by Neely Powell
“Did you go to the grocery store this morning?” I asked when she took a breath from chatting about her Mah Jong group.
Bernie sliced into an onion. “I had a hen in the freezer, and I always keep vegetables around.”
The thought of her delicious homemade soup made me feel better. I smiled. “You’re the best neighbor a person could have. Thank you.”
“Any good mother could do it for you. I just happen to be the one living next door,” she said with a laugh.
Bernie’s nonchalant reference to a “good mother” didn’t apply to mine. She’d never been a Betty Crocker or a June Cleaver, or for that matter, not even much of a mother.
She did try to find good nannies and always liked to shop with me. I didn’t realize how much I enjoyed those times until she was dead.
The phone interrupted us and Bernie handed it to me. I was relieved to hear Hunter’s voice on the other end. I carried it into the living room and stretched out on the couch.
“I feel like the world is falling apart. I’m so sorry about your grandfather.”
He sighed. “I know. It doesn’t seem real. How about you? How’s the head this morning? Is Bernie taking good care of you?”
“Of course. She’s making me chicken soup. What happened your grandfather? Is that why he came to me?”
“I’m not sure.” He sounded hesitant.
“Hunter?” Fear made my stomach churn again as he remained silent. “What’s wrong?”
“He was attacked by some kind of animal. His body was a mess. I went with my dad to identify the body. It was bad, Zoe, really bad.” His voice broke.
“Where did it happen?”
“He’d been at the cabin for a couple of days. Shamus went to take him supplies and found him in the woods. It must have happened shortly before Shamus got there. Grandda was still alive. For some reason he told Shamus to take care of me, and now that old coot thinks he’s moving back with me. Can you imagine Shamus living in Jersey City?”
“Your grandfather told me you were in danger. To tell me and Shamus to watch out for you, he must have thought—”
“He was an old man and he was dying. Remember, you’d been hit on the head hard enough to be unconscious. You probably hallucinated.”
Hunter’s voice was laced with frustration; still, I could sense the fear under his words, the tension that made him snap at me.
“But, I—”
“Let it go, please.”
I was hurt, but I knew he would hang up on me if I pressed him further. In this area he was like his father; his temper had a hair trigger at times, especially when it came to family.
I decided to try another avenue. “Do you know any details?”
“The county let us pay for a private autopsy. Fortunately, it’s such a small town that the local GP is the sometimes ME. He was glad to let somebody else handle it, and we hired a friend who knows about Grandda’s strange DNA do the autopsy. We should know something by tomorrow.”
“Can you imagine what the tabloids would report if it leaked?”
“Money may not buy happiness, but at least it will keep our secret for a while longer.”
“How’s your grandmother?”
“Nana’s strong, but she’s grieving. She asked me to stay with her a few days.”
“Are you going to?”
“I don’t think she needs to be alone. I’ve called Brad to take my open cases.”
Brad Evans was another divorce layer in Wayne. He and Hunter backed each other up for vacations and time off.
“I need to come up there for the service. When is it?”
“No details yet. I’ll let you know.”
There was a voice in the background. Hunter said, “Gotta run. I’ll call you tonight.”
I pushed the end button on the phone and laid it on the table, feeling rejected. Hunter and I were seldom this far apart and I missed him, especially in light of what had happened to Kinley…and me.
It had been years since Hunter and I were separated when one of us had a problem. We were always there to provide support. It didn’t seem right that I was down here sitting on my butt doing nothing when he was in need.
Even though it was unreasonable, I was also hurt at Hunter’s attitude. I was sure when he called me this morning that he’d insist I come to join him immediately.
Instead, he was distracted. Maybe it was his family. His parents weren’t nice to each other at the best of times. The tension had to be multiplied with an unexpected death like this. Nothing stirs a dysfunctional family more than a death, especially when it’s the family patriarch. A man who was also a shapeshifter.
I headed back to the kitchen.
“How’s Hunter?” Bernie asked.
“Not good,” I poured more ginger ale. I wondered if I’d ever feel normal again. I watched big, fluffy flakes falling outside the kitchen window wishing I knew a way to make myself get better faster.
“What did he say?”
“Very little,” I sipped my drink. “He and his dad had to identify his grandfather.” I didn’t tell her about the wild animal or the attack. She might unknowingly say more to someone than the MacRae family wanted out in the public.
Bernie patted me on the shoulder, but I felt so alone. I was sorry I hadn’t been more compassionate with Hunter. All I could think about was how it affected me. No doubt Hunter would call back later today and give me details on the funeral. I knew he would want me there for the service.
I stood, determined to get myself out of this stupor. “I’m going to get a shower. Just answer the phone if it rings and come and get me if it’s important.”
“Leave the door open so you can yell if you get dizzy or need me.”
After showering and drying my hair, I heard voices in the living room. I donned blue jeans and a Rutgers sweatshirt before I headed downstairs.
“Oh, my late husband knew lots of the cops around here,” Bernie was saying. “Did you know a Vince Scala?”
“Yes, ma’am, he’s my great uncle. He was a cop and my grandfather was a fireman,” a deep voice said. “My brother and I are both cops, and my sister is married to a cop.”
