Skull Creek Stakeout (Caden Chronicles, The) (7 page)

Y
our boss must’ve shipped the body off to be autopsied,” I said. “It’s the only plausible explanation.”
At least I hope that’s the case. Otherwise Forester just might be a vampire and the creature that mugged me in the alley.

I sat in the backseat of Aunt Vivian’s Cadillac, my elbows resting on Meg’s front headrest.

“Either Charlotte or Chapel Hill,” I said, “and I’m guessing Chapel Hill.”

“No way,” Meg responded. “If it was on its way to Chapel Hill, Dr. Edwards would have told me. Getting a
recommendation from anyone at UNC’s medical school would be huge on my college admission application. Dr. Edwards knows I would have begged him to let me ride along.”

I let the comment go and turned to another page in
Vampire Mythology: The Curse of Darkness.

I closed the journal and said to Meg, “Maybe your boss took the body and he’s hiding it in a freezer.”

“Are we back to talking about
that
? Why would he do such a thing?”

“Because he could be the killer.”

“That’s so dumb I’m not even going to comment.”

“You just did.”

“Did what?”

“Commented.”

“I did not,” she countered.

“There, you did it again.”

“Did what?”

“Commented.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Would you two lovebirds stop arguing?” said Aunt Vivian. “It’s distracting me from driving.”

“Think about it, Meg. Who better to cover his tracks and destroy evidence tied to the crime than your boss?”

“But why would Dr. Edwards want to kill Forester?”

“Can’t say. Won’t know that until I review a summary of the shows that mirror this case.”

“So you’ve already decided Mr. Edwards is the killer?”

“No. I’m only saying he had access to the body. And now that I’m poking around and asking questions, I think I have the killer worried.”

“You really do think a lot of yourself.”

“Like you don’t?”

“Oh, please. You think I’m impressed by you?” Meg asked me.

“I meant you think a lot of yourself.”

“You know, you two make a great couple,” said Vivian. “You remind me of Mr. and Mrs… . Now what was that couple’s name? They had a cat called Snickers. An ornery calico that hissed every time I walked past. No, Snickers was their dog. Or was Snickers the name of Helen Copeland’s poodle? Wait,
couldn’t have been, Helen hated animals. Must’ve been … oh, poo, I just missed our exit.”

My phone buzzed and I found a text message from Calvin giving me the IP address of the form submission that tipped us off to the vampire murder. Entering the address into an IP lookup website returned the following information:
State/Region — North Carolina, City — Transylvania.
So someone in town
had
tipped off the
Cool Ghoul Gazette
to the murder of Forester. Someone who maybe, quite possibly, wanted us to feature the story on our website. Question was, who and why? I could think of one person: Raintree.

Half a mile later we turned off the main highway and onto a private drive by short stone walls. Crape myrtle shed purple petals onto lush green grass; deer grazed at the edge of a fairway. Across the road, painted white lines marked a golf cart crossing. Aunt Vivian barely slowed as we blew past the guardhouse.

“Look! We’re here!” Aunt Vivian announced as she whipped the car into the parking lot. “Meg and I will hit the gift shops while you do whatever it is you need to do to find that man’s killer, but don’t take too long. It’ll be dark soon. Don’t want to be out wandering around with a vampire running loose.”

The crime scene was a putting green on thirteen. Yellow tape fluttered from pine branches. Tire tracks in matted grass hinted at the route the ambulance had used to drive away. I
snapped a few pictures with my phone and wandered down the service road to the maintenance building. Maybe if I spoke to the witness who found the body I could get a better idea of what happened.

A young man in a mousy-gray work shirt and pants saw me coming. Eyeing me cautiously, he gripped the starter cord on a riding mower and yanked hard. The motor spit and hissed and almost caught. Several more tugs left him winded and the odor of gasoline in the air. I casually wandered over.

“Spark plug could be fouled.”

Without looking up he gave the cord another tug. “Don’t use this one much.”

His dark bangs were tangled, greasy, and fell into his eyes. Thick, furry sideburns spread to his jaw. He yanked the cord once more without luck.

“Want me to hold a screwdriver on the plug and wire while you pull?” I asked. “See if it sparks?”

He straightened and tossed his bangs back. He was a big, husky boy, soft around the middle, with crescent sweat stains under his arms.

“What’s your name?”

“Nick.”

“I’m Henry.” Looking over my shoulder he said, “Did you lose your ball or something?”

