Murder at Chipmunk Lake

by Mary Hughes

  I had to think of the rugrat now.

  I took his hand, the left one so he could flip out his swing-guard stiletto if needed. He always carried a blade of some sort, to hack off vampire heads or dig out hearts. It’s gross, but it’s the only thing that stops them. Even then, they don’t die. Pop a heart in them, bury them and their heads, and in a couple days even the youngest vamps are as good as new.

  As we neared, a rat scurried out of the heap. I startled. I may have crushed my husband’s square fingers a little.

  With only the smallest wince, Julian led me through the gate opening. There he stopped, on high alert.

  The whine of flies gnawed my concentration. He stood there, listening, scenting the air, for a full twenty seconds, edged forward, then stopped to scent again. My heart thumped Stars and Stripes the whole time.

  He led me that way around a mountain of plump black plastic bags swimming in loose trash. Some of the bags were slashed open, their pulpy contents strewn around like an angry bear had tossed them.

  Oh goodie. A stalker, vamps, and now bears to worry about. Not to mention those Lyme disease ticks. The idyllic sensation of a woodsy vacation faded. What the fudge. I could get idyllic with a wall calendar.

  Julian’s eyes flared red, drawing my attention. He stared at a slashed bag at the far side of the pit, its strewn, pulpy contents not like the others—because most trash isn’t stiff like a manikin and doesn’t wear T-shirts with sleeves torn out to show off their tats.

  “Oh, my God.” I took an involuntary step toward the stalker.

  Julian grabbed my hand and swung me around to face him. “Call 911. I’ll see if there’s anything that can be done.”

  He dropped into mist, his body dissolving into a swirl of white that shot around the pit. He’d already reformed and was kneeling by the stalker as I dug my phone from my purselet. I thumbed in the emergency number, not wanting to see Julian lift a hand and sniff at sickeningly stiff fingers but not being able to look away.

  I clutched the phone, waiting a million seconds for someone to answer, knowing it was really only one or two.

  Julian’s quick, dark shake of head told me even those two seconds wouldn’t have mattered.

  I closed stinging eyes. I’d know that. Stiff limbs, rigor mortis, meant even two hours wouldn’t have mattered. Didn’t help the heaviness settling in my chest. I rubbed my eyes with thumb and forefinger. The stalker had scared me, but nobody deserved to get mauled by a bear.

  In my hand, the phone connected to the 911 operator. I blinked and managed to get understandable words out in the proper order because she said she was dispatching emergency services.

  Julian glided to me, a wallet in his hands. He showed me the ID. “Does the name Melvin Caldwell mean anything to you?”

  “No. But it might to Elena.” I hit a speed dial and connected to my best friend.

  I’m not big on authority, but Elena doesn’t count because except for her job, she’s five-nine of throwing out uniformity and rules—Latina-Irish, shoulder blade–length curly hair that’s wilder than Medusa’s snakes, and a lean body as strong and ready for action as any man. Best thing? She gets me. Anybody who understands me and still likes me is on page one of my Awesome Folk book.

  “Detective desk. Strongwell.”

  “Hey, Badge-Bitch.” I tossed the greeting automatically. Most folks have caller ID, but the police station in Meiers Corners hasn’t had a budget or phone upgrade since 1950. The normal exchange eased me a little.

  “Hey, Nixie. How’s alien abduction land?”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t you know the most alien abductions occur in Nome, Alaska and northern Wisconsin?”

  “You have to stop reading those paranormal romances. Look, the reason I’m calling.” My mouth got dry. I swallowed. “The stalker followed us. His name is Melvin Caldwell.”

  “On it.” A pause. “Believe it or not, there’s more than a hundred Melvin Caldwells. Can you give me anything more?”

  Julian, who was hearing both sides of the conversation, said, “His address is Chicago area.” He rattled off the street and number.

  As I relayed the info to Elena, far-off sirens whined.

  “You’re sure it’s the same guy as the one who threatened you on the phone?” The clack of keyboarding accompanied her words.

  “Same threats. Besides, that rough voice is a dead giveaway.” I winced. Was a giveaway.

  “That’s not enough…oh yeah. Musician. You have voiceprint ears.”

  “Something like.”