“Well, your mother must worry all the time.”
I walked into the doorway and Mike Scala rose to his feet. No surprise to see him here, of course. He had a murder to solve.
“There you are,” Bernie said. “You’ve got a visitor, honey, a nice policeman.”
“Thanks.” I took a seat beside her on the couch.
He sat in the chair closest to mine.
Bernie popped up. “I’m going to check on my chicken soup and make coffee.”
I gave Mike a rueful smile. “I guess we’ll have coffee.”
Mike pulled out his notebook and a pen. “I’d like to go over what happened last night, if you’re up to it. How’s your head?”
“Better.” Mike was reading through his notes, so I asked, “Have you talked to Eric?”
“Yeah, early this morning.”
“What do you think?”
“He was at his mother’s house with his two daughters and everyone was asleep when we arrived. His mother said he’d been with her and the girls all evening, playing games and reading to them. They had homemade soup and sandwiches for dinner and went to bed early. Nothing we saw indicated anyone left the house during the night.”
I pushed down my anger. Mike could only go by what he had to work with, but I was sure Eric Russo murdered his wife.
“If it’s any consolation, we don’t believe him either,” Mike said. “We’ve just got to do some good detective work and find the clues that lead us back to him. This was a brutal murder. It had all the earmarks of a crime of passion. Whoever did that to Kinley Russo hated her, and from what I’ve learned from family and friends already, that’s a short list.”
“You’re right, of course. I stayed at her house Friday night after she’d had a scene with Eric. I should have continued to stay with her.”
“H
ow did you end up at her house last night?”
Oh, boy, this was going to be fun. How could I explain to a police officer who dealt in facts and absolutes that I had a vision that Kinley was in trouble and went running to the rescue a little too late? Apparently I was taking too long to answer him.
Not taking his gaze from mine, he said, “Why don’t we start with Friday night. Why were you there?”
I told him everything, including the new locks that were installed on Saturday.
“Did she call you again last night?”
“No, I…uh…” I made it up as I went along. “I became concerned about her and decided I’d go over and check. I felt something was wrong.”
“You thought he might try to hurt her again?”
“Eric’s predictable. I knew he’d be frustrated when his set of keys no longer worked. I decided to just pop in and see if I could surprise him.”
“You surprised somebody,” Mike said. “Tell me again what happened.”
Closing my eyes, I thought back to when I got out of my car last night. Slowly, with as little emotion as possible, I recalled for Mike how I found Kinley’s body.
“Then I felt a horrible pain in my head and everything went black.”
“That’s all you remember?” He didn’t sound as if he believed me.
I thought about my conversation with Hunter’s grandfather, but kept it to myself. “I remember you woke me up.” He frowned again. Before he could probe any more, I asked, “Who called the police?”
“The next door neighbor saw you sneaking around and called 911. I was headed home and was only a couple of blocks away when patrol asked for an ambulance. Of course I didn’t know it was you until I got there. “
“Yeah, me again,” I said weakly, keeping my hands on my knees in a relaxed pose.
“You and your partner.”
Mike studied me for a moment. “Four nights, two dead bodies and the two of you.”
And now Hunter’s grandfather.
That fact clicked into my head with such force I was afraid Mike could hear it. I said quickly, “Kinley has nothing to do with the man found in the woods. We don’t even know who he is.”
“His name was Jess Dugard. His family identified his body this afternoon.”
“I don’t know that name.”
“He’s from North Carolina. We put a photo out on him Saturday, and the North Carolina state troopers identified him Sunday. In fact, one of his cousins is a trooper who brought the mother in. The Dugards come from some tiny place up in the mountains in the eastern part of the state. They’re making arrangements to take the body home with them for burial.”
“What was he doing here?”
“Family says he liked to travel.”
“To New Jersey in the dead of winter?”
“Yeah, it didn’t add up to me, either. But the guy has no record. His mother was all broken up, but she said she didn’t have any idea why he was here or why he would have been murdered.”
I eyed him for a moment. “You don’t believe her.”
Mike closed his notebook with a snap. “I do believe he has nothing to do with Kinley Russo’s murder.”
“Kinley’s husband killed her,” I said again.
“And maybe, just maybe, you and MacRae happened to be in two very bad places where there were two very dead but completely unrelated bodies.”
“Believe me, I wish I hadn’t been at either place.”
“I believe you about Dugard.” Mike’s voice lowered and he leaned forward. “I think you wish you’d been five minutes earlier at the Russo’s house.”
I looked away.
“I think you wish you had shot Eric Russo dead.”
I pursed my lips. It was no good, however. I just couldn’t lie. So I looked him straight in the eyes. “You’re right.”
He didn’t flinch. Instead, with something like admiration in his eyes, he reached out and took my hand in his. “I don’t blame you for feeling that way. We don’t have proof yet that he did it. We’re going to pursue any avenue that opens up. But if he did it, he’ll give himself away. Then he’ll pay. “
“I want to help.” I didn’t resist when he kept holding my hand.
“I’ll keep you in the loop.” He was placating me, of course. This was “police business” and he wasn’t telling me anything I couldn’t read in the newspaper.
