Dark Ends: A Horror Collection

by Sara Bourgeois

  The Rake and the Researcher

  Chapter One

  Lara

  I looked around the quaint town of Ash Road after stepping off the bus. I’d been stuck on the smelly, hot behemoth for three days because the agency that found me work had fallen through on the rental car they’d promised. My car was still at a shop in the last town I’d worked in, and I’d had to leave it behind. The mayor of this town needed someone fast, and he’d been willing to pay a premium fee for my quick arrival.

  I’d decided that a bus would be an interesting way to travel from the West Coast to the heart of the Midwest. What a dumb decision that had been. When you hear horror stories about bus trips, make sure you believe them.

  My first stop was to walk the three blocks to the bed-and-breakfast that would serve as my home during my stay. Ash Road was too small to have any regular hotels, and I’m sure that the residents of the sleepy village had never heard of corporate apartments.

  At least I’d had the sense to wear comfortable shoes. After all, who did I have to impress around here? A little bit of my arrogance about small towns and their residents melted away during my walk from the bus stop to the inn.

  Ash Road hadn’t turned out to be what I’d expected at all. The streets were lined with grand old Victorian mansions surrounded by perfect picket fences that contained manicured lawns. Oh, and the flowers were like something from another world. I’d been all over the country, and all over the world, and I can’t remember a place that had such an abundance of colorful blooms. Every color in the rainbow burst forth from the ground, flowering shrubs, and pots of all shapes and sizes.

  When I had been about to pass the ice cream shop that sat next to the old-timey barber shop, I looked at my watch and decided that I most definitely had time for a scoop.

  Or two.

  The bell over the ice cream parlor door rang merrily as I walked in. A girl dressed in a bubblegum pink uniform dress looked up from her magazine. She had bright blonde hair piled up on top of her head in a messy bun and pink lip gloss almost the exact shade of her dress.

  “Welcome to Stan’s Ice Cream Parlor,” she said cheerfully. “You must be the genealogist.”

  I chuckled. “I’m the genealogist, but that’s okay. It’s a mouthful,” I said as I walked over and stood in front of the ice cream case.

  “Whatever that is, sugar. I’ll leave that stuff to you. I just scoop the ice cream and make the shakes,” she said good-naturedly. I liked her already.

  “I’m Lara Tyler. I’ll be staying at the bed-and-breakfast for a few days,” I said.

  “I know,” she said and laughed when the look of confusion washed over my face. “Sugar, this is a small town. We already know more about you than your mama. I’m Sylvie, by the way. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  I’d walked into the place looking for a scoop of pistachio, but when I saw the house-made pralines and cream, I knew I had to try it. Not knowing when I’d have time to come back, I let myself order a double.

  Either I’d come in during ice cream rush hour or word had spread that the new girl in town was at Stan’s Ice Cream Parlor because five minutes after I arrived, the place was packed.

  “Come back anytime. You’re great for business,” Sylvie called after me when I left. I guess that was my answer.

  The woman sitting behind the desk at the B&B looked up at me when I walked in. The inside of the Magnolia and Willow Inn took my breath away. The outside had been distinctly southern in appearance with its sunny yellow siding, red shingled roof, and dark purple hurricane shutters.

  The receptionist was seated behind a giant mahogany desk, complete with leather-bound guest book and antique phone. In her hand was a tablet that she’d appeared to be reading from when I walked in.

  I looked around at my surroundings. There was a grand staircase that led to the second floor to my right behind the receptionist. On the left was a set of gorgeous French doors that opened into what I assumed was the breakfast area. Every inch of the hard wood gleamed as if someone had spent the entire day polishing it, and little pops of red and cerulean blue in the form of artwork and flowers kept the place from looking too dark.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Tyler. Step right up and I’ll get you checked in,” the woman said with a warm smile.

