The Baron Blasko Mysteries (Book 1): Fangs

by Howe, A. E.

  “I’m always fascinated with the places where horrors occur. Often they are such mundane locations until events overtake them. Afterward, they seem burdened by their own history, even as they maintain their pedestrian nature.”

  “Just looks like a house to me,” Josephine said flatly.

  “Not in a philosophical mood?” Blasko joked with her. “What did the widow want?”

  “That is a good question. At first she seemed to want to unburden herself, but she must have changed her mind because all she did was talk about some vague sense of dread surrounding Carrie.”

  “Maybe that’s all she has.” Blasko shrugged. “A feeling.”

  “Women’s intuition? A gut feeling? Maybe.” Josephine wasn’t sure. “There seemed to be something else going on. Maybe she was scared to say what she knew. Of course, this is just my intuition.”

  “I’d trust your feelings,” Blasko said. Josephine wondered if he was referring to more than her thoughts about Lucy,

  They walked back to the house, but Blasko did not join her on the porch.

  “Going out for another walk?”

  “I think so.”

  “As long as you aren’t going for another drive,” Josephine said with a laugh.

  “I only need a little more practice.”

  “I’m not sure my car can survive another lesson.”

  “Good night, Josephine,” he said, turning away.

  “Goodnight.” Something in his eyes made her add, “Be careful.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Blasko felt weak. The mental and physical activity of the last few days had left him drained. He hadn’t let on to Josephine, but the blood she had acquired for him didn’t provide everything he needed. Like a person whose diet doesn’t include enough vitamin C, he could survive, but not thrive. He needed fresh blood. He’d resisted the urge for as long as he could, but he couldn’t deny it anymore.

  He’d known the day would come, so on his nightly walks he’d kept his eyes and ears open. He wouldn’t take an innocent and he wouldn’t kill. But he would attack, and he had several victims in mind.

  He focused his hearing as he approached a house he’d previously made note of. Here all was quiet. No one was home. He turned his attention to another location and his remarkable hearing picked up the sound of voices from almost a block away. The second house was closer to the Erickson home than he was comfortable with, but he would take the chance. No one would die.

  Standing in the yard, he heard the smack of flesh against flesh and a cry of pain. Angry curses were followed by desperate pleading. The scene was too familiar—a loving and supplicant woman at the mercy of a cruel and stupid man. Blasko must have witnessed this same tableau play out thousands of times over the centuries and the unnecessary pain always infuriated him.

  A third voice, young and scared, joined the others as a boy begged his father to leave his mother alone. There was another slap. Blasko wanted to barge inside and drag the man from the house, but he knew he had to wait and let the scene play out. The odds were good that the man would storm out; it was just a matter of time.

  After minutes that seemed like hours, the back door flew open and the squat, ugly shape of the man emerged into the night. Blasko quickly fell into step behind the staggering, drunken buffoon. He wasn’t surprised. They were usually drunk.

  Blasko followed the man until he neared a decrepit shed in a small alley. Blasko moved up behind the drunk and reached out, grabbing the man’s hair and yanking it backward. Like a Vaudevillian comic routine, the man’s feet flew up in front of him. Blasko slammed him hard against the ground, knocking the wind from his lungs.

  With a motion that came naturally after centuries of hunting, Blasko sank his teeth deep into the man’s throat and drank. With great skill he’d avoided the main artery, choosing lesser vessels to slake his thirst while preserving life. He took as much as he dared before leaving the despicable man alone and lying in his own filth.

  His thirst and the means of satisfying it left him feeling unclean. Blasko walked the night, trying to forget that his renewed strength and energy came at the cost of his dignity, if not his soul. It seemed a cruel irony that he had no more knowledge about the afterlife than anyone else. For the better part of a century after his transformation, he had sought answers from philosophy and theology, only to realize that, for him, there were no answers.

