by R. L. King
“I guess I gotta give you that one.”
“Okay,” she said, flipping through the rest of the sheets. “So Gary went to L.A. to meet with these Pinnacle guys. That part was on the up-and-up, right? They were expecting him?”
“Oh, yeah. They were the ones who reported it in the first place. When he didn’t show up to the meeting, they tried calling his cell phone, but got voicemail. They called his company to see if they knew anything, but they didn’t. The company called the wife. Nobody knew where he was.”
“What about his hotel room?”
“Paid in advance for the whole time he was supposed to be there. They found all his stuff, undisturbed, including his phone.”
“Did the maids see anything weird?”
Jason chuckled. “You sure you don’t want to go into business with me, V? You’re asking all the same questions I did. According to the hotel, Woods checked in and put his Do Not Disturb sign on the door right away, so the maids never went in to clean.”
“And I’m guessing there were no security cameras, or they didn’t get anything?”
“Nope. That’s one odd thing I noticed—I would have expected a businessman to stay at one of those boring business-type hotels, but he was at a smaller place, more like a motel.”
“Where maybe they wouldn’t notice his comings and goings as much,” Verity said. “I’m still thinking he was having an affair. Ran off to Vegas for a couple days, planned to be back in time for his meeting, and something went wrong.”
“Not gonna say you’re wrong,” Jason said. “So far there’s no evidence of it, though.”
“Could be a gambling thing, too, I guess. Or both. He goes over there, screws around—maybe he’s got a long-term mistress, or just hires a hooker—and ends up getting over his head at the tables so they take him out, break his legs, and dump him out behind some sketchy place.”
“Let’s talk to Fran’s guy at the LVPD. Maybe he can give us some more detail.”
“Yeah, okay.” Verity settled back to page through the file as Jason returned his attention to the road. She focused on Gary Woods’s round, open face and let her mind wander.
Mundane considerations aside, what she’d found during the tracking ritual still troubled her. She hadn’t done that many of them during her apprenticeship, but she’d done enough that she recognized what was supposed to happen in the most likely outcomes: either the thread reached out and located the target; the target was too far away to get an accurate reading but the thread pointed the way to the next step; or the thread fizzled out because the target was in some way magically protected (this latter instance was during a specially designed demonstration Stone had set up, where he hid behind a ward and directed her to try to locate him). She’d never tracked anyone who ended up being dead before, but Stone had told her how that was supposed to feel as well: the thread would reach out in search of the target, find nothing (because a dead target had no aura to latch on to) and simply wink out abruptly.
This time, though, the ritual hadn’t done any of those things. It had found something, but nothing definitive and probably not what she’d been looking for. She wished she could give Stone a call and ask him about it—he’d done a lot more rituals than she had, and might be able to identify what had caused the strange momentary sensation of two mingled auras—but he hadn’t answered at his place, and when she’d called his mobile phone she’d gotten a message that he was outside the service area. She probably wouldn’t be able to reach him until he was back from his TV shoot.
So they were on their own. The feeling was a little scary, but also exhilarating. This would be one of the first times when she was able to work without a net, relying on her own wits and magical abilities to help Jason solve his case without Stone to back her up if she ran into a snag.
And this was a big deal for Jason, too, after all—the first case he had sole responsibility for. Maybe if he solved it and figured out what had become of Gary, Fran might give him credit for some extra time toward what he needed to take his exam. Then he could move up north faster.
Cool your jets, girl. Let’s get this done first.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The road narrowed considerably as they left Delsey, the last little town before Brunderville, where Stone and Mortenson had stopped for a quick lunch. Lined by trees on both sides, it was two lanes in name only, with barely a shoulder on either side, and only the occasional narrow pull-off area to provide just enough room to get off the road if you had car trouble, a flat tire, or just needed to stop.
As they continued snaking their way up toward Brunderville, Stone was glad that the likelihood of anyone coming back down the hill was low, since the BMW barely fit into one of the tiny, rutted lanes. A truck or other large vehicle coming the other way would require some tricky maneuvering to get past. As it was, he barely averaged a creeping ten miles per hour negotiating the sharp curves, steepening drop-offs, and increasingly degrading road quality. He didn’t mention it to Mortenson, who sat silent and stiff with one hand death-gripping the armrest, but if the light rain that had been falling for the last hour picked up any further over the course of their time in Brunderville, getting back down this hill any time soon might not be a foregone conclusion.
He didn’t have to mention it, apparently. As they rumbled over a narrow, rusted bridge crossing a sluggish, swollen creek, she glanced at Stone. “I don’t like the look of that bridge.”
“Nor do I,” he said, keeping his voice light. He could see now why she wouldn’t want to drive up here on her own. “But I suppose it’s stood this long—it can probably handle a few more days.”
“You’re probably right,” she agreed, but didn’t sound convinced. “I wonder what kind of trucks they’ll have to bring up here for the production, though.”
“No point worrying about it now. We could turn back if you like. Duncan won’t like it, though.”