“No, just looking for someone who might know something about what happened on hole thirteen a couple nights ago. You see anything odd that night? Or the next day?”

“I couldn’t help you with anything like that. Couldn’t help you at all.” With a long, lumbering stride, he walked quickly into the building and started sorting tools on a workbench. “You’re not supposed to be down here. Guests are supposed to stay on the course.”

“Thing is, the man they found on the course was dressed funny. I thought maybe you might know something.”

“You need to leave. I could get into trouble if someone sees you down here talking to me.”

He continued putting sockets into their slots, drill bits in their places.

“Don’t want that to happen,” I said. “I know how important rules can be.”

“You’d better know it!”

I suddenly realized who he reminded me of — Bruce. Bruce was a boy in fifth grade who got put into a learning disabled class. Thing was, there wasn’t anything wrong with Bruce except that he was a slow reader and stuttered when he got nervous. He defiantly wasn’t a “retard,” which is what the other kids in the class called him.

“Say, Henry. Mind if I try starting that mower? Would that be all right?”

His eyes moved from me to the mower and back. “Sure. I guess that’s okay.”

I bent over the mower and scowled as if I were deep in thought. Truth was, I really had no idea how to get a flooded
lawn mower started.
My cousin Fred, now, he’d know.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Henry watching me.

Guessing at the problem, I went to the workbench, found a spark plug socket, a screwdriver, and a wrench, and walked back to the mower. Henry kept moving tools around but with less energy. I pulled the spark plug wire and spat into the cap. Using the flathead screwdriver, I scraped away rust until the sides and bottom of the tiny thimble were shiny. With the socket wrench I removed the plug and cleaned the contact points and put it all back together.

I gave the cord a hard tug and the motor coughed and hiccupped, then roared to life.

“You sure know how to fix things,” Henry said, hurrying over. He knocked back the throttle and said to me, “Say, you wanna help me cut? I only gotta do that bank over there.”

“Better not. There’s probably rules about letting guests use the lawn equipment.”

“Hey, you’re right! Boy, you are smart. What’d you say your name was?”

“Nick Caden.”

“I’m Henry.” He thrust out a greasy hand.

“Nice to meet you, Henry. How long have you been working here?”

“Awhile now. I get to go to school a different way because I’m such a good worker. My uncle says a smart boy like me should be thinking about his future. He says cutting grass on a golf course is a really important job, and once I get a little
older, I can maybe start my own landscaping business. My uncle Ralph is a real smart man.”

Uncle Ralph?
“Your uncle, he isn’t a police officer, is he?”

“Hey, you know my uncle?”

“We met earlier today. Your uncle and I were talking about … something. He’s the one who told me how you found that thing we cannot talk about. Just curious, what time do you normally get to work?”

“Early. I have to turn on the water for the sprinklers. If I don’t turn on the water, the greens get all messed up and guests can’t play golf. That’s why I don’t go to school during the day. My job here is too important.”

“I can see that. So when you arrived a couple of days ago, was it still dark out?”

“Only a little bit dark. In the summer I get to ride my scooter. In the winter I can’t because it gets icy. I chained my scooter to the light post like always. Why’re you asking so many questions?”

“No reason. So you the first one here most mornings?”

“Yep. ‘Cept the other day. Mrs. Forester got here before me.”

“Mrs. Forester, you sure?”

“Uh-huh. Her car was in the employees’ lot. No one is supposed to be in the employees’ lot ‘cept employees. We have a rule about that.”

“You’re sure it was her car?”

He nodded his head. “She keeps flowers in the cup holder.
Not plastic ones. Real daisies. She’s a nice lady, Mrs. Forester. Did you know she paints pictures? She made me a picture one time. I put it on the wall of my bedroom. That’s why she comes up here sometimes, to paint. But Mr. Hamilton, he doesn’t like it when she does. That’s why she comes early before he gets here. I don’t think her painting bothers anybody, though.”

“Except Mr. Hamilton.”

“Right.”

“You positive Mrs. Forester’s car was here when you got to work? No chance it was somebody else’s car?”

“Oh, it was hers all right. But she left right after I found the … Hey, I told you! I’m not supposed to talk about that!” With his thumb Henry gunned the throttle.

Over the roar of the motor I shouted, “Thanks, Henry. You’ve been a big help.”

Henry aimed the mower at the wide swath of grass on the bank and rode away, his pudgy midsection jiggling.