  “If he’s from here, how’d he get there?”

  “He said he hacked my TwitFace and knew where we were.” I paused. “He had an argument with Julian at the lake last night.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Not any more. He’s dead. We just found him at the dump here.”

  “Ouch.” A pause, pregnant.

  The sirens were almost on top of us now. “What?”

  “I hate musicians. They always know when you’re hiding something.”

  “What?”

  “Dead, he may actually be more of a problem. Murder Investigation for Dummies says the first people you look at for the killer are next of kin—and whoever discovered the body. His arguing with Julian won’t look good.”

  The sirens stopped.

  “Dammi…I mean shucky-darn.” Car doors slammed. “Do me a favor. Start looking into next of kin on your end.”

  First on scene was a brown and white sheriff’s car, “St. Dunnewa” and the county outline painted on the door. A uniformed dude got out and started toward us in that lumbering swagger that seems to be all in-your-face authority but is actually caused by a belt heavy with guns and gear, rolling like a planet with lots of gravity. He had a direct stare, firm jaw and compact frame, and a bit of time on his face.

  Right behind him, a guy in civvies emerged from a larger, showier sedan. Stenciled on the side was “Chipmunk Lake Law Enforcement”. Both county and town cops, joy. Before following, the sedan’s driver did the tie-knot-tug and pants-crease-flick of a man who thought he carried more gravity than he did.

  Yeah, I’ve learned not to get an immediate hard-on for suitmonkeys, but this guy’s cues rubbed me all wrong.

  The first man’s quick black eyes surveyed the scene. “I’m Deputy Sheriff Jack Parker. EMTs are on their way.” He caught sight of me and frowned. “You looks like—”

  “I’m Chipmunk Lake Police Commissioner Pryce Olyeo.” The suit interrupted, offering me a hand and politician’s smile. “Olyeo. That’s Oh-lay-ee-oh, like a yodel for help.”

  “Or o-lye-o, round at the ends and a big fat lie in the middle,” I muttered.

  “I didn’t hear that?” Olyeo’s smile didn’t waver, maybe painted on.

  Parker cleared his throat. “Commissioner, why don’t you get her information while I see to the injured?”

  “This way.” Julian led the deputy toward Caldwell.

  Commissioner Olyeo kept shaking my hand. “You’re new to the area?”

  Despite the title, this guy gave off layperson, not cop, vibes. Maybe elected or appointed. “Just visiting.”

  His smile dimmed. Watted up again as he turned toward Julian. He called across the dump, “And you are…?”

  “Also visiting.” Julian stood next to the deputy, who was squatting beside the body. My husband was unusually brusque with Olyeo, but he has a finely gauged bullpat meter.

  Deputy Parker rose. “He’s dead. This is a potential crime scene. Sir, please step away from the body.” That was to Julian.

  “A murder?” Olyeo’s expression blanked for a second. Then he clapped hands theatrically to his mouth. “A murder? We’ve never had a murder in Chipmunk Lake. I’m shocked, I tell you. Shocked.”

  I half-expected him to slap a wrist to his forehead. All he needed was grainy film and a pianola to make it a bad silent film.

  Julian, meanwhile, had dutifully taken two steps away. “It might not be murder
. It looks like a bear mauling.”

  “Why do you think that?” The deputy sheriff snapped on rubber gloves and knelt again.

  With an apologetic glance at me, Julian said, “Chunks missing.”

  I swallowed hard. There was Too Much Info, and then there was TMI And Pregnant.

  Julian had somehow slipped the vic’s wallet back before the cops—and I use the plural loosely—came, because the deputy found it in the dead man’s pockets and flipped it open.

  “Melvin Caldwell.” Parker frowned. “Familiar.” His eyes scanned the victim’s face. Then his gaze landed on Caldwell’s arms, and his frown deepened. He took out a small notebook, flipped to a page, and his frown downright cratered. He rose and faced Julian. “A disturbance was reported early this morning. Two men, arguing loudly. One was described as a burly man with arm tattoos.”

  A prickle of premonition crept up my neck.

  “I heard that call,” Olyeo said. “Chipmunk Lake emergency dispatch routed it to the county. If I was mayor, we’d expand our emergency services to make the town safer for all.”

