by Eddie Jones
While Aunt Vivian deployed needles and yarn, I told a dour-faced woman behind the sliding glass window that I was there to view Forester’s body. She asked me how I was related to the deceased and I explained my position with the Cool Ghoul Gazette. She placed a call and I waited.
In a few minutes a door opened and a round little man with reading glasses perched atop his bald head entered through a side door. He had a chubby, double-chinned face and looked to be anywhere between thirty and forty. I strolled over and he introduced himself as Dr. Arthur Edwards. Dad says you can tell a lot about a man by the way he shakes your hand. The doctor’s grip was limp and sweaty. He wore a brown suit, scuffed black dress shoes, and a look of irritation.
“I am afraid I cannot allow you to view the body. Authorized personnel only. Unless you are an immediate member of the family — are you?”
“No, sir, but I would only be a few minutes.”
“No media, sorry.”
Aunt Vivian looked up from her knitting. “My nephew traveled a long way. Flew all the way up from Florida.”
“Yes, ma’am, I understand,” Dr. Edwards said, “but there are rules.”
“Rules my foot. I bet if he was whatshisname, that handsome man on Good Morning News, you’d bend the rules.”
Dr. Edwards cut his eyes toward me. I shrugged to let him know I didn’t know what guy she was talking about either.
“Oh, don’t look at me that way, you know who I’m talking about. Dimpled chin, boyish face? Has really nice teeth and a funny name I can’t pronounce?”
“Even if your nephew was this individual,” Edwards said to Aunt Vivian, “I still could not allow him to see the body.”
She sighed, put down her knitting, and ambled over. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a church-offering envelope and slipped five twenty-dollar bills inside.
One hundred dollars?
“I can only imagine how expensive it must be to run for the office of county coroner,” she said to Edwards. “My late husband was on our local school board back in Asheville. He loved kids but hated politics.” She pressed the envelope into the doctor’s sweaty palm. “This is for your reelection campaign. It’s not much but maybe this will help buy a few yard signs.”
Edwards pocketed the envelope without smiling. “I will speak with my assistant.”
“Mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”
Reaching for the door handle, he stopped and turned back toward me. “Yes, I do mind.”
“I’ll make it quick. The victim, I understand he’s been identified as Barnabas Forester.”
“I cannot confirm that. You’ll need to speak to Lieutenant McAlhany regarding the particulars of the deceased.”
“Did you know the victim?”
Edwards glanced at his watch and made a nervous twitching noise with his teeth that sounded like a rabbit nibbling a carrot.
“Not really. I know his wife. She and I helped chair a breast cancer awareness event last fall. Lucy has a gallery here in town. From the way she talked, her husband was something of a recluse.”
“So you and the victim’s wife, you are friends?”
“Lucy?” For a split second his look of irritation faded. “Of course.” The scowl returned. “Look, are you writing a story or investigating this man’s death?”
“Both. I’m part of a group that analyzes television shows — crime shows in particular.” I explained how we cataloged the shows and fed the information into our database. “With that information I can run a query of all shows that match certain variables. Like in this case, now that I know he was married, we have a dead husband as the victim, a spooky mansion, a strange-acting innkeeper, those sorts of things. Once I have all the variables, I review any episodes that match those elements.”
Edwards looked over at Aunt Vivian and back at me. “I cannot imagine that works.”
“It does, actually.”
“Look, I have to go,” he said dryly. “I have real work to do.”
When the doctor was gone I said to Aunt Vivian, “You shouldn’t have paid him. I could have talked him into letting me see the body on my own.”
“It’s just money, dear. I can’t take it with me, and where I’m going they pave the streets with gold.”
“But it’s bribery.”
“Be wise as serpents and harmless as doves.”
“What does that mean?”
“Remind me later and I’ll explain it to you.”
Aunt Vivian had barely picked up her needles when a girl appeared in the doorway. She wore a white long-sleeved turtle-neck under blue scrubs and lime green Crocs and introduced herself as the doctor’s assistant. Aunt Vivian and I followed her into a brightly lit hallway, through two sets of double doors, and down a stairwell. The assistant badged in and flipped a switch, activating a bank of overhead fluorescent lights.
Three empty stainless steel gurneys stood parked along one wall. To the left of the door a gooseneck lamp sat on the corner of a desk covered with manila folders. Beside the desk, medical trays sat on a polished metal counter. Though it wasn’t my first trip to a morgue, I still felt anxious. Not scared, just curious about the condition of the body.
“This won’t take long,” I said, leaving Aunt Vivian by the door.
The assistant crossed the room and went to a bank of vaults. There were six polished steel doors in all, three columns wide, two rows high. No mistaking we were in a morgue — the chill and smell of cleaning solvents gave it away.
“Dr. Edwards tells me you watch TV and solve crimes?”
The assistant had long, straight auburn-brown hair, a pout, and freckles dusting her cheeks, nose, and forehead.
“In my spare time, yes. In fact, a couple months ago I solved a murder in Deadwood Canyon. That’s an Old West reenactment ghost town in Colorado. I discovered a body in the hayloft, but when the marshal went to look, it was gone. No one believed me, not even my family. They all thought it was part of the disappearing-cowboy-ghost act, but I eventually found the killer. I’m Nick Caden, by the way. And you are …”
“Busy.”