“No, no. Let’s…just get there. I don’t like this road at all. I think it’s going to take quite an effort to fix it up if they’re planning for tourists to come up here.”
Stone didn’t answer, concentrating on driving. He liked to drive (though he preferred roads where he could go a lot faster) and he’d seen worse than this back home in England, but that still didn’t mean he didn’t have to pay attention. It was no wonder Brunderville had lain quiet and undisturbed for all these years until someone had gotten the idea to start a winery up there.
By the time they reached the top of the rise and the terrain opened up again, Mortenson’s death grip had increased to both hands, and every time Stone glanced at her, she had her eyes closed. “Here we are,” he announced.
Wherever here is, he added to himself as he took in Brunderville in all its dilapidated glory. Whoever was trying to make this place a tourist attraction clearly had their work cut out for them.
The road widened and straightened, dropping down a gentle rise to form the town’s short main street. A few scattered buildings, some recent, some barely standing, rose on either side of the road, which had been graveled to alleviate some of the worst of the mud issues. The rain had stopped for now. Stone took the place in as the BMW rumbled down the street: the few narrow tributary roads snaking off the main drag on either side; the faded old schoolhouse; the small collection of newer buildings, still constructed in “old west” style, huddled near each other at the far end.
Mostly, though, his attention was drawn to the larger structure rising at the end of the road, its imposing bulk almost seeming to preside in judgment over the rest of the town. “Must be the Brunder mansion,” he said, pointing.
Mortenson was clearly relieved to have something else to think about besides the prospect of retracing their trip down the mountainside in a few days. “It certainly looks the part of a haunted house.”
She was right. Although judging from
the evidence of new construction around its outside walls and roof, someone had clearly put some serious renovation effort into the place already, the job obviously wasn’t done yet. Two stories tall with an impressive façade featuring elaborate columns and a semi-enclosed porch running across the entire front section, it was orders of magnitude larger than any other visible building along the main street. Unlike the others, even those built recently, it didn’t suffer from the haphazard styling common in towns that had grown up quickly without much planning. Whoever had built this place had known what they were doing, which was probably why it was still here when most of the others had collapsed and rotted over many years of neglect and abandonment.
Stone slowed the car and shifted to magical sight for just a moment, taking in a panoramic view of everything he could see. It was hard to get a good read because of all the trees: though each one had only a faintly glowing green aura, taken together they created enough astral interference that it was difficult to pick out anything definitive among them. Even the Brunder mansion looked quiet and inactive.
Which was exactly what he would have expected, since he was convinced the place wasn’t truly haunted and this whole thing was nothing more than a publicity attempt. He’d keep an open mind, of course: Adelaide Bonham’s old mansion in Los Gatos had taught him years ago never to completely discount reports of “hauntings”—but in this case, he wouldn’t be at all surprised if he was right.
And anyway, he was more interested in the curse. If even Kolinsky thought it might have credibility, it was worth checking out.
“Looks like at least some of the crew are already here,” Mortenson said, pointing.
Off to their left, several vehicles stood parked in a large, open clearing near the Brunder place. Stone spotted a motorhome, a long trailer attached to a pickup truck, a passenger van, and a large box truck of the sort you might rent to move house. A few figures milled around them, toting gear back and forth.
“I do hope we’re not all meant to stay in those,” Mortenson said.
“I’d sooner sleep in the haunted house.” Stone pulled up closer to the bustling figures, coasting to a stop and rolling down the window as one of them waved and headed in their direction.
“You here for the shoot?” the man asked. He wore coveralls and a 49ers baseball cap.
“That’s right.”
He pointed back in the direction they’d come. “You’ll want to turn around and make your first left. They’re all settling in up at the winery while we finish up here.”
Stone thanked him, rolled the window back up, and did as he directed. He hadn’t noticed any road coming in, but as they headed back he spotted it easily this time. A small, hand-painted sign next to it read Shangri-La Winery, along with an arrow pointing in that direction.
The winery was about a quarter-mile up a road in much better condition than anything else they’d encountered since they’d left Delsey. A modern, low-slung building nestled among towering evergreens, it had clearly been built within the last five years. Off in the hazy distance, Stone could make out row after neat row of grapevines stretching as far as he could see.
To the right of the winery was a graveled parking area. Several vehicles, including a sleek (albeit mud-spattered) red Corvette, were already lined up next to each other.
Stone pulled in next to a large SUV and got out. “Let’s take the small bags up now—I’ll get your large one once we know what’s going on.”
Inside, the winery’s reception area was ablaze with cheery light. “Welcome,” called a female voice as they came in. “Are you with the Other Side people?”
“We are,” Stone said, looking around. The place was done in the same rustic-wood style as the rest of the town, decorated with wine casks, framed old-fashioned photos of the early days of the area, antique mining tools, and bottles of wine lining a couple of the walls. To their right was what looked like a bar area, and to the left was a massive stone fireplace with a cheery blaze, and the entrance to a small restaurant. Both the bar and the restaurant looked closed. Halls lined with doors stretched off to either side.