  Twelve hours later, Blasko was awakened in his coffin by someone pounding on his door. It must have started before the sun was even below the trees. He rose and shouted for whoever it was to have patience. He found a robe and strode to the door, flinging it open.

  “What?” He wasn’t surprised to see Josephine. Who else would be waking him up? But he was shocked to see the mix of fear and urgency on her face.

  “There’s been another killing.”

  Blasko’s first thought was to reassure himself that he’d left the wife-beater alive. Of course, he also knew that things could happen.

  “Who and where?” he asked, trying not to sound too paranoid.

  Josephine had waited most of the day to talk with Blasko and now the words poured out. “Amanda Erickson. They found her beaten body under some bushes about a block from the house. They’ve arrested a man they discovered not too far from the body. He was asleep or knocked out or just plain drunk. He had blood all over him. Sheriff Logan says they found the murder weapon close by.” Josephine paused to take a breath.

  Blasko didn’t know where to begin. Who was the man? Were they sure he was involved? Then a thought occurred to him. Could the wife-beater and the man they thought was the killer be one and the same?

  “Come in while I get dressed,” he said.

  Josephine was surprised at Blasko’s subdued reaction. She’d expected him to be energized by the news. The events were horrible and shocking, but also fascinating on some level. Besides, it could mean that the killer had been captured. She walked into the parlor and paced back and forth while he dressed.

  “How can we find out more information?” Blasko asked, coming out of his bedroom and heading for the stairs.

  “I could talk to Bobby,” Josephine said reluctantly. “He’d certainly know what’s going on. But I’d rather not use that source. There is someone else. However, there’s a risk.”

  “Which is?”

  “It’s Emmett Wolfe. I pointed him out at the viewing. He’s the editor of the Sumter Times.”

  “And what’s the risk?”

  “His curiosity. I’ve tried very hard not to draw his attention since I’ve been back. He came by as soon as he heard about you, wanting to know who you are, why you’re here, all of that gossip column fodder. I showed you the small article.”

  “It was rather thin on details,” Blasko said dryly. His ego had been a little bruised at the time.

  “That was on purpose. You do not want him getting interested in your back story. I promise you, he’s capable of doing some first-class excavating when he starts digging.”

  “I see,” Blasko muttered, frustrated that his background required secrecy.

  “However, the bank holds a decent-size mortgage on the paper. He borrowed quite a large sum to put in a new printing press just before the market crashed and I know he’s had a hard time meeting the note.”

  “So he’s not likely to want to get on the wrong side of the person who heads up the bank’s board of directors.”

  “Exactly. I hate using my position, though he’s smart enough that I won’t have to point it out to him. Of course, that would come into play only if he gets too aggressive in investigating you.” Josephine was feeling very Machiavellian.

  “I didn’t realize what it would mean entering the twentieth century,” Blasko said. “I really am sorry for the trouble I’m causing you.” He hoped the latest murder and arrest of a suspect wouldn’t escalate the trouble.

  “Nothing that can’t be handled,” Josephine said with more confidence than she was feeling. Her life had become a series
of risks and she hadn’t decided how she felt about that. On one hand, the complications were driving her a bit mad, but on the other she’d never felt so alive. She was pretty sure that time would tell if the rewards were worth the risks.

  “Call him,” Blasko encouraged.

  Josephine hated to use the telephone. She knew that Dolly, the operator, would be listening in. The woman wasn’t even subtle about it—half the time Josephine could hear the sound of Dolly smacking gum in the background as she tried to carry on a conversation. At least Dolly was the only one who could eavesdrop. Josephine’s father had installed a private line several years ago, figuring the banking business was not something you wanted on a party line.

  With a sigh, Josephine picked up the phone. After getting through the pleasantries, Josephine decided on a direct approach with Emmett.

  “You know that I live right across the street from the Ericksons, and this horrible business with the murders has me and my household upset. I don’t want to bother the sheriff, but I thought maybe you could tell me what’s going on.” Josephine did her best to sound like a helpless female scared of the events swirling around her.

