Demon Hunting In a Dive Bar (25 page)

T
oby was right about the sheriff. Not only did Whitsun find the bar without a guide, he brought two deputies and the paramedics with him. He spoke briefly to Beck and Conall and then got right down to business. It took a stepladder and two men to get Charlie out of the tree. The scene was roped off and photographed. Charlie was examined and pronounced dead at the scene. No surprise there.

“Looks like they used a nail gun to hammer him to the oak,” Beck overheard Whitsun say. “The body shows signs of a struggle and there’s froth around the mouth. The paramedics think he may have drowned, although we’ll have to do an autopsy to be sure. My. guess is, Skinner was drowned in his own moonshine.”

The sheriff strode up to Beck and Conall. One of the deputies, an older man with graying hair and a slight paunch, came with him.

“You heard?” Whitsun asked Beck without preamble.

The sheriff was a straightforward kind of guy.

“Yes,” Beck said. “You think Charlie was murdered. You know the Skinners run moonshine?”

Whitsun nodded. “Sonny Bowers, my predecessor, filled me in on a lot of things before he left office. He knew the Skinners were making hooch, but he never could catch them at it. Frustrated him no end. Do you know anybody who’d want to kill Charlie, a family member looking to take over the business or somebody with a grudge?”

Was he kidding? After the gathering, any number of people probably had a grudge against Old Charlie. People got hurt and sick because of him and his kith-a-poo joy juice. She glanced at the deputy. She could give the sheriff an earful, but she wasn’t about to talk kith business in front of an outsider.

“Sheriff, if I could have a word with you?” she said. “Alone.”

“Give us a minute, Cecil,” Whitsun said.

The deputy strolled away to talk to one of the EMTs.

Whitsun cocked a brow at Conall. “You said alone.”

Conall crossed his arms on his chest. “She did not mean me. I stay.”

Yeah, just what she needed: two alpha males and a double order of testosterone.

“He’s okay,” Beck said. “I didn’t want to talk about this in front of a norm.”

The sheriff stiffened. “Norm? I don’t follow you.”

Maybe the sheriff wasn’t so straightforward, after all. Maybe he couldn’t afford to be, not and do his job. Whatever; Beck was too impatient to play games.

“Don’t play dumb, Sheriff. I know what you are.”

Whitsun’s gray eyes narrowed. Either he wore contacts to disguise his purple eyes or he was a chameleon.

“How?” he asked.

“That’s my business.” She wasn’t about to out Toby or his nose to the sheriff. “Let’s just say I know you’re kith and leave it at that.”

Whitsun’s jaw tightened. “I trust we can keep this matter between ourselves, Ms. Damian?”

“Your secret’s safe with me, Sheriff.”

“Good, because I’d be unhappy with anyone or anything that interfered with my job.”

Whew, somebody was touchy.

The sheriff’s steady gaze shifted to Conall. “That includes you and your brothers, Mr. Dalvahni. I know what you are and what you do. I don’t have a problem with it as long as you stay out of my way. This is my county.”

Conall returned his regard without expression. “The Dal are not bound by human rules or boundaries.”

“So I’ve noticed.” Whitsun looked at Beck. “Any idea who did this or why they dumped Charlie’s body at your place?”

“No,” she said. “I can’t point the finger at anybody in particular, but—”

She hesitated. It went against the grain to talk about the kith, especially to a cop. But this particular lawman was one of them.

“But?” the sheriff prodded.

“You know about the shindig at the Peterson lodge yesterday?”

“Yes. I wasn’t invited, but I hear things.”

Interesting; Beck wondered if the sheriff had an informant among the kith.

“Charlie was there and provided the liquor,” she said. “Only this wasn’t ordinary moonshine. He made it special for the kith.It . . . did things to them. Some got sick and others . . .” She shrugged. “Let’s just say, it didn’t bring out the best in folks.”

“Was anybody hurt?”

“Yeah.” She nodded toward the bar. “Somebody shot Hank, my cook, and rumor has it Lloyd Hagenbarth’s son was killed. There may have been more.”

Whitsun rubbed his jaw. “I’ll check on the Hagenbarth boy, but first I’ll need to talk to your cook.”

“You’ll have to wait. Right now, he’s a bear.”

“I don’t give a damn what kind of mood he’s in. If he’s well enough to talk, I need to get his statement.”

