Skull Creek Stakeout (Caden Chronicles, The) (4 page)

When the doctor was gone I said to Aunt Vivian, “You shouldn’t have paid him. I could have talked him into letting me see the body on my own.”

“It’s just money, dear. I can’t take it with me, and where I’m going they pave the streets with gold.”

“But it’s bribery.”

“Be wise as serpents and harmless as doves.”

“What does
that
mean?”

“Remind me later and I’ll explain it to you.”

Aunt Vivian had barely picked up her needles when a girl appeared in the doorway. She wore a white long-sleeved turtle-neck under blue scrubs and lime green Crocs and introduced herself as the doctor’s assistant. Aunt Vivian and I followed her into a brightly lit hallway, through two sets of double doors, and down a stairwell. The assistant badged in and flipped a switch, activating a bank of overhead fluorescent lights.

Three empty stainless steel gurneys stood parked along one wall. To the left of the door a gooseneck lamp sat on the corner of a desk covered with manila folders. Beside the desk, medical trays sat on a polished metal counter. Though it wasn’t my first trip to a morgue, I still felt anxious. Not scared, just curious about the condition of the body.

“This won’t take long,” I said, leaving Aunt Vivian by the door.

The assistant crossed the room and went to a bank of vaults. There were six polished steel doors in all, three columns wide, two rows high. No mistaking we were in a morgue — the chill and smell of cleaning solvents gave it away.

“Dr. Edwards tells me you watch TV and solve crimes?”

The assistant had long, straight auburn-brown hair, a pout, and freckles dusting her cheeks, nose, and forehead.

“In my spare time, yes. In fact, a couple months ago I solved a murder in Deadwood Canyon. That’s an Old West reenactment ghost town in Colorado. I discovered a body in the hayloft, but when the marshal went to look, it was gone. No one believed me, not even my family. They all thought it was part of the disappearing-cowboy-ghost act, but I eventually found the killer. I’m Nick Caden, by the way. And you are …”

“Busy.”

She opened the metal door. The drawer rolled easily on bearings, clicking into the track-stop. I stepped closer and studied the lumpy shape beneath the sheet.

“Can I see?” Aunt Vivian asked.

We turned and looked at her.

“It’s not every day someone my age gets the chance to help solve a murder.”

“The thing is, Mrs… .”

“Vivian is fine, dear. ‘Mrs.’ anything makes me sound old. And I didn’t catch your name, hon.”

“Meg.”

I locked eyes with Aunt Vivian and gave her just the slightest smile to let her know I appreciated the subtle way she’d gotten the assistant to tell us her name.

“The thing is, I shouldn’t even be showing
him
the body. I’m sure Dr. Edwards explained our policy.”

“Child, if you spend all your life following the rules, you’ll end up a dull Delilah.”

“A dull what?”

“She’s talking about that sappy radio host who gives out relationship advice,” I said. “Come on,
Meg
, let her have a look.”

“It would make the women in my prayer group so jealous,” Aunt Vivian added. “Those ladies never do anything fun. Please?”

“Okay, but if I get fired over this, I’m blaming you,” Meg said to me.

“Get in line.”

We huddled around the body and watched as the sheet folded back to the victim’s waist. I admit, I wasn’t prepared for the condition of the body and for a few seconds my skin had that clammy feeling I get right before I’m going to vomit.

Aunt Vivian put her hand to her mouth and said, “Dear Lord.”

I choked down bile and framed the body on my phone’s screen but couldn’t make my thumb press the button.

The victim appeared to be in his early forties. Thick, reddish-brown bangs, skin the color of oatmeal. Chest and cheeks deflated from the lack of blood. Eyes milky white slits. On television they’ll often close the eyes of the dead. It’s a touching scene that hardly ever works in real life. Once dead, eyelids sag like a window shade, stopping about halfway down. The sight can be unsettling to family members viewing the body, so funeral homes will usually glue the eyelids shut, and superglue the lips together.

No one had taken such care with Barnabas Forester. The sight of Forester laid out on the cold, slab of steel sickened me. I pocketed my phone. Calvin would howl once he found out I’d skipped the chance to snap a shot, but he’d have to get over it. Make light of something as precious as life, and you cheapen yourself.

