Mystery At Riddle Gully (8 page)

Pollo sat on the back step of her house, her head in her hands. The trail of carrots she'd laid on the track behind the houses and in through the propped-open gate was untouched. Shorn Connery hadn't come home.

He'd been separated from her lots of times before but he'd always made his way back, no problems. Half the time, he'd been bleating at the back gate waiting for her. He'd certainly never stayed out overnight. What was keeping him this time? Away from his food and water troughs? Away from her?

She'd ridden her bike around for nearly two hours in the morning looking for him. She'd even gone back up Diamond Jack's Trail a bit, where she'd started scattering
the carrots. She'd found nothing—not so much as a strand of wriggly wool.

There was only one stone still unturned—Viktor von Albericht's hut.

There were two reasons to go back there (three if you counted getting out of helping Aunty Giulia and Uncle Pete bag sheep manure at their farm). The first was easy—the hut was the last place she'd seen Shorn Connery. The second reason was much harder to face. She and Will had interrupted von Albericht's little party last night. Hopefully he'd lost his chance to work on Sherri—for the time being at least. But the odds were, then, that he'd been left hungry ... and to The Undead, if human blood wasn't on hand, animal blood was the next best thing.

Pollo gnawed on a fingernail. She'd read often enough that vampires couldn't harm anyone in daylight hours. But having seen von Albericht at work last night, it wasn't a theory she was itching to test on her own. She needed Will's help—just one more time.

‘You want the galvanised ones, son.' Sergeant Butt's voice drifted over his back fence as Pollo tiptoed nearer along the track. ‘Other nails rust soon as you look at 'em. Pass us a couple, there's a good lad.'

Pollo squatted and peeked through a crack as Will passed his stepdad the nails.

Sergeant Butt ran one through his hair. ‘Little trick
I learned from a carpenter friend,' he said, winking at Will. ‘It greases them up. Makes them go in easier.'

All of a sudden, a mighty bang shot through the fence past her ear, sending Pollo tumbling backwards into the dirt. ‘You don't muck around with little taps!' said Sergeant Butt. ‘You've got to give it a good wallop! Here—you do the next one.'

Pollo heard Sergeant Butt step away and she scrambled back to the fence. As Will squatted down with the hammer, she tapped the wood next to his head. ‘Meet me here at eleven hundred hours!' she whispered. ‘Please!'

They approached von Albericht's hut by the back way this time, creeping in a wide semicircle through the bush and along an old kangaroo trail, damp and glistening green. A light shower had fallen a little earlier—the first of the season. The only sound now was the occasional cascade of droplets as birds hopped in the branches above, disturbing the wet leaves.

Climbing onto a wood-chopping stump, they peeked through the small side window—the one they'd spied through from the tree the night before.

Pollo tried to steel herself for what she might see—Shorn Connery tied up, gaffer tape wrapped around his snout or, worse, lying unmoving on the floor. There was no sign of him. What she saw instead filled her insides with stone.

Stretched out on a camp bed, dead to the world, was von Albericht. His hands were folded over his chest like an Egyptian mummy ... or like someone who had recently enjoyed a fresh, hearty meal.

‘Beat this, Sherri.' Pollo was standing in front of the mirror of an antique dresser. She rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue—what Principal Piggott might have called a ‘minimal effort'.

Sherri looked over to Pollo, a rare frown creasing her brow. ‘I'll come and pull faces with you when I've finished serving
my customer,
Pollo.'

‘Oh yeah ... sorry.' Pollo stared at the mirror and sighed. One minute she'd been chasing a killer story that was going to change her life. Next thing she knew, her dear friend Sherri was lining up to be recruited to The Undead, and Pollo had practically served up Shorn Connery on a plate to an evil stranger.

Sherri closed the till with a clunk. ‘Your daughter
will love it, I'm sure, Mr McNutty. Toodle-oo! Take care.' She watched Mr McNutty leave then joined Pollo at the dresser.

Like all good human beings' reflections, Sherri's joined Pollo's in the mirror. Pollo's heart lifted. So von Albericht hadn't made Sherri one of his own yet. There was still time for her, if not for poor Shorn Connery.

Sherri waggled her ears in the mirror, making her earrings jingle. ‘That's my best party trick! Your turn now.'

‘Turn for what?'