She opened the metal door. The drawer rolled easily on bearings, clicking into the track-stop. I stepped closer and studied the lumpy shape beneath the sheet.
“Can I see?” Aunt Vivian asked.
We turned and looked at her.
“It’s not every day someone my age gets the chance to help solve a murder.”
“The thing is, Mrs… .”
“Vivian is fine, dear. ‘Mrs.’ anything makes me sound old. And I didn’t catch your name, hon.”
“Meg.”
I locked eyes with Aunt Vivian and gave her just the slightest smile to let her know I appreciated the subtle way she’d gotten the assistant to tell us her name.
“The thing is, I shouldn’t even be showing him the body. I’m sure Dr. Edwards explained our policy.”
“Child, if you spend all your life following the rules, you’ll end up a dull Delilah.”
“A dull what?”
“She’s talking about that sappy radio host who gives out relationship advice,” I said. “Come on, Meg, let her have a look.”
“It would make the women in my prayer group so jealous,” Aunt Vivian added. “Those ladies never do anything fun. Please?”
“Okay, but if I get fired over this, I’m blaming you,” Meg said to me.
“Get in line.”
We huddled around the body and watched as the sheet folded back to the victim’s waist. I admit, I wasn’t prepared for the condition of the body and for a few seconds my skin had that clammy feeling I get right before I’m going to vomit.
Aunt Vivian put her hand to her mouth and said, “Dear Lord.”
I choked down bile and framed the body on my phone’s screen but couldn’t make my thumb press the button.
The victim appeared to be in his early forties. Thick, reddish-brown bangs, skin the color of oatmeal. Chest and cheeks deflated from the lack of blood. Eyes milky
white slits. On television they’ll often close the eyes of the dead. It’s a touching scene that hardly ever works in real life. Once dead, eyelids sag like a window shade, stopping about halfway down. The sight can be unsettling to family members viewing the body, so funeral homes will usually glue the eyelids shut, and superglue the lips together.
No one had taken such care with Barnabas Forester. The sight of Forester laid out on the cold, slab of steel sickened me. I pocketed my phone. Calvin would howl once he found out I’d skipped the chance to snap a shot, but he’d have to get over it. Make light of something as precious as life, and you cheapen yourself.
“Mercy, mercy,” Aunt Vivian said softly.
I leaned over and examined the puncture wound in his chest. The weapon had left a jagged crater in his chest, exposing bone and tissue and a pummeled mass of what I assumed was the heart. The entry point was as big around as a half dollar and slightly concaved where hardened flesh curled inward.
I captured it all with my mind’s eye.
“Cause of death?” I asked. “Sounds stupid, I know, but I need to verify for the article.”
“Just like it looks. Stab wound to the chest.”
“Any sign of blunt-force trauma to the head? Like maybe someone knocked him out first, then stabbed him? Evidence of a struggle, maybe?”
“Not that we can tell. Dr. Edwards checked for tissue under the nails. They’re clean. But then, we’re not set up to do an autopsy here.”
“Did he bleed out at the scene?” I saw the surprised look on her face. “What I mean is, if the victim was a vampire — not that I believe in that sort of thing — but if he was, then the lack of blood might be important to the story.”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“Who called it in?”
“Again, I do not know.”
“How about the murder weapon? Do you know anything about that?”
“Are you always this obnoxious?”
“Only on Wednesdays.”
“Today is Thursday.”
“I’m expanding my range.”
“There was a wooden stake in his chest. Dr. Edwards thinks it might be white pine or maybe spruce. But I believe it was put there after death. Forensics will tell us more. The weapon and victim’s clothes were sent to the police.”
“How about his teeth? Anything odd there?”
“See for yourself.”
With the tip of a pencil she carefully lifted Forester’s upper lip, exposing two fangs. Both tapered to a needle-sharp tip. They certainly looked real, but I had a hunch they were fake and glued on with denture cement, just like the ones sold in Halloween stores.
“Have you tested the gums for glue residue?”
“Dr. Edwards wondered about that too. When I got buzzed to come up, I thought that was the oral surgeon from Asheville arriving to inspect the body. Then there’s this.”
Using a gloved hand Meg rolled the victim’s head toward us and touched a place on the right side of his neck just below his jaw.
“Bite marks?” I asked.
“I feel light-headed,” Aunt Vivian said. “I think I’m going to wait by the door.” She waddled away, leaving the two of us together with the body exposed.
“The puncture marks are pretty recent but occured before the time of death.” With her pencil she touched the victim’s neck. “See this discoloration? Indicates it was starting to heal.”
“Wow. Bite marks and fangs.”
The assistant rolled the body back into the drawer and hustled us out of the morgue.
Back in the lobby I said, “Is there anything else you can tell me about the victim?”
“Like?”
“Where he lived, any strange habits he might have had? How he made a living?” She frowned as though wondering if she could trust me. “Come on, I’m not going to get you in trouble, I swear.”
“Sure, okay, but if you quote me, I’ll … do something. Not sure what, but it won’t be pleasant.”
