The Omen Days

by J. T. Ellison

  She looked back to Sam. “So no idea what killed her, huh?”

  Sam relaxed, sitting back on her haunches. She stripped off her gloves and watched Taylor leaning in on the body.

  “Hell if I know. Nothing’s really jumping out at me. Give me a break, T, you know the drill.”

  “You’ll get me all the pics yesterday, right? And do the post right now. I mean—”she attempted a more conciliatory tone, “—will you do the post right now?”

  “I’ll bump her to the top of the guest list. There’s something else… Do you smell anything?”

  “Just your perfume. Is it new?”

  “See, that’s the weird thing. I’m not wearing any. I think the smell is coming from the body. And I’ll tell you, Taylor, this would be my first sweet-smelling corpse, you know?”

  Taylor had noticed the scent. She inhaled sharply through her nose. Yes, there were all the usual stinks that came with a dead body: the unmistakable smell of decay, the stink of fear, the tang of stale urine and excrement. But overlaying all these olfactory wonders was a tangy sweetness. She thought hard for a moment, searching for the memory the smell triggered. The scent was somehow familiar, almost like—That was it!

  “Sam, you know what this smells like? The spa across the way, Essential Therapy. Remember, I gave you a gift certificate for a massage there for your birthday? They have all those lotions and soaps and essential oil candles… ”

  “Wait a minute. You’re right. She smells like incense.” She stared at the body. “What if… Okay, give me a second here.” Sam reached into her kit and extracted a small pair of tweezers. She bent over and started picking through the dirt on the body.

  “What are you doing?” Taylor watched Sam put a few pieces of leaves and sticks into a small white paper bag. Somewhat disgusted, she watched Sam shove her nose into the bag and breathe in deeply. “Ugh, Sam.”

  “No, here.” Sam’s eyes lit up, and Taylor was tempted to back away. But Sam grabbed her hand and shoved the bag toward her face. “Really, smell.”

  Taylor wrinkled her nose, swallowing hard. It was one thing seeing the body and smelling it from a few feet away, but sticking her nose into the detritus that came from the body itself was totally gross. Grimacing, she took the bag and inhaled. The scent was smoky and floral, not at all unpleasant.

  Sam’s eyes were shining in excitement. “This isn’t dirt, Taylor. These are herbs. She has herbs scattered all over her body. Now what the hell is that all about?”

  Taylor shook her head slowly, trying to absorb the new discovery. “I don’t know. Can you isolate which herb it is?”

  “Yeah, I can let a buddy of mine at UT in Knoxville take a look. He’s head of the university’s botany department and totally into all this stuff. I don’t think it’s just one herb, though. The leaves are all different sizes and shapes. Oh man, this is too cool.”

  “Sam, you’re awful.” Taylor couldn’t stop herself from smiling. “You like this job too much.”

  “That’s why I’m good at it. Tim’s our lead ‘gator today. I’m going to get him set up here to bag all this stuff, and I’ll have a runner take it up to UT ASAP. You know, it would be a lot simpler if that idiot mayor would help us get our own lab capable of handling this kind of stuff. Hell, it’d be nice if we could even do tox screens in-house.”

  Sam continued grumbling under her breath and stood up, signaling the end of the conversation. She waved to her team, calling them over. The body was ready to be moved.

  “Wait, Sam. Did Crime Scene pick up anything else? Clothes, jewelry?”

  “Not yet, but you’re in their way. She’s got enough of this crap on her that it’s gonna take them a while to collect it all. Why don’t you go back and try to find out who this girl is for me, okay? Y’all need to catch this guy, ‘cause once the press gets a hold of this, they’re gonna freak the whole city. It’s not every day I have to come to the middle of Centennial Park to collect a body, much less for a staged crime scene. Look at the vultures hovering already.”

  She swept her hand toward the media trucks. Their level of activity had picked up, excitement palpable in the air. Techs were setting up lights and running around on the street by the duck pond, with cameras and portable microphones in tow. The news vans were lined up around the corner. Taylor watched Fitz and the patrol officers struggle to keep the reporters from rushing the tape to gather their precious scoops. Nothing like murder in the morning to start a feeding frenzy.

