“Ah, native guides who refuse to explain themselves, either out of a sense of the dramatic or due to an imp of the perverse,” said Jonathan, sliding his pistol back into its holster. “Those are my favorite kind.”
The three walked for a few minutes in silence before Arturo said, “I was coming out here to check on my boys, see if they’d been able to get to shore safely without me waiting to guide them in. I would’ve told them to call off the shipment, but I didn’t have any way of getting hold of them before they went out.”
“I see,” said Jonathan.
“Do you? Do you really?” Arturo stopped, his glare only barely visible in the flashlight’s weak beam. “Because I don’t understand this at all.” He swung the beam around, illuminating a small stretch of open lakeshore.
Fran gasped. Jonathan frowned.
“Ah,” he said. “Yes, I suppose that does put a different face on things. You had two men waiting?”
“Yeah.” Arturo gave him a suspicious look. “How could you tell?”
“For lack of a better way to say it...the volume of viscera.” Jonathan left the tunnel and began picking his way down the shore, careful to avoid stepping on any vital organs.
A casual onlooker seeing the scene—the beach, painted in blood and chunks of flesh that had once belonged to human bodies—would not have been amiss in believing that the two men who had been waiting for Arturo’s shipment had somehow exploded from within. No pieces larger than a brick were in evidence. No matter how carefully Jonathan stepped, he couldn’t avoid treading on blood spatter and bits of bone and organ.
“There are two livers here,” Jonathan said, looking back at Arturo and Fran. “They’re virtually intact.”
“Uh, yay?” said Fran. “Honey, I understand you’re fond of some pretty strange things, but...”
“River hags love the taste of liver. It’s one of their primary reasons for going after mammalian prey. We’re a great deal of trouble compared to fish and frogs. What’s the point in hunting us if we’re not somehow delicious?”
Fran made a face. “Just so you know, in a relationship characterized by really upsetting phrases, that one may be the worst you’ve come up with yet.”
“Have a look at this,” Jonathan said, beckoning for Fran to come closer as he crouched down. “It’s rather cunning, really...”
“She’s not going anywhere until you explain yourself!” snarled Arturo, grabbing Fran by the arm as she started to step forward. He froze half a heartbeat later, going pale as he realized what he had just done. As for Fran, she looked curiously down at the fingers that were wrapped around her bicep.
“How many of those did you want to keep?” she asked. “In the range of zero to two, I mean. Anything more than that would be greedy.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t know what came over me.” Arturo pulled his hand away like he’d been burned. “It’s been a heck of a day.”
“Abusing my wife will not make your day any better, I assure you,” said Jonathan. He was still crouching and peering at the beach, having apparently decided that Fran was fully capable of taking care of herself. Somehow, that didn’t make Arturo feel any better. “Whoever killed your men went out of their way to make it look like a whatever had been responsible.”
“What are you talking about?” Arturo folded his arms and glared, choosing bluster over continuing to think about how close he’d just come to losing a finger. “I saw those river hag things with my own eyes. There’s monsters in the lake, and now two of my boys are dead. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.”
“No, it doesn’t, but if you’ll listen to an experienced monster hunter instead of relying on your own vast experience, you may find that you’re operating on a few misassumptions.” Jonathan glanced up as Fran came to join him, and then pointed at the semi-intact piece of bone that was lying on the ground nearby. “Look. What do you see?”
Fran squinted. “Looks like a soup bone,” she said, finally.
“Eating people is generally considered rude.” Jonathan pulled a pencil out of the inside pocket of his coat and reached over to nudge the bone. “See? All the score marks on the bone are clean.”
“They look like the sort of thing I’d make with my knives.”
“Precisely.” Jonathan stood. “Whoever tried to feed you to the river hags killed your ‘boys,’ Mr. Gucciard, and staged it to look like the hags had been responsible. There’s too much meat here—”
“Don’t talk about them like that,” said Arturo.