“Mercy, mercy,” Aunt Vivian said softly.

I leaned over and examined the puncture wound in his chest. The weapon had left a jagged crater in his chest, exposing bone and tissue and a pummeled mass of what I assumed was the heart. The entry point was as big around as a half dollar and slightly concaved where hardened flesh curled inward.

I captured it all with my mind’s eye.

“Cause of death?” I asked. “Sounds stupid, I know, but I need to verify for the article.”

“Just like it looks. Stab wound to the chest.”

“Any sign of blunt-force trauma to the head? Like maybe someone knocked him out first, then stabbed him? Evidence of a struggle, maybe?”

“Not that we can tell. Dr. Edwards checked for tissue under the nails. They’re clean. But then, we’re not set up to do an autopsy here.”

“Did he bleed out at the scene?” I saw the surprised look on her face. “What I mean is, if the victim
was
a vampire — not that I believe in that sort of thing — but if he was, then the lack of blood might be important to the story.”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Who called it in?”

“Again, I do not know.”

“How about the murder weapon? Do you know anything about
that
?”

“Are you always this obnoxious?”

“Only on Wednesdays.”

“Today is Thursday.”

“I’m expanding my range.”

“There was a wooden stake in his chest. Dr. Edwards thinks it might be white pine or maybe spruce. But I believe it was put there after death. Forensics will tell us more. The weapon and victim’s clothes were sent to the police.”

“How about his teeth? Anything odd there?”

“See for yourself.”

With the tip of a pencil she carefully lifted Forester’s upper lip, exposing two fangs. Both tapered to a needle-sharp tip. They certainly looked real, but I had a hunch they were fake and glued on with denture cement, just like the ones sold in Halloween stores.

“Have you tested the gums for glue residue?”

“Dr. Edwards wondered about that too. When I got buzzed to come up, I thought that was the oral surgeon from Asheville arriving to inspect the body. Then there’s this.”

Using a gloved hand Meg rolled the victim’s head toward us and touched a place on the right side of his neck just below his jaw.

“Bite marks?” I asked.

“I feel light-headed,” Aunt Vivian said. “I think I’m going
to wait by the door.” She waddled away, leaving the two of us together with the body exposed.

“The puncture marks are pretty recent but occured before the time of death.” With her pencil she touched the victim’s neck. “See this discoloration? Indicates it was starting to heal.”

“Wow. Bite marks and fangs.”

The assistant rolled the body back into the drawer and hustled us out of the morgue.

Back in the lobby I said, “Is there anything else you can tell me about the victim?”

“Like?”

“Where he lived, any strange habits he might have had? How he made a living?” She frowned as though wondering if she could trust me. “Come on, I’m not going to get you in trouble, I swear.”

“Sure, okay, but if you quote me, I’ll … do something. Not sure what, but it won’t be pleasant.”

“Nick, honey, I’m going to step into the ladies room, if that’s okay.”

“Take your time.” I waited until Aunt Vivian was gone, then said, “You were saying …”

“Last winter a few of us snuck up to the Randolph Manor. You know where that is?”

“I do.”

“The boy I was with thought it might be fun to poke around. The place is rumored to be haunted, but what old house isn’t, right? Anyway, normally I wouldn’t be caught dead
doing something like that, but he’d been helping me with a report on geothermal electricity. We were studying how the rate of radioactive decay can serve as a predictor of fossil fuel reserves. I don’t suppose any of that makes sense to you.”

“The earth’s heat naturally flows to the surface and the speed of decomposition below the crust can increase the pressure, thus causing gases to press against the magma.” I grinned at her. “I watch the Nature Channel sometimes.”

“So anyway, according to my study buddy, the Randolph place sits on pockets of magma conduits and hydrothermal circulation. There’s supposed to be some old mine shafts under there, but we never had a chance to check it out. As soon as we arrived we began hearing weird noises.”

“Like?”

“Someone screaming, footsteps running, things breaking. I got scared and made him take me home. Haven’t been back since. If you really want to know about the manor, you should speak with the owner of Dead Lines Books. He’s like the town’s local historian.”