But I smiled and let him hold my hand until Bernie appeared with coffee. Mike Scala’s big, masculine hand felt damned good. Of course, I was also calculating what he might say when he discovered there was another death in Hunter’s life. Even I knew the bodies were piling up pretty fast for a hotshot divorce attorney and a mild-mannered PI.
What in the hell was going on?
Chapter 9
Hunter’s family was gathered in the massive drawing room at the family estate. The room was silent save for the crackling of the wood fire. It was evening, barely twenty-four hours since his grandfather’s death. They had received neighbors from the nearby town and the estate’s employees and their families tonight.
There would be a memorial service in Manhattan at a later date for the firm’s business associates. Tonight had been for those who knew and loved the real Fraser MacRae—husband, father, grandfather, friend, shifter, and leader of his clan. Tradition dictated that his body be cremated and his ashes spread within two days of his death. So tonight, they said goodbye.
Hunter missed Zoe and wished she could be here, as well. But she needed to get over her concussion, and she’d be there for him later. Just like always.
For the most part, Hunter had spent this evening listening to stories about Fraser. Now he struggled to accept the finality of it all.
Grandda was dead.
Anger surged through him, and he wondered at the silence of his family.
Seated on a sofa facing the huge fireplace, his grandmother, Isobel, was regal in a dark gray dress with pearls at her throat, her hair a shining white crown of braids. His father was at her side. As usual, Stirling was solicitous, broad of shoulder and square of jaw, the faultless son. Hunter’s mother, Margaret, was in a chair to the side, sipping yet another fortifying glass of wine. His sister, Meagan, was curled into a chair upholstered in deep red. Her face was pale against the rich color.
A color like blood. Like the streaks of blood he had seen on his grandfather’s flesh.
“How can we just sit here?” Hunter snarled.
Stirling’s gaze was steady on Hunter’s. “Have some respect, son.”
“Respect?” Hunter retorted.
“Mind your manners,” his mother slurred, sounding more than a little drunk.
Hunter whirled to face her. “How can we worry about manners when Grandda is dead, murdered by God knows what kind of monster?”
Meagan gasped and dropped her head into her hands.
Stirling stood. “You’re upsetting everyone.”
“So we do nothing?” Hunter demanded. “I know we’re supposedly waiting on autopsy results, but we both saw the body. We know Grandda was ripped to shreds, but we’re just supposed to sit here?”
Before Stirling could protest again, Isobel took her son’s arm. “Be still.” She looked hard at Hunter. “Both of you be still.”
In the sudden silence, the scream of an animal could be heard from outside.
Hunter leapt toward the bank of French doors to his right. Over his sister’s sobs and his father’s protests, he wrenched them open. Cold air spilled inside. Hunter smelled something alien. Another scream cut through the night, cruel and triumphant.
His skin tingled as he strode to the edge of the icy, brick patio. Summoning the second nature inside of him, he roared, his instinct to challenge whatever was prowling the mountains beyond the estate.
“Hunter, no,” Isobel demanded from behind him. “Now is not the time.”
Following her command as he would have his grandfather’s, Hunter clenched his fists. His body strained against his clothes, anxious f
or a change, yearning to stalk the beast that had killed his blood kin.
His grandmother touched his shoulder. Her voice gentled and settled him. “Think of your sister and your mother. They don’t understand this part of our world.”
“Listen to her,” his father said, stepping to his side. “You can’t do anything about this tonight. Your grandfather’s men are mourning him. They deserve that. They shouldn’t have to worry about you, too.”
“I don’t understand,” Hunter protested.
“I know you don’t,” Isobel said, regret lacing her tone. “I’m sorry you’re not better prepared. Your grandfather thought he had more time. He thought you deserved to be carefree before you knew the truth.”
“What truth?”
“You know we have enemies,” Stirling said. “I know he told you that much.”‘
Chymera. The creature his grandfather had told him about. The mutant Fraser had warned Zoe about in her vision. No doubt Chymera had his own clan.
Hunter remembered the legends, the stories of how his family had become shifters, of the enemy who had sworn a blood oath against them. But had he truly believed those stories before now, before Grandda’s savage death?
“I need to know,” Hunter said, turning toward his grandmother.
“And you will.” She turned back toward the door. “Come back inside where it’s warm.” She sounded strong and sure of herself, but in the lighted doorway, she swayed a bit and reached for Hunter’s hand.
“Nana?” he said, suddenly alarmed as she faltered another step.
Swearing, Stirling stepped forward to take his mother’s arm. He guided her to the sofa.
Meagan went quickly to Isobel’s side, glaring at Hunter. “What’s wrong with you?”
Isobel patted her granddaughter’s hand. “I need to talk to Hunter.”
He closed the doors behind him. “And I need to hear the truth.”
“No,” Meagan said, a note of firmness in her voice that Hunter wasn’t used to hearing.
She glared at him again. “Nana’s exhausted. Tomorrow, she’s spreading Grandda’s ashes at the cabin. Whatever she needs to say to you can wait until after that.”
“I need to know now,” Hunter protested.