The woman who’d spoken to them was in her early twenties, pretty in the chirpy manner of eager saleswomen everywhere. She wore pressed jeans and a neat button-down shirt. “Welcome!” she said again. “I’m Denise, and I’ll be helping you get settled in. As you might have guessed, we’re not open to the general public yet, but you’ll be staying here while doing your shooting.”
Ah. Good. As long as they didn’t have to share rooms, things were looking up. At least the Shangri-La Winery looked marginally civilized—and decidedly non-haunted. “I’m Alastair Stone. This is Edwina Mortenson. We’re the…consultants.”
“Oh, from Stanford. Of course!” She reached behind the massive, carved-wood front desk and shuffled through a series of keys, selecting two. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your rooms. I’m afraid we don’t have any bell service…”
“Quite all right,” Stone said, relieved enough he wouldn’t have to share a room with Mortenson that he didn’t mind having to slog back out to the car and retrieve her massive suitcase. “We’ll manage.”
Speaking of relief—had it just passed briefly over Denise’s face as she hurried off down the left-side hallway? It was gone so fast Stone couldn’t be sure.
She led them to the end of the hall, indicating two doors across from each other. “These will be your rooms.” Once again, a quick uncomfortable expression crossed her face, and once again it was quickly replaced by the look of chirpy cheerfulness. “I apologize, but since we’re not technically open yet, we won’t be able to offer the usual amenities like daily maid service or room service, and we haven’t gotten the satellite dish hooked up yet so there’s no TV reception. We do hope you’ll understand—and of course, if there’s anything specific you need, please don’t hesitate to call and we’ll take care of it for you.”
“Not a problem,” Stone said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. He wasn’t imagining things: Denise had looked as if she were bracing for something. He wondered if someone else in Duncan’s crew had given her trouble earlier. “Given that I, at least, expected to be sleeping either in a caravan or on the floor at the Brunder house, this is absolutely a huge step up.”
“I’m happy to hear it,” she said, visibly relaxing and returning Stone’s smile. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Please call if you need anything.”
The room was small and cozy, decorated in the same style as the rest of the winery. It had a table with two chairs, a dresser, and an equally cozy bath. Stone pushed open the heavy drapes, revealing an expansive view of mist-shrouded evergreens and grapevines. His initial impression was that he liked the place—despite its relative newness, it already had the feel of a well-loved space. Clearly the owners had put a lot of effort and care into its construction. He made a mental note to remember it as a potential weekend-trip destination when the town was a little further along—assuming he managed to cultivate a new relationship anytime soon.
He didn’t stay long in the room; instead he headed back out toward the lobby, intent on retrieving Mortenson’s suitcase before the rain started again. He’d made it halfway to the door when a voice called out: “Dr. Stone!”
Larry Duncan was coming out into the lobby from the opposite-side hallway. “Hold up a sec, okay?”
Stone stopped and waited for him to catch up.
The producer wore jeans, expensive hiking boots, and another of his tailored-but-rumpled shirts. “You make it up okay? That your Beemer out in the parking lot?”
“Yes and yes. Though I do wonder how you got all those large vehicles up here, and how you expect to get them back down if the rain continues.”
Duncan waved it off. “It’ll be fine, don’t worry. We do this all the time. The truck’s for the gear, and trailer and the motorhome
are for makeup and wardrobe, that kind of thing. Our crew travels pretty light when we’re on location, actually. Hey, Mortenson show up yet? I didn’t see another car.” He didn’t seem concerned, and in fact looked as if he wouldn’t have minded if she’d gotten stuck in the mud somewhere along the way.
“We came up together—she didn’t want to make the drive on her own.” Damn, but the man was annoying. If this was what “Hollywood types” were like, he’d be pleased if he never had to deal with one of them again. “If you’ll excuse me, though, I’ve got some things to bring in.”
“Sure, sure. Feel free to wander around the town, though I’ll tell ya, there’s fuck-all that’s open, excuse my French. The restaurant here’ll be serving dinner at six, and we’re havin’ a little get-together at eight in the bar, so we can all get to know each other. Shooting starts tomorrow. I’ll have Rita drop schedules by your rooms by tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you. I’ll just—”
“Oh—One more thing: I’d like you to stay away from the Brunder place until tomorrow. We always want everybody involved to get first impressions while the cameras are rollin’. Okay?”
“Not a problem, Mr. Duncan.” If he planned to do any looking around the mansion before officially given the green light to do so, he’d just have to make sure nobody noticed him.
“Great, great.” Duncan’s flea-like attention span had obviously already moved on to his next thought. “Catch you later, Stone. We’re gonna have some fun tomorrow, just you wait and see.”
Stone doubted it—he still expected the day to consist of a couple of boring interviews that would get cut up and sensationalized in post-production, followed by a lot of sitting around as Bryce Riley and his Scooby gang of ghost-hunting buddies stomped around inside the Brunder mansion trying to make staring at blinking lights and being startled by common house noises look suspenseful. Ah, well. At least he should have ample time to poke around and see if he could find any evidence of the curse.