Jonathan continued, undaunted, “—and all the internal organs are present, largely intact. That would be like finding a dead bird untouched next to a hungry cat. It makes no sense, unless the cat didn’t kill the bird...and more, is somehow being kept from claiming the unguarded meal.” He turned and walked abruptly toward the water’s edge, ignoring the possible damage to his shoes as he took several steps into the shallows.
“Is he nuts, or just operating on a different set of priorities?” asked Arturo.
Fran shrugged. “You’re the one who grabbed me. There’s people who’d happily use that as proof that you’re not all there.” She smiled, dimples forming in her cheeks. “In most cases, they’d be right.”
“You’re downright spooky when you want to be.”
“Thank you kindly.”
“That’s it!” Jonathan sounded jubilant. They both turned to see him holding what looked like a pitted white brick in one hand. It was dripping, and the sleeve of his coat was wet almost to the elbow. “Salt.”
“Salt?” said Arturo dubiously.
“Salt?” said Fran.
“Salt!” Jonathan shook the water off his feet as he stepped back onto the beach and moved briskly between the bits of human debris to brandish his find at Fran. “It’s a salt lick. It’s only been in the water for a few hours—that’s why it hasn’t dissolved, just started to wear away.”
“Uh-huh,” said Fran. “What’s that mean, city boy?”
“Don’t you remember what I told you earlier? River hags are a strictly freshwater species. They breathe through their skins when in the water, and salt interferes with that. There are blocks of salt like this all down this stretch of beach. Not only were your friends killed by a human, Mr. Gucciard,” he turned toward Arturo, “but the person who did it knew enough about river hags to ward them away.”
“I find the bodies, I think it’s the monsters,” said Arturo slowly. “I don’t go looking for human perpetrators.”
“Exactly. Why would you? You know what killed your friends. Maybe you’re even upset enough to hunt them on your own, with no real understanding of what you’re tangling with. You’d die, of course. It would be messy and painful, and extremely convenient for whoever is trying to get you out of the way.” Jonathan walked back over to Arturo, pausing to be sure that he hadn’t tread in any human tissue before he asked, “Who are your main clients?”
“Oh, I don’t think—”
“I’m pretty sure some of this was done with a butcher’s saw,” said Fran, who was still examining a piece of bone. “You don’t get cuts like this with an untrained hand. They’re too level. Even I’d have trouble getting the scoring to be this exact if I was doing it by hand.”
“Someone who knows about river hags and butchery is trying to kill you, or at least put you out of business,” said Jonathan. “Don’t you consider that sufficient reason to tell us who you sell to? Maybe someone on your client list is worth poaching.”
“I know I said I make bathtub gin, but what I left out is that I also run a lot of wine from Canada,” said Arturo, looking away. “The families around here, they’re traditionalists. They like their wine with dinner, and there shouldn’t be anything wrong with that.”
“So you supply the restaurant we had lunch at, I assume.”
“Yeah. We supply a bunch of restaurants, along with some private homes, a few of the smaller hotels—the big ones are all controlled by family men—and...” Artu
ro stopped. “What are you looking at me like that for?”
Choosing his words carefully, Jonathan asked, “Do you, by any chance, supply the Carmichael Hotel with wine? From...Canada?”
“Yeah, I do.” Arturo frowned. “They get a real specific vintage, same number of bottles every month, pay their bills on time—they’re good folks. No idea how they keep that rat-trap of a hotel open, but hey, that part’s not my problem, right? As long as the cash keeps coming and they keep placing orders, I’ll keep bringing over the goods. It was their shipment that was supposed to be arriving tonight.”
“Do you know the name of your client at the Carmichael?”
For a moment, Arturo looked like he was going to refuse to share the information. Then he glanced at the bodies on the beach, and thought better of it. “Hector Kalakos.”
“Ah.” Jonathan looked down at his wet shoes, then back up at Arturo. “We need a number where we can reach you, and then we need a ride back to our hotel, if you would be so kind.”
Arturo blinked. “What for?”
