves. Although it would make for an explosive front page . . .”
“Don’t even joke about that,” Max said, turning white. “You may be new here, but I have a reputation to uphold.”
“Trust, but verify.”
“More like if I trust you, I’ll get crucified if we get caught.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?” Thomas asked. “We’ve already got the hard part out of the way. The most they could do is to refuse to give us the information. Besides, don’t forget about the First Amendment. I’ve been involved in a few lawsuits myself, and the press usually prevails.”
“What do you mean, ‘usually’?”
It was too late; Thomas strolled inside the air-conditioned entry hall. Max shook his head and quickly followed.
“Hello,” Thomas said to a man behind the directory counter. “I’m Thomas Brooks with the Shelbyville Funeral Home. We’re here to pick up your cadaver release forms.”
“Why didn’t you request the forms in the mail?” He looked confused.
“I’m a close friend of the family,” said Max. “They requested I attend to all the details personally to make sure everything went smoothly.”
“You’re going to need clearance to fill out the forms,” the man said. From the look on his face, he remained unconvinced.
“I spoke to Janice last night about it over the phone,” Thomas said. The sentence was partially true; the reporter did call the hospital directory to find out who was working the counter the night before. “Didn’t she leave a note?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t see it anywhere,” the man said after searching vigorously for the note.
Max sighed.
Thomas ignored the sign of disapproval from his editor. “This is very disappointing. We drove all the way from Shelbyville to take care of this ourselves.”
“Well, I guess I can make an exception, if you talked to Janice. Can you give me the names?”
“Absolutely. Mary and Ben Davis.”
“I have them listed right here. Here are the forms,” the man said. He handed a thick stack of papers to Thomas.
“Thank you,” Max replied. “I appreciate this. We will complete and verify the forms at the office.”
“Glad I was able to help.”
“See,” Thomas whispered as the two men headed outside, “that wasn’t so hard.”
“Sure. We had to impersonate funeral home directors to find something out we already know, which I’m pretty sure is illegal. I can’t believe I let you talk me into this. Is this how you did things in New York?”
Thomas shrugged. “Things are faster my way, and it’s always worked out for me before.”
“If that was true, you wouldn’t be here.”
Thomas ignored the pointed barb. “Now we know for sure that Brinkley was telling the truth. Mary and Ben Davis are dead.”
Max nodded. “Add that to the APB for Gary Davis, and it starts to fit together. She thinks Davis murdered his family. There’s only one problem I can think of with that scenario.”
“What’s that?” Thomas asked, nearing his car.
“How does this relate to the death of Jeffrey Daniels?”
“That’s what we have to find out. For now, we have enough to run an article exposing what we know. There will be more to come as we confirm it.”
“Confirm?”
“When Jezebel sees what we’ve printed, she’s going to have to start coming clean with answers. In the meantime, I still have some other leads to pursue.”
He waited for Max to slide into the passenger seat before starting the ignition. After putting the car in reverse, he glanced over his shoulder and left the hospital parking lot.
“Start the presses, Max. Things are about to get heated.”
***
“You’re sure?” Jezebel asked. The information over the phone disturbed her. It was only noon, and already it was already shaping up to be a long day. At the moment she was in her car, chasing down a lead.
She waited for the officer from Thistlewood to respond.
“The pitchfork had no fingerprints belonging to Gary Davis matching the prints your department sent us.” Unlike Gray Hollow, the city of Thistlewood devoted a great deal of money to the police budget, which boasted a relatively well-equipped forensics department.
“He could have been wearing gloves,” Jezebel said. She paused to let the woman on the other end of the line finish.
“The shells recovered all matched the same rifle, the same type as the one registered to Gary Davis. The autopsy showed no trace of bullet wounds in either corpse. In fact, Sheriff, there was no sign on either of the bodies indicating prolonged struggle.”
“When I was at your department earlier, I was told the blood on the first floor didn’t belong to either of the deceased.”
“That’s correct.”
“Then the blood probably belonged to Gary.”
