Emily scanned Bob and Debbie’s bedroom. “These artifacts, are they what he used to perform his magic?”
Wooden and turquoise implements, carved and painted with hideous faces, were placed throughout the room. They faced the four corners of Murcat Manor’s property. Incense filled the room with strange but oddly pleasant aromas.
“Indian Joe must have worked right after Bob and Debbie left for dinner and the movies, and the cast of American Ghost Stories were interviewing the neighbors. The freaks were trailing them and we were in the basement planning our strategy. He had free reign of Murcat Manor for at least a couple hours. Then he filled Bob and Debbie’s bedroom with two things. First, the Soul Catchers, then assorted amulets used by North American shamans.”
“Soul Catchers.” Emily shuddered. “He mentioned that’s what we were caught in.” She looked around again at the artifacts. “Get down. Those things might still be active.”
“Not to worry,” Madelyn said, walking back and forth between the multiple-headed objects. “These are handmade tools characteristic of his culture from a time gone by. The Soul Catchers’ powers were tied to their owner. As long as he was alive, his magic—strong medicine he’d call it—would work. But now that he’s dead, these are useless relics—mere chunks of wood, really. The only thing they’re good for now is to put on display at museums.”
Screaming came from below. Things were crashing and breaking. Emily heard Denise swearing she would personally kill the rest of the cats. Especially her.
“Looks like American Ghost Stories is still having fits,” Chloe said.
Emily turned to Rebecca, still staring down at Indian Joe. She brushed up against her grieving sister and snuggled her. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say. Everything happened so fast. There was nothing I could do.”
Chloe sighed, crestfallen. “There was nothing any of us could do.” A tear dripped down her cheek, her head in a slow wag. “Indian Joe caught us all by surprise. He ambushed us with strange magic we’ve never seen.”
Rebecca heaved a deep breath. “I don’t blame you. Any one of us could have died tonight. Not just my sister Annie.” She turned to Madelyn. “I know I often made fun of you. And I apologize for that. Tonight, you saved us. Thank you.”
Approaching sirens, competing with the screaming and arguing from the basement, broke the solemn moment.
“Darrowby,” Emily said. “He must have been watching the show.”
“What do we do?” Rebecca said, with a humility Emily had never heard from her second in command. “I understand how you felt when you lost your sister Sarah that night outside Boston. I’m sorry for how I’ve acted since then.”
The sirens grew louder.
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll discuss this later.”
“Okay. Just know I’m here for you. You’re our leader. And I’ll follow and respectfully do whatever you say.”
Emily was happy Rebecca had a change of heart, even if it was under the most trying of circumstances. Time to move forward. “Okay. We have four dead sisters. Rachel and Angel’s bodies are upstairs. Annie and Jacqueline’s are in the basement. Any ideas?”
“The bodies. We should hide them,” Helen said.
Chloe shook her head. “How? Why? They’re spread over three floors. We’ll never get to them in the next couple minutes. And even if we were able to hide them, the police are going to tear this place apart. They’ll find them.”
“Listen up,” Emily said. “We’ve been found out. Twice. And in one night. Once by American Ghost Stories and then Indian Joe. I agree with Chloe the police will find our sisters’ bodies regardless what we do with them. This will cause Darrowby to have to a good long look at us. We have to protect ourselves moving forward.”
“Actually,” Madelyn said. “We’ve been found out three times, if you count Erma.”
“That’s right,” Isabella said. “The day I hissed inside her head. She went nuts. She walked up to each of us, asking if we did it.”
“Exactly,” Emily said, police sirens now wailing directly in front of Murcat Manor. “No one else heard it but that batty old lady. Oh yeah, I’m sure in the back of her mind, she hasn’t forgotten about that. I have to say she’s making connections, too.”
More bellowing and shrieking erupted from the basement.
Rebecca huffed. “Can’t anyone make them shut up? They’re scaring the hell out of me. And we’re supposed to be the ones doing that.”
Scarlett raised a paw. “Believe me, I’m trying to undo the bout of madness I cast on Johnny Rocket. But it’s not working.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. This has never happened before.”