Sherri huffed. ‘To pull a face, of course! It was your idea, Pollo.' She peered into Pollo's eyes. ‘What's the matter with you today? Ever since you came in here you've been moping around like a single sock. I'd have thought you'd be out chasing your big story.' She opened a drawer of the dresser. ‘It's nothing to do with this, is it?' She pulled out Pollo's long black scarf—the one that had been tied around Shorn Connery's neck the night before.

Pollo gasped. ‘You know then!'

‘Know what, exactly?'

‘About von Albericht! About what he's done to Shorn Connery!' wailed Pollo. ‘Poor Shorn Connery has vanished!'

Sherri sighed. ‘Listen, kiddo. I'm sorry to hear that he's gone missing, really I am. But it's nothing to do with Viktor. All I know about Viktor is that he makes breaded
udder to die for, and he has the sort of gentlemanly manners I haven't seen since my last cruise.'

‘Breaded what?' Pollo's mouth curled.

‘They call it “uger pane” where he's from. Breaded cow's ... never mind. Anyway, Shorn Connery darted off last night as soon as we tried to tie him to the verandah post. We looked for him but we just assumed he'd make his own way home. He'll turn up.'

Pollo grabbed Sherri's arm. ‘Shorn Connery ran off? Von Albericht didn't suck out all his lifeblood?'

‘Suck out all his what?' Sherri's tower of curls jiggled in astonishment. ‘Why on earth would Viktor do a thing like that?'

Relief and dismay seesawed in Pollo's head. So von Albericht hadn't captured Shorn Connery last night! But if von Albericht wasn't one of The Undead, she'd lost her story—and maybe Sherri, by the way she was looking daggers at Pollo now.

Beneath all the confusion one fact remained. If Shorn Connery was alive he'd have come home by now. Von Albericht had to be at the bottom of things somehow. There was way too much coincidence otherwise.

Pollo looked sideways at Sherri. ‘Viktor might do something like that if he was a...' A heavy silence enveloped them.

‘Was a what, Pollo?' Sherri said eventually, her lilac eyelids blinking as she waited for Pollo to answer.

‘Well...' This was ten times harder to say out loud!
But she couldn't
not
say it—Sherri had no idea of the danger she was in. ‘Well ... for one thing ... if he was a ... vampire.'

Sherri's eyes widened. She stuck out her neck and pursed her lips as though trying to kiss something just out of reach. She covered her mouth and rushed from the room towards the kitchen out the back.

Oh-oh ... Pollo had never seen Sherri upset before. What was she supposed to do now?

Suddenly, from behind the screen a loud snort erupted, followed by alternating splutters and gasps. This metamorphosed into a succession of long, drawn-out hoots that rolled through to the shopfront where Pollo sat glowering, twisting a silver pendant from a nearby display case around and around in her palms.

Sherri returned after a minute or so, sniffing and dabbing at the corners of her eyes. ‘I'm sorry, Pollo,' she said. ‘What were you saying?'

Pollo scowled. ‘I don't see what's so funny. I'm telling you this for your own good, you know.'

Sherri pulled Pollo's stiff torso towards her and gave her a hug. ‘You don't think you might be trying a bit too hard to finish the
Riddle Gully Gazette
with a bang, do you? It would be perfectly understandable.'

Pollo flopped back in her chair and, avoiding Sherri's eye, explained what she could—the graveyard, von Albericht's strange rituals, his name, the way he dressed, the bats, his sleeping at midday and now Shorn Connery's
disappearance. How it all added up.

‘Firstly,' said Sherri, ‘I'll forgive you for spying on Viktor and me only because I know how much this story means to you. Secondly, it all adds up, yes—but not to what you think.' Sherri sat down at her desk. ‘Viktor is from Romania. He's a zoologist—part of an international project for preserving endangered animal species. He's after a particular type of bat around here, but until he can find out where it lives the poor thing's in terrible danger.'

Sherri could be so gullible, thought Pollo crossly. Of course von Albericht would have a cover story! One point was interesting though. ‘Did you say he was from Romania?' she asked, weaving the chain of the pendant between her fingers. ‘Isn't Transylvania in Romania?'

‘Possibly ... well, yes, I believe it is,' said Sherri. ‘But don't you go getting ideas. Transylvania is a real place with real people. Viktor tells me the mountain scenery there is spectacular.'

‘So he
is
from Transylvania!'

Sherri rolled her eyes. ‘Look, all I know is that the poor man is up half the night trying to find these creatures, starting at the cemetery at dusk where they like to hunt and the open sky makes them easier to spot. That's why he's asleep in the middle of the day. Not because he's a you-know-what!'