  “Seriously, Taylor, you know how they are. They’ll find some way to spin this into a grand conspiracy and warn all the parents to keep their girls at home until you catch whoever did this.” She started grumbling. “It should be frickin’ illegal for the chief to have given them their own radios. Now every newsie in Nashville hovers over my shoulder while I scope a body.”

  Taylor lowered her eyelids for a second and gave her best friend a half smile. “Well, honey, if it makes you feel any better, all the talking heads and their cameramen are squishing through goose poo trying to get their stories. Guess Lake Watauga has its purposes after all. Call me as soon as you have anything.”

  Sam laughed. “Yeah, yeah. Split. You’re making me nervous.”

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  THE ABANDONED HEART by Laura Benedict

  Excerpt

  Copyright © 2016 by Laura Benedict

  www.laurabenedict.com

  Reprinted with permission by Pegasus Books LLC

  * * *

  “Murder, sexual obsession, and misogyny explode in the final scenes, bringing all the simmering evil to the surface in a shocking finale, that, like all good horror stories, is probably not the end. You just can’t look away from this bomb site—nor forget it. Dripping with southern gothic atmosphere.”

  –Booklist, starred review, on CHARLOTTE’S STORY

  * * *

  “Set in 1957 in southern Virginia, Benedict’s suspenseful, atmospheric follow-up to 2014’s Bliss House finds housewife Charlotte Bliss devastated by the death of her four-year-old daughter… A satisfyingly creepy tale for a rainy night.”

  –Publisher’s Weekly on CHARLOTTE’S STORY

  * * *

  “An evocative, frightening and flawless gothic, CHARLOTTE’S STORY is guaranteed to send a delicious chill down your spine. Nobody does more for the modern southern gothic than Laura Benedict.”

  –J.T. Ellison, New York Times bestselling author of WHAT LIES BEHIND

  * * *

  “Benedict writes with passion and authority. CHARLOTTE’S STORY is not to be missed.”

  –Carolyn Haines, author of the Sarah Booth Delaney Bones Mysteries, including BONE TO BE WILD

  About Laura

  Laura Benedict is the author of the Bliss House series of dark suspense novels, CHARLOTTE’S STORY, BLISS HOUSE, and THE ABANDONED HEART (Pegasus Crime), as well as DEVIL’S OVEN, a modern Frankenstein tale, ISABELLA MOON, and CALLING MR. LONELY HEARTS (Ballantine). Her work has appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, PANK, and numerous anthologies like THRILLERS: 100 MUST-READS (Oceanview), and SLICES OF FLESH (Dark Moon Books). She originated and edited the Surreal South Anthology of Short Fiction Series with her husband, Pinckney Benedict, and edited FEEDING KATE, a charity anthology, for their press, Gallowstree Press. A Cincinnati, Ohio native, Laura grew up in Louisville, Kentucky, and claims both as hometowns. She currently lives with her family in the southern wilds of a Midwestern state, surrounded by bobcats, coyotes, and other less picturesque predators. Find out more, enter her monthly contests, and follow her blog at laurabenedict.com.

  Prologue

  It was the spring of 1876, and the first families of Old Gate, Virginia, were putting on quite a show for the man from New York who meant to be their new neighbor. The world was not such a large place that someone from a good Virginia family did not have connections in New York who could make inquiries about such a man. So everyone in the county al
ready knew that Randolph Hasbrouck Bliss was about thirty years old, the son of a man who was reputed to have made an enormous fortune buying cotton from farmers in the Confederate States (sometimes from the government itself ) for resale to the Northern textile mills, and then selling arms and ammunition back to the Confederacy. That he had a wife who was, interestingly, several years older than he, and a young daughter who, it was said, wasn’t quite right in the head. That he had been educated at the College of New Jersey, and, after having shown some skill in managing one of his father’s import operations (French wines, and more textiles), had decided to try his hand at farming apples and peaches in central Virginia. Those who had made the inquiries hadn’t been able to find out exactly why he had decided to change careers, but there were whispers that he had habits of a nature that embarrassed and displeased his mother, who was from old Dutch New York stock. It was believed that those habits involved women. Often much younger women, and women of ill repute.