I felt bad about taking advantage of Henry’s childlike innocence, but I needed answers, and though I hadn’t exactly come away with a clearer picture of the killer, I did have another piece of the puzzle. Problem was, Henry’s account didn’t square with Lucy Forester’s. If her car was in the shop at the time of the murder, how could it also be at the golf course the morning after her husband was found dead? Maybe all her pretending to need an alibi was just an act. Maybe Lucy Forester was just another pretty woman lying about the murder of her husband in order to inherit his estate before he cut her out of his will.

I also wondered if Henry might have seen more than he remembered. Like, say, someone lurking in the shadows of those pines on hole thirteen. If so, that might make Henry a valuable witness in a murder investigation.

And a possible target for the killer.

At the top of the drive I turned and waved at Henry. He threw up his hand in a casual way and I felt better. If he was still sore at me, he was already beginning to get over it.
Too bad everyone isn’t that forgiving,
I thought as I headed toward the clubhouse to meet with Henry’s boss, Victor Hamilton.

T
he front desk clerk told me I would find Victor Hamilton in the Rhododendron Grill. I stopped at the hostess station, scanned the room, and saw him sitting at a table overlooking a putting green. The managing partner of the Last Resort was a lean man with hair going just a little gray. He had on the same pale blue sport shirt, khakis, and loafers I’d seen him wearing at Lucy Forester’s. I introduced myself and asked if he could spare a few minutes.

“You look familiar — do I know you?”

“We almost met earlier this afternoon. I was coming to see Mrs. Forester as you were leaving.”

“Oh, right. Sorry you had to see that. Don’t know what came over Lucy.” Smiling, he put out his hand. “I’m Victor Hamilton. What can I do for you?”

“I’m doing a story on the murder of Barnabas Forester. But first I have to ask, any idea why Mrs. Forester chased you off her property like she did?”

Chuckling, he said, “You don’t beat around the bush, do you, kid? I like that. Fact is, I honestly don’t know what came over Lucy. We’ve known each other a long time and I’ve never seen her fly off the handle like that. Can’t say as I blame her, though. Losing her husband and all. Tragic. But the way she reacted, you would have thought I killed her husband.”

“Did you?”

Still smiling, he narrowed his eyes slightly. “What did you say your name was?”

“Nick Caden. I’m a reporter for the
Cool Ghoul Gazette
.”

“Reporter, that’s interesting. Perhaps I should get you a copy of our media kit. We received a new batch from the printer’s this week. It could be helpful for your story.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Hooking an arm over one corner of his chair, he studied me more closely. “Fine, I’ll play along with your little game of twenty questions. What possible reason would I have for wanting to kill Barnabas Forester?”

“To get your hands on Randolph Manor. That’s why you stopped by Mrs. Forester’s.”

“Oh sure, I
might
be interested … at the right price. But not
enough to kill someone. Besides, the Randolph estate is not for sale. That’s why I stopped by Lucy’s place. I wanted to see if she could confirm a rumor. I’d heard Forester might have had a change of heart and amended his will. See, before he died, it was my understanding that he was going to leave the estate to a wildlife conservation group. If you’ve been digging into his death, then you know what I’m talking about. But from what I’m hearing, he had a change of heart and was going to cut the nonprofit out altogether. Seems to me if you are looking for motive and opportunity, you should be talking with the owner of Dead Lines Books. If anyone stands to gain from Forester’s death, it’s Phillip Raintree.”

“Where were you the night Forester was murdered?”

“His death hasn’t been ruled a murder yet. At least, if it has, no one told me. But I get what you’re asking. You want to know if I have an alibi.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I was at home with my wife.”

“All night?”

He pulled a silver card case from his pants pocket and jotted a number down on the back of a white business card.

“My wife’s name is Nell.” He pushed the card toward me. “She’ll vouch for my whereabouts. But don’t wait too late to call her. She goes to bed around nine. Her chemo treatments take a lot out of her.”

I tucked the card away and said, “Did Mr. Forester have
any enemies that you know of? Upset business partners, or anyone who might have a grudge?”

“In all honesty I didn’t know much about the man except what I heard from others. And most of that was pure speculation.”

“Did you know about the vampire game he was running out of the manor?”

“I had heard something about that. I wondered if the manor was zoned for recreational activity of that nature. I asked a friend on the city council to check. When I found out it wasn’t, I thought about making waves but then decided against it. Forester was mentally unstable — anyone could see that. And his wife had just left him. Kicking a man when he’s down, that’s not my style.”

“What is your style, Mr. Hamilton?”