  Because anytime is the right time for campaigning. Even sudden, gruesome death.

  Parker’s eyes closed briefly. He opened them again, on Julian. “The other was described as extremely tall, dark haired, blue-eyed, and having a posh accent. Care to comment?”

  The prickle rose to a buzz. That level of detail? Either the person reporting was nearby or had binoculars or both.

  Julian raised a sharp brow. “Where did you hear that?”

  “I’ll ask the questions,” the deputy sheriff said.

  “We’ll as the questions,” Olyeo chimed in. But his eyes cut east, toward the lake.

  Bingo.

  “Would you come in to make a statement sir?” The deputy’s tone left no doubt that it was not a request.

  Julian’s eyes shaded violet. “That won’t be necessary.” His voice echoed in my skull. He was using vampire compulsion. I was immune to it but not many humans could withstand it.

  Sure enough, Parker echoed, “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Cool. So Obi-Wan.” I circled a palm. “These aren’t the droids—”

  “Thank you, Nixie. We’ll leave now.” My husband glided to me, hooked my elbow, and drew me into the nearby woods, walking swiftly away.

  As soon as we were out of earshot I said, “That’s not going to hold him off forever. I gave my name and where we were staying to the 911 operator. She’ll have it in her notes that I was here.”

  “I know,” he murmured. “But I wanted time to think. We didn’t kill Caldwell. So who did?”

  “You said a bear did it.”

  “I lied. The slashes are too regular. Caldwell was cut, not torn.”

  “But what about the—” urp, “—chunks?”

  “Certainly, a bear dug through the trash and mauled the body, but that was after the slash to the neck had killed Caldwell.”

  “Fuc…fun fun silly willy. This looks bad for us.” My heart started rat-a-tatting. “Let’s go home.”

  “Ann knows us. Parker can track us and we’d look guilty. Meanwhile, whoever really murdered Caldwell would get away. We’re better off staying here and trying to figure out who did this.”

  “But who else is there? We’re easy-target foreigners.” I panted it. Normally I was a doer, but I felt strange, off-kilter. Maybe hormonal imbalance, maybe pressure buildup on the brain from holding back too many cuss words.

  He caressed my head. “Don’t panic, Nixie. It’s bad for baby Poindexter.”

  That didn’t relax me, but it did give my panic an outlet. “Snagrat is not a Poindexter.”

  “He’s not a Snagrat either.” Julian scooped me up and started off in that deceptively fast vampire glide that could reach forty mph. Trees flashed by in my periphery. We’d come via the road but he was taking a more direct route back to the cabin.

  “Elena said the most likely suspects are the next of kin and the person who finds the body. That means we’re suspects. In a murder. Don’t you find that scary?” My still-pounding heart said I certainly did.

  “This isn’t like you, so worried. What’s really going on?” He frowned down at me. And kept frowning down, his gaze riveted on me—as huge columns of wham, a.k.a. tree trunks, flashed by.

  That sent my heart from drive, past overdrive, into freewheeling. How the hey-nonny-nonny did he not slam us into bark-wrapped pain? Finally I just spat, “Keep your eyes on the road.”

  His lips twitched, but he dutifully got his gaze off me and back where it belonged. “Yes, dear.” He said it in the whiny voice of Wallace Wimple, the original Henpecked Husband from Fibber McGee and Molly. Side note, the voice actor also did Droopy the Dog.

  I was proud of him for joining the twentieth century but only said, “Yeah, you’re so henpecked. Make me a sammich.”

  “That’s the Nixie I know and love.” Something in him relaxed. “Here we are, and just in time. If you’re hungry, I’d hate for you to start gnawing my arm again. How about tuna salad?”

  “Good deal. Protein is good for the kid. Who shall not be named Poindexter.”

  “Ethelred, then?” He pulled the key out of his pocket and unlocked the roadside door. Inside the rustic kitchen he set me down and went immediately to the refrigerator.

  “Not that I have anything against kings of England, but no. The kids at school would have a field day with that.”

  “Especially since history nicknamed him ‘The Unready’. Although that’s a mistranslation. It should be ‘the poorly-advised’.” With efficiency born of practice, he popped a can of tuna, scooped mayo, chopped celery and onion, and stirred up some tuna salad.