Rebecca winced and cupped her paws over her ears. “Emily, you have the same abilities we all have. Can’t you flip the off switch? That guy’s incoherent babbling has to stop.”
Emily closed her eyes tight. Johnny Rocket continued to wail. The Leeds brothers were also yelling.
“I’m trying. But nothing’s working.”
“I think I know why,” Scarlett said. “While everyone else in the basement was caught up in the Soul Catcher, I watched Johnny smashing his head against the cement walls and floor.”
“That’s it,” Madelyn added. “He probably has serious physical brain trauma. You may never be able to turn it off.”
Rebecca turned to Helen. “At least you can switch Ned and Henry back, right?”
“Of course I can.”
“Well? We’re waiting.”
Helen started to move, then stopped. “Ah, no. I think I’ll leave them like that. What about Denise’s hair?”
Chloe was laughing. Rebecca had to chuckle.
Emily shrugged. “Good question. It may float forever. Who cares? Certainly not me. I hate that uppity bitch.”
Rebecca nodded in agreement. “Okay. What to do. We can’t wait around until someone else finds us out then tries to kill us. That seems to be the pattern.”
“We’ll think of a plan,” Emily said. “But first, we need to make sure Darrowby doesn’t begin to have his doubts about us. Four dead cats could lead him in that direction.”
“And Erma?”
“We’ll have to devise a scheme to take care of her, too.”
“What about Bob and Debbie? Bob may be boring, but he’s not stupid. He’ll figure things out sooner rather than later.”
Madelyn sighed. “The answer is simple. Once again, we leave evidence Boring Bob had something to do with another death at Murcat Manor.”
“Brilliant. Madelyn, where have you been all this time.”
“I’ve been here all along, helping far more than you’ll ever know. But I shun the spotlight and you never notice me.”
Emily brushed up against Madelyn and hugger her with her tail. “I’m sorry. Really, I am.”
“Not to worry. I’m an introvert. I prefer to work behind the scenes. Okay, time to link Bob and Debbie to Indian Joe’s death.”
Rebecca spoke. “But how? This is their room. Any evidence we leave would belong here.”
“Except,” Madelyn said, walking over and into the walk-in closet. “There. See? Bob has some old baseball equipment. A couple bats, glove, and baseballs. Now, any infliction will be post mortem. But, since Indian Joe’s only been dead for a few minutes, we can still cause damage on and below his skin that will lead Darrowby to suspect foul play. Eventually, forensics will conclude he was already dead. But this will give us some breathing room.”
“Perfect,” Emily said. “Chloe, levitate one of those hardballs, and hurl it as hard as you can directly into Indian Joe’s temple.”
“With pleasure,” Chloe said, a ball rising from the closet shelf. “Taking aim, and wooooshh!”
The baseball flashed across the room and slammed into Joseph Meicigama’s temple with a resounding smack, then tumbled off the bed onto the floor with a soft thud.
Emily inspected the wound as it swelled and turned a dark brownish-blue color. A few
drops of blood trickled from his ear.
“Excellent. And surely Bob’s prints will be all over the ball. Good job, Madelyn and Chloe. Now let’s go.”
“Wait,” Rebecca interjected. “I want to see Annie one more time.”
Emily listened to the noise from the basement. Johnny Rocket was still putting up a hell of a fight. At the front of the house, footsteps pounded up the porch steps. The front door was forced open and slammed against the wall.
“I’m sorry for your loss. Our loss,” Emily said. “But we have to wait for the basement to clear out. Darrowby’s here and Murcat Manor will once again be a crime scene. He and his goon sidekick aren’t going to allow anyone in the basement. Not even us.”
Chapter 47 The Aftermath
Bob wondered if he should be used to this setting. He sat, once again, at the enormous oak kitchen table at a crazy hour of the morning when he should be sleeping with his gorgeous and voluptuous wife.
But the same scenario playing out was becoming routine. Raymond made coffee for him and Debbie. Oh, and also, ho-hum, there was another dead guest at Murcat Manor.