  But the dinner guests at Maplewood, the gracious, pillar-fronted home of Katharine “Pinky” Archer and her husband, Robert, found their prejudices undermined as soon as they met Randolph.

  He wasn’t a man whom any woman would particularly call handsome, with features that were heavy and decidedly non-patrician: a prominent nose and thick, dark brows. But his jaw was strong and his brown eyes alert and lively. He wore his clothes well, despite having a waist that did not taper much from his broad shoulders, and an overall frame that was more like that of a laborer than of a man who spent his days giving orders to others. Like every other man in the room, he was dressed in a double-breasted evening coat of black, with matching trousers. His silk waistcoat was a rich shade of peacock blue that was at once daring and elegant. They could see that everything he wore was of superior quality, and though his face was rather common, he inhabited his expensive clothes with an easy, animal grace.

  After a dinner that included expected delights of smoked oysters, turtle soup, bison, and a French cream tart, the Reverend Edward M. Searle and a couple of the other men of Old Gate watched Randolph with interest as he stood, smiling, surrounded by women. The women, including Edward’s wife, Selina, and their hostess, Pinky Archer, preened under Randolph’s gaze. His compliments were easy and witty. Was it that gaze that attracted them? As he looked at each woman, he seemed to give her his undivided attention, and when he looked elsewhere, she would wilt a bit. The women’s attraction to Randolph was puzzling to all of the men, and, if they had spoken to one another about it, they might have agreed that it had something to do with the juxtaposition of his wealth and his common appearance. Or was it the uneasy sense that he was capable of doing the unpredictable?

  When Pinky sat down at the piano, she asked who would be willing to sing “Silver Threads Among the Gold,” as she had recently learned it, and Randolph volunteered readily. He sang confidently in a bold, baritone voice, but showed a strong degree of modesty when the group—particularly the women—applauded enthusiastically at the song’s end. One of the older women, Pinky’s mother, dabbed discreetly at her eye with a handkerchief.

  When the singing was done, the party broke into smaller groups. Some played cards, others gathered around the enormous book of drawings of New York scenery that Randolph had sent as a gift to his hostess. With most of the women occupied, Edward, who was the priest at St. Anselm’s Episcopal Church, saw his opportunity to speak to Randolph alone.

  A servant had brought Randolph a glass of water, and he was finishing it when Edward approached. He spoke quietly. “Randolph, won’t you walk outside with me for a moment? The evening is fine, and I like to take a small stroll after a large meal. Maplewood’s garden is quite fragrant in the evening.”

  Randolph smiled, his dark eyes full of mischief. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather take a turn with one of these beautiful ladies, Edward? Your wife looks very becoming. In fact all the women I’ve met since I arrived in Old Gate are possessed of charms unseen where I come from in New York. And I warn you. I won’t sit still if you try to kiss me beneath a rose bower.”

  Robert Archer, their host, was passing and chanced to hear Randolph’s response. He stopped, chuckling. “You can trust Edward. I’ve known him since we were boys, and he never tried to kiss me once.”

  A slight look of irritation passed over Edward’s face, but he banished it quickly and, with feigned gruffness, said, “But you haven’t Randolph’s exotic Yankee charm, Robert. Familiarity breeds contempt, as I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  “Scoundrel. Don’t be long with your stroll, gentlemen. I fear the ladies will not tolerate Randolph being away from them much longer.” He laid his hand on Randolph’s broad back in a gesture of camaraderie that was not quite a slap. “You’ve become quite the favorite already. You’ll have to tell me your secret sometime. My Pinky and I have only been married five years, yet sometimes I think that since I’ve passed the age of thirty she sees me as ready for the ash heap. Beware, Randolph. The young women of the county are a flirtatious set, but we love them dearly, don’t we, Edward?”