“Last question. Estimated time of death?”

“Sometime between twelve and four a.m.”

“So before sunrise.”

“Wow, aren’t you the sharp one.”

“Now look who’s being snooty.”

Smiling, she replied, “I pick up things quickly.”

“Can I get your last name for the story?”

“Just say ‘a source within the medical community.’ ”

“Last question, I promise. Do you get a lunch break?”

“Are you asking me out?”

“Oh yeah, sure. You and me and my aunt. See, the thing is, I don’t know anybody in the area and I was thinking you could h — ”

“Sure, sure, that’s fine. Twelve thirty. I’ll meet you out front.”

I walked outside and waited by the car, thinking about how upset Calvin was going to be when he learned I didn’t have any pictures of the body. I could give him a written description of the victim and play up the bit about fangs and bite marks, but without photos it might not matter. Sorry, buddy, but I’m not a Paparazzi photographer and hope I’ll never become one.

When Aunt Vivian reached the car, I said, “If it’s okay, I’d like to walk to the bookstore. Need some time to think.”

“I’ll be at the Red Wolf Gallery. I hardly ever get a chance to shop anymore, and the stores in this little town look so interesting.”

“Aunt Vivian, thanks again for what you did back there with the doctor and getting the assistant to tell us her name. Dad was right. You’re the greatest great-aunt of all time.”

“Bless your heart. Your father said this murder business was important to you. And honestly, this is fun. Beats watching TV all day. Now run along and find that poor man’s killer. I cannot wait to tell the girls in my prayer group that I’m part of a criminal investigative unit. They’ll be so jealous.”

I
ducked under the vine-shaded canopy of a lattice arbor and followed the pebble footpath through a maze of landscaped ground cover. Beside a goldfish pond, classical music played through plastic speakers made to look like river stones. Customers sat on benches and in Adirondack chairs reading books and drinking coffee. The owner of Dead Lines Books had gone to a lot of trouble to create a relaxed environment, and it appeared to be working.

I paused midway across the short archway bridge and scanned another section of Forester’s vampire journal. If I was going to solve the mystery surrounding Forester’s death, I needed to learn all I could about the legend of the Dark Curse.

Forester had certainly been right about one thing: humankind’s infatuation with vampires and evil began long before Bram Stoker wrote
Dracula.

I stepped into the bookstore, causing a cowbell to jingle overhead. The shop was long and narrow with brick walls and hardwood floors. Rolling ladders reached to top shelves. The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee mixed with the pungent smell of new books.

Printing ink is one of those truly underrated smells. Older books still have it, but in new books the smell fades quickly. I learned this last Christmas while working in the shipping department of a local book printer. We have this rule in our family: children spend their own money for gifts. No hitting Mom or Dad up for Christmas shopping money. My parents don’t care what I buy them. It can be a ten-dollar gift card to Starbucks, but it has to be something I purchased with money I earned or something I made myself.

Same rule for my sister. I have a drawer full of hand-painted picture frames I’ll never use.

From Thanksgiving to Christmas last winter, I worked at the print shop and learned a lot about books — or at least a lot about how books are printed. Every time Mom complains about boys my age not reading anymore, I want to scream, “Give me a break.”

And I mean it. I need a break from reading. It’s all I do. I read textbooks and tests and term papers. My school forces me to read awful novels because there’s this requirement that says every student must read a certain number of books by the end of the grading period. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find an “approved” book that’s interesting? No wonder books
about boy wizards and teen vampires and children killing each other are so popular. At least the stories are
interesting.

“May I help you?”

I stopped scanning the back cover of a book called
The Incomplete Idiot’s Guide to Natural Cures, Curses, and Potions.

“You the owner?”

“Yes, Phillip Raintree. Finding everything okay?”

Raintree was a lean man of medium height with curly blond hair tinged with gray. He wore wire-rim glasses with round lenses. He had on a green tartan vest over a white dress shirt, faded jeans, and Birkenstock sandals with gray socks.

“Do you have any books on the history of this area?”

He flashed a toothy, nicotine-stained grin. “Was there a particular era you’re interested in? We carry an extensive collection that covers the early years dating all the way back to when the Cherokee inhabited this area. Makes for an interesting read. Is this for a class project?”