  I didn’t know if I should be impressed or unnerved that she knew who I was with no introduction. “Wow, you guys sure are on top of things around here,” I said, and then thought better of my manners. “Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m afraid I don’t have the pleasure of your name.”

  “I’m Becca Donaldson. Owner and proprietor of the inn,” she said and stood to extend her hand to me.

  I shook her hand and Becca sat back down at her desk. She pushed the giant book a few inches and tapped her pen next to an empty spot in the register.

  “Just sign right here. The rest of your information has already been filled out.” Becca said, and I scribbled my name next to my handwritten personal information.

  “Do you really keep all of your records in this book?” The idea was cringeworthy to someone like me. Sure, that’s how it was done in the old days, but now it seemed like such a huge risk. All of your precious data could be wiped out in a flood or fire. It seemed like a silly chance to take when there is virtually unlimited cloud storage available for cheap.

  “Heavens no.” She said and smiled even wider. “The book just helps set the atmosphere. I mean, all of my signatures are in here, but I do have a computer with records in the back office. I just keep that out of sight.” I breathed an audible sigh of relief and Becca chuckled. “I suppose in your line of work, keeping paper records in a book in this day and age would be no less than a mortal sin.”

  “Something like that,” I said thoughtfully.

  “Well, let me show you to your room,” Becca said and got out of her chair again. “Let me go in the back and grab the key. A year ago, I upgraded to those key card things the hotels use. Up until then, I’d used regular old keys, but my insurance company had a fit. They were going to double my rates if I didn’t install what they deemed better safety measures. I keep the key machine in the back for the same reason I keep the computer back there.”

  After Becca returned with two room keys, she led me up the stairs and down a long hallway to the last room. My home for the next couple of weeks was in the back of the house, and I learned as soon as I walked in that I had a breathtaking view of the inn’s gardens. The giant picture window opposite the entry door allowed me to see the perfectly sculpted and manicured grounds, and thanks to the numerous weeping willow trees flanking both sides of the house, the perfect amount of light gently streamed into my room.

  “Wow,” was all I could manage.

  “Yeah, you can’t find rooms like this at those fancy city hotels,” she said.

  “No, you can’t.” I walked to the window and looked down at the lavender plants lining a cobblestone walkway that led out to a small pond and what I assumed was a hand-carved gazebo.

  “The mayor insisted that I put you in my nicest room, and here it is. Don’t put too much bubble bath in the tub if you’re going to turn the jets on or else we’ll have a suds explosion. I’ve cleaned that up more than once,” she said and laughed. “Breakfast is from six in the morning until ten every day. If you’ve got something special you want me to make, just let me know. Otherwise, the weekly menu is on the coffee table. Call me if you need anything.”

  I briefly wondered why the mayor would care what room I stayed in, but then I remembered that he’s the person who hired me through the agency. Perhaps it was them that said I’d need deluxe accommodations and he’d just passed the message on to Becca.

  That was another mystery for another time. I had an heir to find and a fortune to bestow.

  The Ash Road Public Library was like something out of a storybook. The smell of books and leather invited you into the warm and welcoming space. It was the only building I’d seen so far that was bigger
than the Magnolia and Willow Inn. Both the exterior and interior had the look and feel of a grand Victorian mansion.

  After inquiring at the check-out desk, I found out that the records and research department was in an auxiliary building behind the main library. The young woman stationed behind the counter pointed me to a back door.

  I went outside and made my way across a stone path to the much more modern-looking research building. It was a bit disappointing that I wouldn’t get to do my research in the gorgeous library, but I promised myself that there’d be plenty of time to explore the treasure of books it held.

  The entrance door to the research building was locked and required a keycard to get in. Since I hadn’t been issued one yet, I pushed the button to buzz whoever was inside. Brody was the contact name I’d been given. That was it. A first name and instructions to meet him at the library at nine in the morning were my only clues as to with whom and under what circumstances I’d be working.