  Edward nodded sagely and guided Randolph to the door.

  Outside, the evening was indeed fine, and the cloudless sky above Maplewood was a brocade of countless stars.

  “You can’t see the sky like this in New York, in the city.” Randolph stopped on the garden’s path and looked up. “Too many factories, too many lights. My wife, Amelia, will like it here very much. She is reluctant to leave Long Island, but I think she and my daughter will be happy in the end. I have a working design for Bliss House, though it is sure to take more than a year to build.”

  Edward cleared his throat. “Some would say Old Gate is a bit rough around the edges, but I was happy to come back here after the war and seminary.”

  “I can’t think of a better place to build new traditions for myself and my family. Sometimes a man needs to escape the bonds of family tradition, don’t you agree?”

  “Then I would say you will find its isolation to your liking. Old Gate is not like other Virginia towns. We are an insular place. The people who settled here, rather than in larger places like Lynchburg or Charlottesville, came here—or come here—because they were either not wanted in those larger societies or had reasons of their own for absenting themselves.” He looked closely at Randolph. “What are your reasons for wanting to come to a place as remote as Old Gate?”

  Randolph smiled and gave a small laugh. “I suppose I want a change. Nothing wrong with that, is there? As I said, sometimes the bonds of family can become too tight.”

  Rather than pressing him further, Edward glanced over his shoulder to see if they were being followed and continued walking. “This way, please.” When he was satisfied that they were far enough away from the house, he stopped again. He was several inches taller than Randolph, and the moonlight sharpened his patrician profile: a high, Grecian nose, tall forehead, and chiseled chin. His prominent height intimidated many people.

  Randolph looked up at him without any sign of anxiety. “Is something troubling you? I’ll be of assistance if I can.”

  “My friends would not thank me for speaking with you. While I am of their society, they hold somewhat more jaundiced views than I on many things.” He shook his head. “I would never accuse them of a lack of integrity, but I fear that the trio of individuals who own the property you are about to purchase for your home has not been completely honest with you.”

  Randolph laughed. “It is business. No business can be conducted in complete honesty. Nothing would ever be settled. Do you think the price they ask is too dear? It seems quite reasonable to me. It’s a prime bit of land. Perfect for orchards, and an excellent home site.”

  “If it is so excellent, is it credible to you that it should be so close to town and as yet undeveloped? We have undergone much improvement since the war.”

  “Is there some defect I should know of? I have found none. Monsieur Hulot, my architect, has approved the surveyor’s report, and will depart with his a
ssistant from France at my telegram. I have spent much time at the site. I am satisfied. What is this, Edward?” Randolph assumed a joshing tone. “Is there some other bidder you want it for? I’m not afraid of paying a bit more to ensure that I have it. Or—” He seemed to consider for a moment. “Is it that my erstwhile neighbors are disturbed because they’ve learned that the distinguished Monsieur Hulot happens to be a Negro?”

  Edward gave a little cough. “I’m sure that has never come up.”

  “Then just tell me what it is you have to tell me.”

  “Very well,” Edward said. “A lot of the old families struggle to keep up their homes. The ones farming tobacco are just recovering. They need the money. Your money.”

  “Seems a fair trade.”

  “That particular farm was never planted with tobacco. It was part of an early land grant, and the owners leased different parts of it to many tenants over the years. When I was a boy, it was home to the Doyle family, a family with Quaker sympathies.”

  “Quakers? Here?”

  “The Doyles were friendly with the Quaker group down in Lynchburg. And as you probably know, the Quakers had no sympathy for slaveholding and subverted it in every way they could. Old Gate was on the route from Lynchburg to Culpeper County, which was a kind of gathering point for runaway slaves headed north.”

  “Is there anywhere here that isn’t touched by that kind of history? We must move past the war, man. It’s our duty.”