“Nick, honey, I’m going to step into the ladies room, if that’s okay.”
“Take your time.” I waited until Aunt Vivian was gone, then said, “You were saying …”
“Last winter a few of us snuck up to the Randolph Manor. You know where that is?”
“I do.”
“The boy I was with thought it might be fun to poke around. The place is rumored to be haunted, but what old house isn’t, right? Anyway, normally I wouldn’t be caught dead doing something like that, but he’d been helping me with a report on geothermal electricity. We were studying how the rate of radioactive decay can serve as a predictor of fossil fuel reserves. I don’t suppose any of that makes sense to you.”
“The earth’s heat naturally flows to the surface and the speed of decomposition below the crust can increase the pressure, thus causing gases to press against the magma.” I grinned at her. “I watch the Nature Channel sometimes.”
“So anyway, according to my study buddy, the Randolph place sits on pockets of magma conduits and hydrothermal circulation. There’s supposed to be some old mine shafts under there, but we never had a chance to check it out. As soon as we arrived we began hearing weird noises.”
“Like?”
“Someone screaming, footsteps running, things breaking. I got scared and made him take me home. Haven’t been back since. If you really want to know about the manor, you should speak with the owner of Dead Lines Books. He’s like the town’s local historian.”
“Last question. Estimated time of death?”
“Sometime between twelve and four a.m.”
“So before sunrise.”
“Wow, aren’t you the sharp one.”
“Now look who’s being snooty.”
Smiling, she replied, “I pick up things quickly.”
“Can I get your last name for the story?”
“Just say ‘a source within the medical community.’ ”
“Last question, I promise. Do you get a lunch break?”
“Are you asking me out?”
“Oh yeah, sure. You and me and my aunt. See, the thing is, I don’t know anybody in the area and I was thinking you could h — ”
“Sure, sure, that’s fine. Twelve thirty. I’ll meet you out front.”
I walked outside and waited by the car, thinking about how upset Calvin was going to be when he learned I didn’t have any pictures of the body. I could give him a written description of the victim and play up the bit about fangs and bite marks, but without photos it might not matter. Sorry, buddy, but I’m not a Paparazzi photographer and hope I’ll never become one.
When Aunt Vivian reached the car, I said, “If it’s okay, I’d like to walk to the bookstore. Need some time to think.”
“I’ll be at the Red Wolf Gallery. I hardly ever get a chance to shop anymore, and the stores in this little town look so interesting.”
“Aunt Vivian, thanks again for what you did back there with the doctor and getting the assistant to tell us her name. Dad was right. You’re the greatest great-aunt of all time.”
“Bless your heart. Your father said this murder business was important to you. And honestly, this is fun. Beats watching TV all day. Now run along and find that poor man’s killer. I cannot wait to tell the girls in my prayer group that I’m part of a criminal investigative unit. They’ll be so jealous.”
CHAPTER FIVE
DEATH—BY HOOK OR BOOK
I ducked under the vine-shaded canopy of a lattice arbor and followed the pebble footpath through a maze of landscaped ground cover. Beside a goldfish pond, classical music played through plastic speakers made to look like river stones. Customers sat on benches and in Adirondack chairs reading books and drinking coffee. The owner of Dead Lines Books had gone to a lot of trouble to create a relaxed environment, and it appeared to be working.
I paused midway across the short archway bridge and scanned another section of Forester’s vampire journal. If I was going to solve the mystery surrounding Forester’s death, I n
eeded to learn all I could about the legend of the Dark Curse.
The fear of vampires and the desire for eternal life is as old as humankind itself. Perhaps the most well-known story is the Garden of Eden. Adam and Eve are presented with a choice: enjoy all creation except for the fruit from the tree of good and evil and live forever. “But if you eat its fruit,” God says, “you will die.”
According to the story, the young couple disobeyed God and he banished them from the garden. Then God ordered angels to stand in front of the tree of life to prevent the pair from living in a state of eternal damnation. Thus began humankind’s quest to secure immortality.
In ancient Persia there has been found artwork depicting a man struggling with a monstrous bloodsucker. In Jewish mythology there is the legend of Lilith — a female demon who, according to some early Christian traditions, may have been the serpent in the Garden of Eden. The character of Lilith is believed to have inspired the Sumerian myths about female vampires called “Lillu” or Mesopotamian myths about succubae (female night demons) called “lilin.”
Forester had certainly been right about one thing: humankind’s infatuation with vampires and evil began long before Bram Stoker wrote Dracula.
I stepped into the bookstore, causing a cowbell to jingle overhead. The shop was long and narrow with brick walls and hardwood floors. Rolling ladders reached to top shelves. The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee mixed with the pungent smell of new books.
Printing ink is one of those truly underrated smells. Older books still have it, but in new books the smell fades quickly. I learned this last Christmas while working in the shipping department of a local book printer. We have this rule in our family: children spend their own money for gifts. No hitting Mom or Dad up for Christmas shopping money. My parents don’t care what I buy them. It can be a ten-dollar gift card to Starbucks, but it has to be something I purchased with money I earned or something I made myself.