  Generally, jobs came with a great deal more background information. I’d been able to start digging into cases before arriving at my temporary work sites in the past. The entire job of finding an heir to the Francesca Horowitz estate had either been left intentionally vague or the people I was working for had no idea how the process worked.

  Either way, I wasn’t used to going into a case this blind. But I had to meet this Brody character in order to get access to all of the local genealogical records, as well as Ash Roads’ only computer that could access the online databases I needed.

  “I’ll be right out.” A deep, masculine voice came through a speaker somewhere close to the door.

  A few moments later, a tall, tan, and athletic man with sparkling blue eyes opened the door for me. His long, wavy blond hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, and when he smiled, a mouthful of bright, white teeth gleamed in the morning sunlight.

  Brody O’Malley looked like a California surf god plopped down in the Midwest. “Good morning, ma’am,” he said and gestured for me to enter. “I’m Brody.”

  “Lara Tyler; a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” I said and extended my hand to him once we were inside the building.

  He shook it, and I felt something a little like static electricity shoot up my arm and straight to my belly when his palm contacted mine. “Whoa, those aren’t city manners,” he said with a broad smile that lit up his entire face. “And is that a hint of an accent I detect? If your mamma isn’t southern, there’s a southern mama somewhere in your family line,” he said with a laugh.

  “You’re very observant,” I responded but gave him nothing more. Something about Brody made me want to remain mysterious. Men liked the chase. And while my conscious mind wanted nothing to do with good-looking men and romance, my subconscious mind must have decided that it wanted to be pursued.

  The inside of the facility was clean, modern, and sterile. My modest heels clicked against the gray stone tile floor. The walls where institutional white, and bright fluorescent lights hung overhead. The hallways were wide enough not to feel claustrophobic and most of the rooms that lined it had large glass windows that permitted you to see the shelves and large tables inside.

  “This is awfully fancy for a records storage facility,” I observed. “I was also wondering why the archives are kept here at the library instead of in the town hall.”

  “Just about every record in Ash Road, and the county, are considered historically significant . . . or at least possibly historically significant. Slavery, the Civil War, the Underground Railroad, and the families associated with them have records in our town’s archives. We thought it best to keep them somewhere a little more secure than the old town hall’s damp basement. So, a few years ago, the local government got a grant from the state to build this place,” he said and showed me into an office with a desk, table, and a large printer and scanner machine. “This is where I’m supposed to put you. I’ve got a badge for you that will open the doors and most of the records rooms.”

  “Most of them?” I cocked an eyebrow at him.

  “Some of the rooms only contain historical archives. You won’t need them, and they are precious. Not very many people get access to those rooms. Besides, they are in the basement in moisture- and oxygen-controlled environments. It’s a pain in the butt to go in and out because it’d be dangerous if you managed to get yourself locked in there.” Brody’s voice trembled a bit when he said this and it appeared to be because he’d become very nervous. There was a bead of sweat about to break free from his temple and run down his cheek, and I could see his hand tremor slightly.

  It struck me as odd that he’d suddenly turned skittish when I’d asked him about the rooms I didn’t have access to while I worked. I knew that most small towns had their secrets but what would any of that have to do with Mrs. Horowitz’s estate?

  “Did I say something wrong?” I asked innocently.

  “No. Why?” Brody barely hid his stammer.

  “You seem nervous. I was just wondering why?” The thought briefly crossed my mind that perhaps he found me as attractive as I found him, and his nervousness was nothing more than the jitters you get from being around someone you like. Those thoughts were immediately replaced with a big yeah right. Men as good-looking as Brody did not go for women like me. Oh, how I wished I could believe it was attraction and not that he had something to hide. Brody O’Malley was trouble. I could almost taste it.

  “It’s just been a long day,” he said. “I need some coffee.”

  “A long day? It’s like ten after nine,” I said and looked at the clock on the wall.

  “Are you always this inquisitive?” he asked. “Right. That’s your job.” Another anxious laugh escaped him.

  “You have no idea,” I said and winked at him.