‘That's what he tells you, Sherri!' said Pollo. ‘What about the little animal he was about to eat when Shorn
Connery showed up?'

‘Rubbish! The animal you saw was an injured bat. It's one of the endangered ones he's trying to protect! He's hardly likely to eat it!'

‘Well, okay then,' said Pollo. ‘But what about the blood you were both drinking? And the dead animal he was pouring it from?'

Sherri laughed. ‘It wasn't blood. It was blackberry wine. And that dead animal you refer to was a traditional goatskin wine bladder. His father gave it to him to remind him of home. Europeans use them all the time.'

‘So ... what about that creepy organ music he was playing? There's something seriously wrong with anyone who likes that!'

Sherri tossed her head, her earrings tinkling. ‘Honestly, Pollo! As it happens, a passion for pipe organ music is something Viktor and I share. Remember I felt I'd seen him before? We worked it out. We were side by side at a recital at St Paul's in the city last month. How about that! Last night's music was a recording of the concert. A pity it was cut short.' She arched her eyebrows at Pollo.

Pollo shuffled. This wasn't working out at all like she'd planned. She made a last effort. ‘What about the funny way he dresses and talks?'

Sherri shrugged and smiled at Pollo. ‘Old habits die hard, I suppose. He
is
from Transylvania, after all.'

Pollo sat in silence while Sherri, this time at a more
leisurely pace, disappeared, humming, into the kitchen, leaving Pollo to think. There was a ring of truth to everything she'd said. But wasn't it possible that, although Sherri believed what she said was true, she herself had been hoodwinked by von Albericht? It was the investigative reporter's old nightmare—the reliability of information.

Sherri returned with two glasses of water. ‘I've a suggestion,' she said, handing one to Pollo. ‘I'm meeting Viktor at the abandoned railway bridge later for a picnic tea. We thought we'd make the most of the last of these summer evenings and combine business with pleasure. Viktor thinks that the clearer sky where the bridge crosses the gorge might be good for sightings of his bat. He's going to show me how his bat detector machine works. “Bat detector”—it sounds spooky, eh?'

She patted Pollo's knee. ‘Why don't you and Will join us? Will probably hasn't been to the old bridge yet, and you can watch Viktor at work and grill him for yourself. Who knows? Maybe we can even help you find Shorn Connery.'

Pollo hunched in her chair, roping the chain of the silver pendant around her index finger. She'd been wanting all along to take a long, close look at von Albericht. And she certainly couldn't take Sherri's word for everything. ‘Sounds like a plan,' said Pollo, ‘though my last-ever
Riddle Gully Gazette
won't be nearly as good if what you say is true.'

If ...
She repeated it softly to herself.

‘It's all settled then,' said Sherri. ‘Ooh! Speaking of your gazette—you know the graffiti? Someone's got a guilty conscience from the looks of it. A bloke saw a young person with a blue backpack trying to clean it off.' Sherri chuckled. ‘In disguise, would you believe? Whoever it was had a curly blonde wig, but their short dark hair was sticking out underneath. They should have asked Mayor Bullock for advice on wearing the wig, eh?'

Pollo tried to look grateful. ‘Thanks Sherri. I'll follow it up.' She got to her feet. ‘Well, I'd better be going. I think I'll head up the hill road. See if I can spot Shorn Connery from there.'

As she was leaving, she noticed by the door a stack of old copies of the Coast regional newspaper—the paper in which she hoped her stories would soon be appearing—set out ready for recycling. There were never any around at home. Aunty Giulia always nabbed them to keep down the weeds in her vegetable patch.

‘Could I have these, Sherri?' said Pollo. ‘I might look over them—see if I can find a new slant on an old story.'

‘Of course,' said Sherri. ‘Several came while I was away so I didn't even read them. I'll drop them round for you. I'm closing up soon.'

‘That'd be awesome. Thanks.' Pollo put her shoulder to the door.

‘Oh, Pollo?'

‘Uh-huh?'

‘I think you've got something of mine. You've been fidgeting with it ever since you told me of your concerns, shall we say, about Viktor.'

Pollo looked down at her hands and flushed to the colour of von Albericht's wine. The pendant she'd been fiddling with, its chain still wrapped around her fingers, was a large silver crucifix. She'd picked it from Sherri's display without even realising. ‘Err ... Sherri? Do you think that maybe...?'

Sherri sighed. ‘Go on then! Keep the jolly thing if it makes you feel better. But only on the condition that you come meet Viktor for yourself this evening.'