“We have a dinner date that I feel could be very enlightening.” Jonathan took one more look at the bodies scattered around the beach. “For all of us.”
Asta had been delighted to hear that Jonathan and Fran would be joining the family for dinner, and had bustled off to notify her parents, the unpleasant incident of the human in the lobby clearly forgiven. Jonathan and Fran retreated up the stairs to change their clothes, he into another of his seemingly endless succession of plain brown suits, she into a red dropped-waist gown that had been the height of fashion in the mid-twenties, but was somewhat outdated now.
“Do you think I have time to do my hair?” she asked, fussing with it in the mirror.
“I think we’re dining with women who have snakes atop their heads,” said Jonathan. He removed the brush gently from her hand. “They’ll be fascinated no matter what you do with it, but I think they’ll be most impressed if you leave it down.”
“Do they feed the snakes? During dinner?” Fran turned to face him, expression dubious. “Because I’m as broad-minded as the next girl, but I gotta tell you, Johnny, I’ll find that a mite unsettling. It might even put me off my food.”
“The feeding of one’s hair is a private matter among lesser gorgons. They’d only feed their hair in front of you if you were a member of the family, or intending to marry in.”
Fran sighed. “There are too many rules to consorting with monsters, Johnny. I’ll never learn them all.”
“That’s what you have me for.” He offered his arm. “Come along, Mrs. Healy. It’s time for our dinner engagement.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” She settled her hand lightly in the crook of his elbow. As hard as she was trying to seem casual, he could feel the tension in her trembling fingers. He cast an encouraging smile her way and walked her to the door.
Once in the hall, he turned away from the main stairs, heading instead for a smaller stairway tucked away into a far corner. It wasn’t shabby by any means—the steps were carpeted, and the bannister was polished brass—but something about its construction spoke of privacy and seclusion.
“This way.” Jonathan pulled his arm away in order to start down the steps, which were too narrow to allow more than one person at a time. Feeling increasingly like this was a very poor idea, Fran followed him.
The stairs descended to the level of the lobby, and then below, before letting out into an unexpectedly large room. Jonathan stepped aside to let Fran see. She stopped where she was, eyes going very wide.
“Holy cats,” she said, after a moment’s contemplation. “It’s like bein’ in a big top.”
“A bit like, I suppose,” said Jonathan, and offered her his arm again.
The ballroom at the Carmichael Hotel—for that was what it was; no other word encompassed the scope of the place—seemed too large to fit safely underground. The floor was marble, and the walls were draped in brown and gold velvet, like the lobby upstairs. Couches and chairs formed circles around the edges of the room, and at the head, where a band would have been established in a more normal setting, was a long table around which a full dozen gorgons stood.
“The marble is from Greece, naturally,” said Jonathan. He spoke casually, like this was the most normal thing in the world. “I’m not really sure how Hector’s father was able to import so much of it to the States. It was before my time, anyway.”
“How is this structurally safe?” Fran asked.
Jonathan blinked, and then smiled at her. “Not the question I was expecting, but it’s a good one. They consulted with the local Oreads and kobolds before they built the place. They probably have better structural stability than any other building in the city.”
“And better hearing, too!” said the largest of the gorgons, a big, beaming man with black and yellow snakes coiled around the top of his head. He spread his arms wide. “Johnny Healy! It’s been too long!”
“Hello, Hector,” said Jonathan pleasantly. He turned to the woman next to Hector, whose snakes were blue and white, with a delicate diamond pattern. “Layna. You look as stunning as always. May I introduce you both to my lady wife, Frances Healy?”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” said Fran, smiling stiffly as she tried to keep from staring at the snakes.
The other gorgons around the table laughed, their snakes hissing in time to the sound. Layna just smiled.
“It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Frances. Any bride of Jonathan’s is welcome in our home. We owe the Healys a great debt.” She looked lovingly at Hector, who laughed a great booming laugh and slung an arm around her shoulder.