  “I’ll be glad to tell you what I know. I just finished the copy for tomorrow. The presses are running as we speak.”

  “Thank you soooo much.”

  “I can come over now if you like. Of course, I’d want to have a chance to meet your houseguest. You’ve been promising me an interview with him for months.”

  Trust Emmett to use his leverage on her. Josephine took a deep breath. What choice did she have? “That would be fine. I know he’ll be delighted to talk with you. Though I’m surprised that, with all the drama going on, you have time for a social column.”

  “One thing I’ve learned as a journalist is that life goes on. I’m on my way.” He hung up before she could change her mind.

  He rapped on the door twenty minutes later. Emmett was thin and balding, with a natural folksiness that encouraged people to relax and want to talk to him. His inquisitive eyes were always scanning for something interesting. As soon as he saw Blasko, Emmett’s eyes locked on him.

  “This is surely a pleasure,” Emmett said, sticking his hand out to Blasko.

  The baron took it reluctantly and responded, “The same.” In truth, he never trusted anyone who was too anxious to shake hands. He considered the act a formal ceremony to be performed only with someone you’ve already decided to trust.

  “Josephine’s been keeping you hidden. Semmes County doesn’t get many folks from Europe. As a small-town editor, I live for the unusual. So let’s talk about you,” he said, sitting down in the parlor. Emmett had learned long ago that once he got a foot in the door, he needed to make sure it wasn’t easy for someone to push it back out again.

  “Emmett, I’d really like to know what’s going on with these murders,” Josephine said, keeping up her frightened female act.

  Reluctantly, Emmett turned his focus away from Blasko. “Logan thinks he’s got his man and I have to say it looks pretty good from what I’ve seen. The man they’ve arrested is a nasty character. I’ve seen a couple reports on him over the years. When he gets drunk he gets mean.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Floyd Hopkins. He drives a truck for the feed store, mostly delivering large orders to farmers,” Emmett said. It was clear he wanted to shift the conversation to Blasko.

  “You said he’d been in trouble before,” Josephine pressed.

  “Bar fights, mostly. But the sheriff said they’d been out to his house a few times when the neighbors had called complaining about fights with his wife. Deputy Tucker said that, the last time he went out there, the fight was mostly Hopkins beating up on the wife. Tucker brought him to the station that night, but couldn’t hold him since the wife wouldn’t press charges.”

  Blasko, sitting across from Emmett, listened intently. The more he heard about the man, the more concerned he was that they were talking about the same man he’d attacked the night before.

  Emmett looked at Blasko again. “Now, the deal is I get to interview the baron in exchange for all this information,” he said good-naturedly.

  Josephine nodded. “Yes, we’ll keep our word. But first, is the sheriff sure this man killed the Ericksons?”

  “No. I mean, yes, the sheriff seems sure right now. But he hasn’t checked all the facts yet. Hopkins could have an air-tight alibi for Mr. Erickson’s murder. The way it stands now, the facts are stacked pretty high against this guy. They found the man covered in blood not half a block from where Amanda Erickson was found bludgeoned to death. And the murder weapon was found nearby. Like I said, though, Logan hasn’t checked him out for motive or any alibis.

  “Personally, I think he’s good for last night’s murder, but we’ll have to see about the rest of it. Logan said the man was lethargic and pretty unresponsive when they found him. Leads me to believe that he went on a bender and maybe became psychotic. I understand that can happen with maniacs—psycho one minute and unresponsive the next. Now, my turn. Where exactly are you from?” he asked Blasko.

  They talked for half an hour. Blasko and Josephine worked hard to come up with the dullest answers they could to the newsman’s questions. Their goal was to make Blasko sound no more interesting than someone’s maiden aunt come to visit.

  “I don’t think anyone can be that boring.” Emmett smiled, knowing he was being given the brush off.

  “What do you know about Clarence?” Josephine asked, ignoring Emmett’s jab.