  Vampires don’t eat. He’d learned to cook for me. My eyes got annoyingly moist. Dammit, I loved him. I was incredibly lucky to have him as my husband, and I knew it. I blinked. “I’m not so worried about me. But what if Olyeo or Parker accuse you?”

  “First, Olyeo is a dick.” He followed my sudden change of topic without a hitch, also by long practice. “But if Parker does, he’ll simply have accused the wrong person. Nixie, don’t worry. Even if we don’t discover anything, Elena’s on the job.” He slathered tuna salad on half a slice of bread, added a leaf of lettuce, folded the thing in half and handed it to me.

  “I’m not worrying.” As I reached for it I was surprised to see my hand tremble. “All right, maybe a little. Elena’s awesome, but she’s hundreds of miles away. What if he puts us in jail? What if he puts you in jail?”

  “Very few jails can hold me.”

  “But there are some. What if they put you in a jail with a big-ass…a large window?” I snatched the sandwich and chomped off a corner at him, implying, Take me seriously because this could be your forearm.

  “Fair enough.” Smiling, he took a plastic half-gallon jug of milk from the refrigerator. “Tell you what. We’ll leave the cabin to start our own investigation. Even if the deputy does decide to come after us, we’ll be gone. It’ll buy us at least a few hours. Would that make you feel better?” He poured me a glass and offered it.

  “Yeah.” I took the milk. “At least we’d be doing something.”

  “Even though we’re supposed to be relaxing.”

  “I won’t relax with this hanging over my head.” I drank.

  “I see that. Now, how would you like to start?”

  “Why are you asking me? You saw everything I did and you’re the one with a brain the size of Montana. You know where to start… Oh wait. Is this some sort of psychology thing to keep me from worrying?”

  “It could be.” He hid a smile by putting the milk away. He took out another carton, unscrewed the cap, and knocked back a swig.

  Yeah, blood. But my guy drank it for his veins, not his stomach. Vampires are like regular people who can’t make their own blood, except they take transfusions by mouth—which doesn’t stop them from being dangerous scary or drop-dead sexy.

  I put up an admonishing hand. “Hey, stop that. It’s
unsanitary.”

  He quirked an eyebrow at me.

  “Nah, go ahead. Just practicing for Snagrat.”

  “You mean Horatio.”

  “Horatio might work.” I finished my milk and rinsed out the glass. “That’s Shakespeare, right? All the school-ground kids would respect that for sure.”

  “That’s sarcasm, isn’t it? All right, maybe not Horatio.” He put the carton back and shut the refrigerator. “So where to?”

  Refueled, the answer was obvious. “When you asked who tattled, the next-mayoral-candidate looked east, toward the cabins. Add in that no one else is near enough to have overheard your argument with Caldwell, and we get the dudes in the other occupied cabin.”

  “The fishermen who aren’t fishing?”

  “Yep.”

  “All right,” he said. “Let me change my shoes, then we’ll go.”

  Chapter Seven

  Julian, after changing shoes, swept me up and twirled me to the kitchen door.

  “Hey, I can walk. Besides, you’re making baby Blackstone dizzy.”

  He put me down and opened the door. “Blackstone? What kind of name is that?” He locked it and we crunched out onto the driveway.

  “Romantic heroes are all named mysterious surnames now. Or Biblical names. Grey, Gabriel—”

  “Why are romantic heroes never George or Bruce?” He shivered as we crossed the bridge. Running water always did that to him.

  “Some are named Bruce. Bruce is Batman’s alter-ego.”

  “You know what I mean.” He mounted the stoop of the supposed fishermen’s cabin. All his playfulness suddenly dropped. “Damn.”

  “What?”

  “I smell gun oil.” He took my face in his hands. His eyes were vampire red. “You stay out of the way, understand?”

  I stifled my immediate response, which was to snap out an arm and a sieg heil. I’ve learned there are times to wiseass it up, and there are times to play the part as written. This was ensemble time. “Got it.”

  “Good.” He rapped sharply on the door, his eyes cooling to a careful blue.

  Creaks came from inside, floorboards protesting under a fair amount of weight. Big guys, then. My heart thudded in my ears. I was nearly faint before the door finally cracked.