  What the heck was wrong with me? I believed this guy—even if he was a cool drink of water on a hot day—was up to something. And there I was doing my weird flirting thing. I had to get ahold of myself. Why did I have to be so awkward?

  Chapter Two

  Lara

  Six hours later, I was ready to go find the nearest bus out of Ash Road. Breakfast at the inn had been excellent. The churro French toast and chicken sausages had held me until thirty minutes before my fantasies about running away from this job had started.

  I grumbled at the stack of papers and folders in front of me, and seconds later, my stomach growled. Loudly. It was too soon to go home for the day but I’d also started to get woozy. Instead of toughing it out, I decided to ask Brody if there was somewhere I could grab a quick bite to eat.

  I also needed to find out if there was any kind of break room with a refrigerator where I could put a lunch. My room at the bed-and-breakfast had a kitchenette so I could brown bag it for as long as I was in Ash Road. It wasn’t like working in the city where there were a million places to eat within walking distance of wherever I worked.

  I pushed my chair away from the desk and stood up. Once I was out in the hallway, I could see that Brody’s office door was closed. However, thanks to the pervasive quiet in the building, I could hear him moving around in there. I figured that if I made him go to lunch with me, I could find a place to eat and ask him a few questions about the files he’d given me to work with.

  Pieces of the puzzle were obviously missing and I didn’t believe for one second that they didn’t exist. Someone was trying to hide something from me, and I was going to figure it out.

  “Come in,” Brody called through the door seconds after I knocked. “Do you need some help,” Brody asked genuinely and enthusiastically, but there was still an edge of anxiety to his voice.

  He knew that I knew that he was hiding something, and that bothered me to no end. But at that point, what could I do? I had two choices:

  Say fluff off to this case and beat feet out of town.

  Get something to eat and solve a mystery.

  “I’m hungry, and I have no idea where I can grab a quick bite to eat around here other than the ice cream place,�
�� I said and plopped down in the chair in front of Brody’s desk.

  It bothered me that I was so suspicious of him, and yet so entirely comfortable at the same moment. I could literally feel my insides twisting up over what I’d started calling the Brody situation in my head. Or maybe that was just my hunger.

  “As you’ve probably guessed, there aren’t many options around here. We’ve got a diner that’s open and serves all-day breakfast. There’s a Taco Trio twenty minutes away in Spark’s Hollow. Ash Road has one fancy restaurant, Jeremiah’s Table, but it doesn’t open until dinner time. Or, we could walk over to my place and I could whip us up some tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches real quick,” he said with a smile.

  “How do I know you’re not a serial killer?” I asked instinctively when he suggested we go to his house alone.

  “Well, even if I was, you’d be a terrible victim,” he said with a wink.

  “Why’s that?” I asked, with genuine dismay that was really quite silly upon reflection.

  “Because everyone knows that I’m the last person to spend time alone with you. I’d be caught immediately.”

  “What kind of cheese do you use for your grilled cheese sandwiches?” I asked skeptically.

  “Two kinds, ma’am. I make them with a combination of Vermont white cheddar and muenster to balance out the flavor.”

  “Sold,” I said and stood up. “It’s rare to find a man who knows how to make a real grilled cheese sandwich.”

  “Don’t get too impressed yet,” he said with a chuckle. “The soup is from a can.”

  Brody’s house was not what I was expecting when he’d called it “my place.” That terminology had brought to mind a messy, half-grungy bachelor pad with a closet-like kitchen and a thirty-year-old hand-me-down dining room table.

  I should have known better because there weren’t any apartment buildings in Ash Road. But you’d expect a young, unattached male to have possibly lived in a small bungalow or something a lot less of a mansion than Brody’s actual house. That’s when it hit me that perhaps he wasn’t unattached. There was no ring on his finger, but maybe it was being sized or something. In my line of work, I should’ve known better than to make assumptions about someone’s familial relations.