And let’s not forget attorney Kenneth Wilson, Bob thought, chin cupped in his hand as his elbow rested on the table. As counsel, Wilson was there to ensure he and Debbie were not arrested for a horrific crime they did not commit.
Next up are Detectives Darrowby and Kowalski. What death at Murcat Manor would be complete without these two thugs in suits looking for any reason to take him away in cuffs?
Then there were the Battle Creek police offers. Bob watched as they ran yellow police tape back and forth across certain sections of his bed and breakfast.
But the paramedics taking away a still screaming Johnny Rocket strapped to a gurney? Now that was a new twist. Bob was relieved when they gave him a shot of something in the arm. By the time the producer of American Ghost Stories reached the living room, he was sedated.
Ah yes, next up are the Leeds brothers, adamant they were each other. Yeah, not seen that one, Bob thought, as he surveyed the unlikely outcome of American Ghost Stories live broadcast.
Not be outdone, there was the emerging and egomaniacal drop-dead gorgeous cult-of-personality Denise Forsythe. Her face was still bleeding from a really pissed off cat and her unexplainable ever-flowing-heavenward hair.
Bob wasn’t sure if that was part of their act to gain new viewers. Or, he finally had to consider as the paramedics turned their attention to Denise’ hemorrhaging face, if all four had lost their minds and Murcat Manor truly was haunted and cursed.
“Is Johnny going to be okay,” Debbie asked one of the police officers walking in from the living room.
“He’ll be held for a seventy-two hour psychiatric evaluation. After that, I’m not sure.”
Bob looked at the time on his cell phone. 3:30 a.m. He was physically and emotionally spent, and he was fed up with Darrowby’s bullshit. This time, he had an alibi. He and Debbie were at the late showing of Ghost Busters in nearby Jackson.
“What part of we weren’t here don’t you understand?” Bob didn’t try to hide his disdain or sarcasm as he responded to Darrowby’s questioning him for the umpteenth time.
Bob despised Darrowby’s non-blinking stare. His glaring hazel eyes, set under a pair of black bushy eyebrows, only exemplified the fact the detective was a zealous fiend wearing a cheap Brioni Vanquish II knockoff.
Further exacerbating the disgusting situation was the fact he possessed an authority while lacking the mentality to make rational judgment calls. Power being wielded by a man with a double digit IQ was not a good combination.
“I see a dead Indian in your bed, Mr. Stevens.”
Bob couldn’t resist. “That’s Native American. Sir.”
Darrowby tensed. His left eye twitched. Bob knew the detective was this close to taking a swing at him. Likewise, Bob thought, wishing his thoughts could be conveyed telepathically. Take your best shot, Shit for Brains. I’m ready.
“Not to mention a cable television crew, all who have completely lost their marbles.”
“Could be part of their act,” Bob said as he feigned a yawn and glanced over Darrowby’s shoulder.
Denise Forsythe was in the living room, standing in front of the mirror centered above the fireplace. She cried as she tried to pull her hair down, only to have it again and again float up and spread out after each attempt. The paramedics tried to coax her to sit down so they could clean, numb, and stitch the deep wounds on her face.
No cameras were filming. The cameramen had long since left. Both swore they would never come back. What if this wasn’t an act?
Darrowby snapped his fingers loud. “Stay with me, Mr. Stevens. And finally, we have four dead cats. Two in the basement. Two upstairs.”
Bob gulped. That was strange. He thought back to DeShawn Hill and the three cats on the rooftop when the fatal accident occurred.
Bob hunched his shoulders, then let them drop. “I don’t know what to say.” He reached for his wallet.
Darrowby reached for his gun.
“Hold your horses, cowboy. I’m just showing you the receipts and movie stubs. Proof we were not here.”
“Actually, that’s proof you showed up at the theatres at midnight. A near perfect alibi. You could have snuck out, came back here, and had plenty of time to kill the Indian.”
“That’s Native American,” Debbie said. “You will address him as such as long as you are in my house.”
Darrowby’s slammed his fists on the table and bellowed, “Shut up.”