Ignoring his question, I asked, “Anything more recent?”

“There’s also an excellent set of works that covers from the Revolutionary War to the antebellum era.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of the town’s beginnings; how it got its name, the history of prominent figures, family secrets, and that sort of thing.”

“Wait right here.”

I went back to reading the instructions for how to cause a wart to sprout on someone’s nose by mixing celery, cumin, and goat cheese. The accompanying pictures looked hideous.
But hey, if I really could learn to grow a wart on my sister’s nose …
Raintree returned with a hardback with gold-tipped pages.

“Everything you could ever want to know about Transylvania is in here. The writing is a bit dry, but the author did a thorough job of documenting his sources. This book is quite rare. Published in the early nineteen hundreds. Out of print, of course. Lucky for you, we have one of the few remaining copies available.”

“Does it explain how the town got its name?”

“Of course. But you do not need a book for that. Transylvania is derived from the Latin phrase
trans
meaning ‘across’ and
sylva
meaning ‘woods.’ As you have no doubt noticed, we are surrounded by woods and rolling hills. Any suggestion that our town is linked to the region in Romania and the so-called birthplace of vampires is purely unintentional.”

“But not unwelcome.”

His smile faded. “Excuse me?”

“This shop, these books.” I nodded toward the rack of vampire novels. “Having a bookstore known as Dead Lines in a place called Transylvania can’t be a coincidence.”

“Oh, I suppose a few customers
do
drop in hoping to find books on the supernatural. And I did choose the name for obvious marketing reasons. But I assure you books of that nature make up only a small portion of our sales. Romance novels and historical fiction is where we make our money.”

I put the idiot’s potions book back on the shelf and gave him one of my
Cool Ghoul Gazette
business cards.

He studied the card, frowning.

Before he could brush me off, I said, “My editor sent me because he thought the victim was a vampire. What do you think?”

Raintree tucked the card into his vest pocket and glanced away, as if anxious to get back to helping other customers. “I do not speculate on things of which I have no knowledge or interest.”

“But you did hear about the body they found, right?”

How could he not? He ran a bookstore dealing in the dead and the occult. If he denied knowing about Forester’s death, that could only mean one thing: he was in on it.

“Of course. It’s not every day a body is found staked to a putting green.”

“What can you tell me about Randolph Manor?”

His eyes widened, making me wonder if my comment had knocked him off stride.

“I … ah … know of the place, sure. Some years ago I expressed an interest in purchasing the property. Not that I could ever afford to own it outright. There isn’t
that
much money in selling books. But as a lark I formed a nonprofit organization and appointed myself chair and began soliciting funding to establish a conservancy on the land. The town council thought it was a wonderful idea and gave me their blessing. The idea was to turn the property into a wildlife preserve. You may not know this, but the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service is reintroducing red wolves to this area. They, along with black bear and coyote, have been almost hunted into extinction.

“Once I had secured adequate financial commitments, I approached the two owners with what I believed was a generous offer. The two Randolph brothers made it clear neither had any intention of selling. I dissolved the nonprofit soon thereafter and put all my energies into making this store a success. That’s the extent of what I know about Randolph Manor.”

“So who owns it now, the same two brothers?” I knew the answer, but I wanted to see if Barlow’s story lined up with the Raintree’s.

“I should say not. Not long after the Randolph brothers rejected my bid, the younger of the two brothers ran into financial difficulties and petitioned the court to dissolve his grandfather’s agreement. The patriarch of the family, Rupert Randolph, had deeded the estate to the two grandsons in such a way that precluded either heir from selling their half of the estate without the other’s permission. The younger Randolph grandson argued that he was paying property taxes on an asset that he could not sell nor afford to maintain. The judge ruled in his favor and shortly thereafter the brother sold his half of the mountain to a consortium of investors led by Victor Hamilton. The ink was hardly dry on the agreement before the trucks and tractors rolled in and began knocking down trees and building that revolting golf course resort.”

“So your offer was too early.”

“And woefully underfunded. Our small nonprofit never would have paid what Hamilton’s people did. His group had some serious backers. Shame, too. He created such a mess of
the streams that the North Carolina Department of Environment and Natural Resources threatened to shut him down.”