  “So we’re back on the murder, huh? Okay, from what I can tell, Clarence is just an ordinary guy. People think he’s a little odd, maybe, but that’s not a crime and more common than you’d think. But he runs a good garage and, if you ask him nicely and give him a buck, he’ll put a little libation in the trunk. The consensus is that he’s all right for a guy with a rich jerk for a father.”

  “Where does he get the booze from?”

  “The usual sources. There are half a dozen guys making ’shine within fifty miles of here, and even more that are making bathtub gin. But people respect the fact that Clarence gets it from the more reputable sources. No one’s gone blind from what he sells.”

  “Could there be a connection between Clarence and this guy Floyd Hopkins?” Josephine asked.

  Emmett leaned forward. “That’s exactly the question I asked Logan. He just waved it off, telling me they were looking into it. I went around and talked to a few of the folks who are regulars at the garage. A couple said Floyd bought booze there. Not that that proves anything.”

  Blasko had to hold his tongue. He knew that Hopkins had, in all likelihood, been unconscious from loss of blood until he was found. But he didn’t know how to get Josephine off of this red herring without admitting what he’d done.

  “Maybe Clarence and Hopkins were working together,” Josephine suggested.

  “I don’t know. Clarence comes across pretty clean except for selling some hooch on the side. I can’t really see him killing his wife.”

  “Nothing else about him?”

  “Worse thing I could get out of anyone was an old school buddy who said that Clarence had had a strong crush on their teacher.”

  “What about Carrie?” Josephine asked, switching focus.

  “Ahhh, now she’s a piece of work. I can’t find anyone that likes her. Mean as a water moccasin if you cross her.”

  “She would seem like a good suspect,” Blasko put in. “Upset at her father for something and jealous of Amanda, maybe?”

  “Could be. Kind of a Lizzie Borden thing,” Emmett mused. “We’ll have to see how everything sorts out with Hopkins. Logan isn’t one of our greatest minds, but he’s dogged. I can’t really blame him for focusing on the guy found covered in blood near the murder weapon.”

  “Any chance Carrie could be in league with Hopkins?” Josephine asked.

  “Not likely. Like I said, she doesn’t seem capable of getting along with anyone. And she doesn’t tolerate foo
ls, and Hopkins qualifies as a fool of the first order. I think if Carrie was planning anything, she’d look for a competent partner.”

  Blasko was chaffing under the social constraints. What he really wanted to do was to get out of the house and see if he could figure out how Hopkins had been made a patsy by the real killer.

  Emmett finally left, assuring them that no matter how boring Blasko might be, the paper was going to carry a small story about him. “Not every town has a baron,” he said with a smile, waving his notepad in farewell as he walked down the porch steps.

  After he was gone, Josephine turned to Blasko, who tried to find anything to look at other than her eyes.

  “What do you think? Did this guy kill Erickson and his daughter-in-law?”

  “No,” Blasko responded.

  “You sound very sure of yourself.” Josephine could sense that Blasko was hiding something.

  “I am sure that it wasn’t Hopkins.”

  “How can you be so positive?” Josephine tried to get Blasko to meet her gaze without success. “Tell me.”

  “Not right now,” he said, hoping he could find a way to avoid ever telling her.

  “I don’t like this. If we’re playing at being detectives, then shouldn’t we share all of our information?”

  “Sherlock Holmes doesn’t tell Watson everything.” Blasko felt ridiculous invoking fictional characters to support his position. Desperate times require desperate measures, he assured himself.

  “We aren’t… Oh, never mind. Do what you want,” Josephine said, exasperated. She took a few deep breaths to calm herself, then asked, “But if it’s not Hopkins, then who?”

  “A family member or a known enemy, would be my guess. I need to go out and learn what I can about Amanda’s murder,” Blasko said.

  “There you go again. Off stalking through the night doing who knows what.” As she heard herself saying those words, certain pieces seemed to fall into place. “You had something to do with Hopkins, didn’t you?” Josephine asked sternly.