“You are not listening,” Conall said. “She said
he is a bear.
”

“Oh,” the sheriff said. “How long do you think it will be before he’s . . . uh . . . more himself?”

“We do not know,” Conall said. “My brother, Duncan, is a healer. He is tending the creature.”

“Was your brother here last night?”

“Yes,” Conall said, “although he left in search of medicinal herbs.”

“I’ll need to talk to him, too.” The sheriff pulled out a pad and made some notes. “Anybody else here last night?”

“Yes,” Beck said. “Verbena Skinner.”

The sheriff looked up. “Any relation to the victim?”

“His daughter,” Beck said. “She’s staying here for the time being.”

Whitsun wrote that down. “Any reason she’d want to kill her father?”

“Only like a million,” Beck said. “Charlie Skinner was a sorry, lowdown son of a bitch, and those were his good points, but Verbena didn’t kill him. She didn’t leave the bar last night.”

“Duncan and the bear will vouch for her,” Conall said.

“When the bear can talk,” Whitsun muttered.

“Besides, she couldn’t have done it,” Beck said. “She spent most of the night in the walk-in cooler.”

“The zombie locked her in to protect her from the demons,” Conall said.

“Demons?” Whitsun frowned. “What demons?”

“The ones Rebekah captured and had imprisoned until—”

“—the zombie let them out,” Whitsun finished. “If this is your idea of a joke, I am not amused.”

“It’s not a joke,” Beck said. “The zombie’s name is Tommy. He set the demons free, but it wasn’t his fault. The zombie maker made him do it.”

“Uh-huh,” Whitsun said. “So, how do you two know this if you weren’t here?”

“The ghost told us,” Conall said. “You will undoubtedly wish to speak to the shade as well.”

“A ghost. You expect me to interview a ghost.” The sheriff shoved the notepad back in his pocket. “Which ghost? No, wait. Let me guess. Hazel?”

“No,” Conall said. “The shade’s name is Junior Peterson.”

“Peterson?” Whitsun repeated. “As in
the
Petersons?”

Beck shrugged. “His house burned down and he got tired of haunting the Episcopal church.”

The sheriff’s mouth thinned. He thought they were punking him. She didn’t blame him. It sounded crazy.

The employee door swung open and Toby limped out.

“Becky, you won’t believe it,” he said, coming up to them. “Ora Mae called and said Clyde Wheeler died of a heart attack.”

“Clyde’s dead?” Beck said. Clyde had been a regular at Beck’s for years. “I don’t believe it. We just saw him . . . when?”

“Saturday night,” Toby said. “He lit out of here like everybody else when Annie screamed. His heart gave out on him in the middle of the woods. The funeral’s tomorrow at two o’clock—closed casket on account of him being a pig. His brother had to tote his body home in a wheelbarrow. ”

“That’s awful,” Beck said with a shudder.

That’s the way it was with some of the kith; if they died in their animal form, they didn’t always shift back. Poor Clyde. She wondered where his family got a casket for a pig. Not from any norm funeral parlor, that was for sure.

“Don’t you get it, Becky?” Toby’s face was flushed with excitement. “He’s getting buried
tomorrow
. Three days after Annie yowled. The legend’s true.”

“What’s he talking about?” Whitsun asked. “Who’s Annie?”

“The Wampus Kitty,” Toby said. “She sort of hangs around the bar, although she’s skittish with everybody, ’cept the zombie. The Wampus Kitty screamed Saturday night and now Clyde Wheeler’s dead.”

Whitsun gave Beck a hard look. “What the hell kind of place are you running here, Ms. Damian?”

“Sheriff, I have no idea.”

He shook his head. “I’d like to see the bear and speak to Miss Skinner now, if you don’t mind.”

“They’re inside,” Beck said. “I’ll show you the way. Go easy on Verbena. She’s had a rough night, and she doesn’t know about her daddy.”

“I’ll tell her,” Whitsun said. “Part of the job.”

Not a part of the job he liked, judging from his grim expression.

“One more thing, Sheriff,” Beck said. “Yesterday, Charlie was wearing a pair of red and yellow boots.”

“Paul Bonds,” Toby said. “Custom made.”

The notepad came back out of the sheriff’s pocket. “The victim was barefoot when you found him this morning?”

She nodded. “Yes. Find those boots and you might find your killer. That is, if Charlie was murdered.”