“What she omits is that it was your husband’s parents who smuggled her across the border for me,” he said. “Marriage is hard enough when you’re the currently dominant species. When you’re not...” He shook his head. One of the snakes briefly woke, hissing in annoyance. Layna patted the snake, and it lay back down amongst its fellows. “Come, pretty lady. Sit at our table, and dine with us.”
“We accept and appreciate your hospitality,” said Jonathan, and moved to pull a chair out for Fran. She sat, looking puzzled. He mouthed the word “Later,” and she nodded. As little sense as the current exchange of pleasantries made, she could wait to hear about it in their room.
Hector pulled a chair out for Layna, who sank gratefully into it. Then, as if they had rehearsed it, all the other gorgons settled into their chairs, until only Hector and Jonathan were standing.
“Do you admit yourself a guest here in my home?” Hector asked.
“I do, and call you head of household,” Jonathan said.
“Then sit, and be welcome.”
“Gladly.” Jonathan sat, smiling at Fran as he reached for his napkin. “I’ve just told Hector that, for the duration of the meal, I answer to the authority of his household. That means, for example, that I’ve promised not to poison him.”
Fran blinked. “That seems, uh, a little extreme.”
“I’ve also promised not to turn your man to stone,” said Hector, and winked.
Now Fran paled. “Can you do that?” she asked.
“Not as such,” said Layna, and elbowed Hector. “Forgive him. He’s testy when he hasn’t eaten. Girls?”
“Yes, mother,” chorused three gorgon girls who looked to be edging up on their teens. Like Asta and Chruse, they were identical except for the color of the snakes atop their heads. They rose as a group, and walked quickly toward a door in the nearby wall, their snakes alert and hissing all the way.
“I’m not testy,” grumbled Hector.
“Of course not, dear.” Layna turned to smile at Fran. “Now, where did you and Jonathan meet?”
“Well, ma’am, it was Arizona...” Fran began. She was still talking when the three girls began returning with tray after tray of food, most of it faintly foreign-looking, in that way of complicated cooking: flat breads and olives and platters of assorted meats and cheeses, roasts and loins and a whole platter of tiny ro
ast chickens that smelled strongly of rosemary. The trays were placed on the table. No one reached for the food, and so Fran kept talking.
She had just reached the Questing Beast when the girls came back with baskets of bread, placed them on the table, and retook their seats. Fran glanced to Hector for a sign of what to do next.
“It sounds like a lovely first encounter; you’ll have to tell us the rest after dinner,” he said smoothly, and reached for one of the tiny chickens. That seemed to be the cue that the rest of the gorgons had been waiting for. They began loading their plates, chattering gaily, and it was suddenly a family meal, rather than an oddly solemn gathering with rules she only barely understood.
“I don’t know what to try,” she said. “It all looks so good.”
“Try a bit of everything,” Jonathan advised, and reached for one of the tiny chickens. “Even the pigeon is lovely.”
“I thought it was chicken.”
“Appearances can be deceiving.”
A pitcher of water with slices of lemon floating in it was making the rounds. Fran filled her glass, and blinked as she realized what had been bothering her about the place settings: she and Jonathan were the only ones who didn’t have wine glasses.
Hector followed her gaze, and offered apologetically, “I hate to deprive a guest, but you would not enjoy our local vintage, milady.”
“No, I rather suppose she wouldn’t, since it would probably kill her.” Jonathan speared a chunk of eggplant with his fork, watching that, and not the gorgon patriarch, as he asked, “Are you still having your wine ferried down from Canada?”
“Ah, it’s hard, with these damned laws in the way.” Hector spat on the floor next to his chair. Fran straightened, startled, but no one else was reacting; this had to be another of those strange customs. “I tell you, Johnny, there was a time when a man could buy his wine honestly, with none of this sneaking about.”
“Yes, but the laws have changed, and while I’m sure they’ll change back, I’m equally sure you must be getting your Medusa from somewhere.”
Sweet Poison Wine Page 4