If no struggle took place, why was Gary bleeding? There was no weapon recovered, such as a knife with Gary’s blood on it. Only the pitchfork, which held traces of both Gary’s blood and that of his wife.
Something else bothered her. Why did Gary fire his rifle? If he really wanted to cover up the crime, why risk alerting the neighbors? Especially since neither of the victims was killed with the rifle anyway.
“Was there any indication that someone else was involved, other than the three members of the Davis family?”
“Not from the samples you sent us.”
“OK. That’s all for now. Thanks for your help. Tell Chief Barnes I appreciate his assistance.”
“Will do. Good afternoon.”
For every question answered, another question reared its ugly head. Jezebel felt a new sense of urgency, and she stepped on the accelerator. She continued driving until she reached Old Main Street. The street was in the oldest part of town, home to many buildings in disrepair. Most stores in the area were out of business altogether, boarded up and sealed off from the world.
From her parking space, Jezebel initiated a quick phone call to Heavy Markham to let the deputy know she would soon be on her way to the office. Heavy told her that after following her research into Jeffrey Daniels, he confirmed that the victim’s father, Wilbur, once owned land in Gray Hollow.
Confident that she missed no other significant updates in her absence, Jezebel ended the call and made her way toward the antiquated store a few feet away.
Novelty Store, read the simple sign in faded black letters. She peered through the grimy windows as if waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, Jezebel entered the store, which caused a small bell to ring on the other side of the door.
“Hello?” Jezebel looked around for the proprietor. “Is anyone there?”
She wiped her nose and stifled a sneeze. The store was covered in dust, which lined each row of books with a thin veil of gray. Dim lights burned constantly above her, barely illuminating all of the items in the shop. The novelty store was overstocked with items of all shapes and sizes for sale, stacked from wall to wall.
Despite its worn appearance, the store had changed very little from when she was younger. It was always filled with peculiar products, which earned a well-deserved eerie reputation with children. She could still recall some of the creepier rumors her friends used to tell her about the shop. According to one story, from time to time the proprietor locked children in a cellar under the store, and they were
never seen again.
Jezebel passed down an aisle of bookshelves, temporarily distracted by the various pieces in the store. Strange antiques were everywhere, from old wooden masks to Persian rugs. A bronze oil lamp resting next to a lounge chair loomed in front of her. Jezebel advanced in the direction of the light and the empty chair. A strange-looking doll rested on the shelf next to the lamp. The doll was carved from dark wood, with strands of what appeared to be human hair framing an intimidating face. Transfixed, Jezebel reached toward the doll.
“May I help you?” a baritone voice replied from behind her. Unable to help herself, Jezebel jerked. She turned around and found herself staring into a pair of narrow, dark green eyes.
“I apologize for startling you, young lady,” the man continued, the hint of a smile on his dry lips. “My name is Percy Durer. How may I be of service?”
“I know who you are, Mr. Durer,” Jezebel said. She stared at the storekeeper. If the novelty store was infamous among the children of Gray Hollow, so was its owner—a white-haired man with a lean, wiry frame.
Durer was part of the reason for the stories; one of the more popular myths was that he abducted children who came into his store after sunset. When Jezebel was older she realized the story was of course false (the novelty store wasn’t even open after sunset), but that didn’t make Durer any less ominous.
“I am Sheriff Jezebel Woods. If you don’t mind—”
“Jezebel Woods?” The storeowner’s eyes lit up. “Yes, I remember you now. A small little fidgety thing, that’s right. You used to take turns peering into my windows with your friends, didn’t you?”
Jezebel was stunned.
“I’m not sure, Mr. Durer. That’s not why I’m here. If you don’t mind, there is something you might be able to help me with. I’m looking into a crime.”
“That’s right. You said Sheriff Jezebel Woods. Whatever happened to that Ramsey fellow?”
“Sheriff Ramsey died over four years ago.”
“Forgive me; I’m not as up to date on current affairs as I once was. The store has been so quiet since all the shops moved to New Main Street. I receive few customers now. Some days I don’t even bother to come out of my room.” The old man pointed at a door at the top of the stairs.
The Keeper of the Crows Page 9