“What about the manor and the land around it? Did this fellow Hamilton buy that too?”

“Actually, no. When the elder Randolph brother became ill last summer, he put his half of the mountain up for sale. There was a nasty bidding war between Hamilton’s people and a man from up north, Barnabas Forester.”

Now my eyebrows shot up. I could almost feel myself leaning in, listening harder.

“Of course by then I had long since lost interest. The whole matter was, as they say, too rich for my blood.”

“So Forester bought the manor?”

“Indeed he did. It tickled me to no end to see Hamilton bested at his own game.”

“Sounds like Forester had money?”

“It would seem. And now he is dead, which I suppose is the point of all your questions.”

“Did you ever meet him?”

“Forester? He came in once asking questions and inquiring about certain books, much as you are doing right now.”

“What types of books?”

“Old burial grounds. Historic churches. I remember him behaving strangely.”

“Strange in what way?”

“He carried a leather satchel and refused to put it down. Kept it in his hand at all times.”

“Do you know if he did much work on the manor after he bought it? Or if anyone else was living with Forester?”

“To my knowledge, no. Rumor has it Forester and his wife purchased the property and moved into the guesthouse. Maybe they planned to fix up the mansion; I can’t say for sure. As I mentioned, I only saw him a few times. But unless I’m badly mistaken, no one has lived in the manor since before the elder Randolph passed away.”

I could tell he was getting antsy by the way he kept shifting his weight and glancing around the store, so I hurried to get in my last few questions. “And Mrs. Forester? Do you know much about her?”

“Lucy? Yes, of course.” He pointed out the front window. “Down that street and to your left you will find her gallery. She is quite famous, you know. Her works are on display in New York and Paris. And all over town, of course. She has her art studio behind her home. For a while she and Forester tried to turn the guesthouse into a bed-and-breakfast. I’ve never met two people more ill suited to be in the hospitality business.”

Feigning surprise I asked, “So the B&B is closed?”

“I think Lucy knew that venture was doomed from the start. That’s why she returned to the little house she had been renting in town. As I said, Mr. Forester was somewhat eccentric. I can imagine he might have been difficult to work with.”

“You mean ‘live with,’ ” I said, correcting him.

“That too. I was thinking about the couple’s strained business relationship.”

Nodding toward the clippings next to the register, I said, “Couldn’t help but notice that you’re something of an authority on vampires. Does the store have a website?”

“Of course. Any business that does not have a presence on the Web will not be in business for long. We also have a smartphone app and are active in social media. Now then, is there anything I can show you in the way of reading material?”

His comment was an obvious dig at my persistent questioning, but if I was going to get to the truth, it couldn’t be helped.

“One more question. Did you kill Forester?”

“Don’t be absurd — of course not. I was out of town the night it happened. I explained all this to the police. Even gave them a copy of my hotel receipt.”

“Any idea why someone would kill Forester? And in the way they did?”

“I can’t speak as to the method, but the motive seems obvious, doesn’t it? Randolph Manor. If you are looking for someone with motive, I suggest you speak with that snake in the grass Victor Hamilton.”

I thanked Raintree for his time and exited the store. At the small bridge I paused to study my reflection in the goldfish pond. Dead Lines Books appeared to be doing okay. Customers milled around the cash register. The shelves were orderly and well stocked, baseboards swept clean of spiderwebs. By all indications, the bookstore was surviving.

But I wondered:
How many books does Raintree have to sell each month to pay the rent? Retail lease space can’t be cheap, not
on Main Street. Figure the net profit per book sold is a couple dollars and he’d have to sell, what? A thousand books a month? Ten thousand?

I had no idea what sort of income Raintree earned from selling books. But I couldn’t help but wonder if serving as head of a nonprofit would provide Raintree with a nice salary — maybe a very large one. Which made me wonder: What would Raintree do for another shot at the Randolph estate? Would he go so far as to kill Forester? And if so, who better suited to make Forester’s death look like a vampire slaying than a man selling books on witches, potions, and deadly curses? I decided the one person best suited to answer that question would be the man in charge of the murder investigation.