The words were loud and mean and echoed in the confines of the cavernous kitchen. Bob might tolerate this jerk of a human being speaking to him this way. But Debbie?
No way in hell.
Bob acted without thinking. He stepped up onto the table and punched Darrowby square in the jaw with a left uppercut as the detective leapt up to meet him. By the time Bob was fully conscious of his actions, Kowalski had pile-driven him to the floor and four police officers each grabbed one of his limbs.
Bob was picked up and thrust face first against the wall. Kowalski yanked his hands behind his back and cuffed him, intentionally tight. Kenneth Wilson was yelling at everyone to stop. Debbie was in a fit of uncontrolled hysterics.
Wilson stepped between Bob and Darrowby, who was picking himself up off the floor. His hands, stretched out chest high, kept the two separated. “Whoa. Just stop, everyone.”
“You struck an officer of the law,” Kowalski hollered, grabbing Bob’s wrists and shoving him back toward the table. “That’s a felony offense.”
Bob was quick to retort. “Your boyfriend told my wife to shut up. Nobody does that. You people have no respect.”
Bob again found himself heaved down, this time face first on the kitchen table. He felt his nose break and blackness threatened to overtake him. Blood poured from both nostrils.
“And you struck a civilian who was not resisting arrest,” Wilson yelled over to Kowalski. “That’s also a felony. I’ll have your badge handed to you in a criminal lawsuit.”
Bob was helped up by Wilson and Debbie. His head spun. He swallowed blood through the back of his nasal passage.
“You two are beasts,” Debbie screamed at the detectives.
“And you’re murderers,” Darrowby shouted back.
“I think you broke my husband’s nose.” Debbie snatched a dish towel and wiped the crimson flow running down Bob’s face and off his chin.
Darrowby stepped into Bob and rammed his finger into his chest. “And you almost broke my jaw. But here, let me fix your schnoz for you.”
Before Bob could react, Darrowby pinched the bridge of his nose between his fore and middle fingers. He gripped and wrung it, resetting the nose with an awful sounding crunch.
Hideous pain shot through Bob’s head. For a moment he saw hot white flashes against a dark background. But his anger overrode any physical pain. He locked his knees and stood his ground. Robert Jeremy Stevens wasn’t allowing Darrowby any satisfa
ction by showing weakness.
It seemed to work. Darrowby looked stunned. Now Bob was the one glaring down on him, eyes wide open and steadfast. Darrowby needed an out. He stepped back and donned a bad actor’s attempt at a sincere smile.
“You got lucky Kowalski has a short fuse. I guess these two events cancel each other out.”
“The Stevens were in Jackson watching a movie,” Kenneth Wilson said. “So I suggest you take the cuffs off my client and let the police officers finish their work. You and your goon partner may leave. Now.”
Kowalski took the cuffs off Bob while Darrowby held up a large Ziplock bag containing a single item: a baseball. He looked at Bob, then to Debbie.
“There’s a dead Indian in your bed with a bruise on his left temple. I’m confident this piece of evidence will be your downfall. If your prints are on this ball, and why wouldn’t they be, and autopsy results show this weapon is what killed him, that’s all I’ll need to shut this place down and put you and your wife behind bars for the rest of your lives.”
Chapter 48 Ross and Erma
Bob opened his eyes, scratched himself, then stared at the ceiling covered in country western album sleeves. He and Debbie had fallen asleep in the Roadhouse Blues Room.
Their personal bedroom was a crime scene—some rubbish about one of his baseballs being a possible murder weapon. Their door had yellow police tape blocking anyone from entering, even though Joseph Meicigama’s body had been taken away and the police officers were gone.
Darrowby again, playing his mind games.
Bob guessed it was around lunchtime. His stomach usually rumbled around noon. And right now his gut was howling.
His mind flashed back to last night when Darrowby told Debbie to shut up. He was glad he busted Darrowby in the jaw, even if he got a broken nose in return and was almost arrested.
He picked up his cell phone off the nightstand. 11:58 a.m. Bob sighed, knowing who would be sitting at the kitchen table: Ross and Erma. He didn’t need to look out the window to see their car in his driveway.
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