“I gotta tell you, kid, some people might not appreciate you coming across this confident and smug. Might think of you as some kind of know-it-all. But not me. I wish more of the people working for me had your nerve. Being pushy and confident might be a turnoff to some, but it’s been my experience those are the individuals who get things done.”

Ouch. Mom had warned me I needed to work on my “condescending arrogance,” and I thought I had, but I guess not enough.

Hamilton gazed out the window for a long time as if lost in thought before finally saying, “Money. If you’re looking for motive, I’d start there.”

“Not revenge or greed?”

“Oh sure, it
might
be something like that, but I doubt it.”

“Forester, he didn’t need your money, though, did he?”

He smiled at me the way a proud father might when his son scores a basket. I got the impression Hamilton enjoyed sparring with me and didn’t see me as a threat at all.

“If you are asking if I tried to buy him out after he purchased the manor, yes, I did. I made him a substantial offer, much larger than what he paid for the place, but he turned me down.”

Hamilton hunched forward and lowered his voice as if sharing a secret with me. “Look, kid, for the right amount of money, people will do almost anything. And it doesn’t even have to be a large amount. Just having the chance to earn a steady paycheck can be reason enough to kill someone. Take that fellow living at the bottom of the mountain in that dilapidated guesthouse.”

“You mean Dr. Barlow?”

“Doctor my foot. I’ve had more medical training than that clown. He calls himself a pathologist, but I know for a fact he’s never set foot on the campus of a medical university. The man is a two-bit actor. He had some small parts in the
Dark Shadows
television show back in the seventies. If you ask me, Barlow is trying to pass himself off as an authority on vampires so he can get back to working in Hollywood. Having his name linked to a murder like this — if Forester’s death
was
a murder — would give Barlow credibility.”

“Are you saying Barlow killed Forester just to pad his résumé?”

“Of course not. What I am saying is, if Forester dropped dead of a heart attack or some other reason and Barlow found out about it, he could easily dress Forester up like a vampire and dump him on the course. Barlow loves being quoted as an expert on vampires. Have you spoken with him?”

“Barlow? Yes, sir.”

“Did you use anything he said in your story?”

“A little. He has some interesting thoughts on how all this vampire business began.”

“There you go,” he said, grinning at me. “He played you. But don’t feel bad. He’s an actor and you’re, what, sixteen, seventeen?”

There you go, stroking my ego to make me feel big and important. You’re smooth, like a snake.

Almost mumbling, I said, “I turn fifteen this month, but let me ask you — is there anything Forester had, other than Randolph Manor, that someone would want?”

“Nothing except Mrs. Forester. I’m sure you noticed she’s quite attractive. I also happen to know the county coroner has a thing for her.”

“Dr. Edwards?”

“Don’t let his title fool you. He received a doctoral degree in philosophy from an online university. He lets people think he’s a medical doctor. It works, too. He keeps getting elected county coroner.”

“So he doesn’t have any medical training?”

“Only what he’s picked up on the job. That’s why he works at the car dealership. He has to do something that actually pays the bills. He works in their accounting department. My niece works in the service department and she’s told me a couple of times about how they’ve asked Edwards to stop leaving flowers in the front seat of Lucy’s car. It’s against company policy for anyone but the technicians to be in the vehicle while it’s being serviced.”

“Mrs. Forester said she had a friend who helped her with her blog. Do you think she meant Dr. Edwards?”

He sipped from a water glass and glanced around the dining room before turning his full attention back on me. “You like this, don’t you? Asking all these questions.” He dabbed his mouth with a napkin, then said, “I would imagine Edwards would be pretty handy with computers. If Lucy needed help and she asked Edwards, I’m sure he’d jump at the chance. But you didn’t hear that from me. I don’t want Lucy any madder at me than she already is.”

“What do you think happened on your golf course, Mr. Hamilton?”

With a pained expression he said, “I wish I knew, I honestly do. Bottom line? I think Forester keeled over and somebody, Barlow maybe, dragged him onto number thirteen and drove a stake into him. He’s the only one I can think of crazy enough to try a stunt like that. Fame and money, that’s my guess. Barlow needs both.”

I told him I appreciated his time and excused myself.

Hamilton had one theory on what happened to Forester’s body. Maybe Barlow did have something to do with it, but I had another idea of how Forester’s body ended up on the golf course: one that did not involve Barlow or Raintree or any vampire game.

Only thing left to do was test my theory against the television episodes and see if I was right.