“Skinner could have fallen in a vat of moonshine and drowned by accident,” the sheriff said. “But he didn’t climb up a tree and hang himself out to dry. Looks like somebody wanted to make an example of him.”

“Yeah, but who?” Beck asked.

Toby snorted. “Take your pick. Charlie Skinner was a pain in the ass.”

 

Beck refused to let Conall magically repair the damage to the bar.

“Why?” he asked, knitting his brows together.

“Because I don’t want to get spoiled,” she said. “It’s not like you’re going to be around forever.”

She held her breath, waiting for his answer. This was his chance to contradict her.

Instead, he said only, “At least allow me to repair the windows and doors to keep out the weather and the vermin.”

That was an answer, just not the one she wanted.

Serves you right, Beck thought, angry with herself.
What did you expect, a declaration of eternal devotion?

She turned away. “Okay, I’ll get the mop and broom.”

She and Toby cleaned up the mess and hauled the broken furniture outside to the burn pile. Conall fixed the broken bar without asking. Beck fussed about it, but was secretly relieved. They fetched more chairs and tables out of the back storeroom and replenished the liquor supply. By noon, things were back in order, though a residual smell of demon lingered.

“Vinegar,” Conall pronounced. “It kills the stench. Unless you have any Alundrean thistle seed?”

“Fresh out,” Beck said.

She filled a spray bottle with vinegar and squirted it around the bar. It helped, although Toby said the place smelled like a big pickle fart.

There was still no sign of Tommy or Annie, and Beck was worried. She stood on the end of the pier calling them, but got no answer. She left some canned food on the porch for Tommy and tuna for the kitten.

“The dang possums will probably eat Annie’s food,” she told Conall, who’d joined her outside. “But I have to try.” She widened her eyes at him. “You’re a hunter. You could go look for them.”

“No.” He tugged her close, and kissed her on the lips. “Do not frown. I know you are worried, but I will not leave you.”

Ooh, that sounded promising. Ridiculous how much lighter that simple statement made her feel.

“Why not?” Beck asked, leaning against him.

He ran his hands down her back and cupped her bottom. “Because you may be in danger. Should any of the djegrali linger here, they will bear you enmity for imprisoning them.”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that.”

“I did. It is my job to keep you safe.” He gave her a slow kiss that got her heart a-pumping and the blood sizzling in her veins. “A vessel approaches. We should go inside, before we shock your customers.”

The guy couldn’t keep his hands off her, Beck thought, smiling as she walked back up the pier. Her earlier gloom lifted. Every cloud had a silver lining. If the demons’ escape meant Conall would hang around Hannah a little longer, then she was glad of it.

The news of Charlie’s death spread fast, and folks drifted into the bar to talk about it. By three o’clock, the place was packed. Toby and Conall manned the bar and Beck reluctantly took over KP, limiting the menu to burgers, chicken fingers, and French fries. Verbena had fallen into an exhausted sleep after the sheriff left. She came out of the back around five o’clock, and insisted on helping out.

“Are you sure you feel up to it?” Beck asked worriedly. “I mean, because of your daddy and all.”

“He weren’t my daddy,” Verbena said. “My mama was sneaking around on the old man. She told me before she died. She made me promise not to tell. Said Charlie would kill me for sure.” She lifted her thin shoulders. “Sorta wish I’d told him now just to get his goat. He tried to kill me anyway.”

Beck gave Verbena a closer look. Her face was thin, but she didn’t have the Skinners’ ferrety looks. She wore a pair of Beck’s old running shorts, a Beelzebubba T-shirt one of the guys in the band had given her, and plaid canvas loafers some drunk shifter had left at the bar. Her hair was a multicolored nightmare of frizz and her legs and arms were stick thin. But there was something about Verbena, something that shone through her awkward exterior.

“You don’t look like a Skinner,” Beck said. “Who was your daddy?”

“Traveling man,” Verbena said. “Blowed through Hannah and back out again with one of them little fairs.” Her expression grew wistful. “Mama said he had more talent in his little finger than all the Skinners put together. I didn’t get none of it, though. I’m a dud. Earl says. They all say.”

“Forget them. You are not a dud.” Beck wanted to kick some Skinner ass from here to Monroe County for what they’d done to this girl. Personally. “What are you going to do? Are you going back home?”