Dr. Coombs, wiry gray hair springing from her normally neat bun, hurried behind the reception desk. “I apologize to everyone. If you have an appointment, we’ll have to reschedule. My staff is... indisposed. I’m here by myself. I’m only seeing emergency cases right now. Noodles? Room three.”
The terrier owner spun on her heel and stomped out, half-dragging her animal behind. Half a dozen other people left. Nann heard many complaints and comments about never coming back. Still, that would shorten her wait. Pokey flopped to his belly, resting his head on his front hooves. What the heck was wrong with her pig?
Despite the thinning of the crowd, two hours passed before Dr. Coombs called Pokey.
“Hey, Nann.” Joyce Coombs’ voice rasped. “Sorry about the wait.”
“Where are your staff?” Nann already had a pretty good idea.
The vet adjusted her glasses. “I hate to say it. They’re in jail. For murder.”
“Holy cow.” What Nann figured. “The man at the shelter?”
“Yep. Somehow, every one of my staff members is under the impression that she’s a murderer.”
“All of them?”
“All of them. The sheriff brought me in for questioning. Asked which one of my employees had access to pentobarbital.”
She remembered Keith talking about it: a drug used for euthanasia. “Did any of them?”
“Nope. Pentobarbital is not in our formulary. I mean, putting down animals is part of the job. But I feel that Tributame is a more humane drug.”
Nann felt the shock of the implication. “You mean, you don’t keep pentobarbital around at all?”
With a grunt, Coombs lifted the pig onto the examination table. “That’s right. Wherever the drug came from, it wasn’t the shelter or this veterinary hospital. Now, what’s wrong with my favorite pig?”
The vet examined Pokey with gloved hands, running them over his bristly coat. She looked in his ears. With practiced hands, she opened the pig’s eyes wide for a better look. When she took his temperature, Pokey’s eyes bulged a lot wider than her hands had prompted.
“He’s not eating. And...” You couldn’t tell a vet that a pig wasn’t speaking. “...He seems kinda sad.”
Coombs took a step back to get a wider view of Pokey. “Well, his eyes are bright, his skin is smooth, and there’s no discharge that I can see. Pigs are highly intelligent. At least as smart as dogs. It could be that he’s just bored.”
Pokey oinked as if in agreement.
“What are you feeding him?”
“I give him fresh vegetables twice a day.”
The doctor nodded. “Is his feeding schedule regular?”
“Well, I work.” Nann felt a little defensive.
“Deviation in his feeding is probably a good thing. I’m going to recommend adding fresh fruit to his diet. Not too much, because fruit is high in sugar. Also, a cup of pig pellets. That has the most balanced nutrition for pigs. You also might try a Snak-Y-Ball.”
“A what?”
“Usually, it’s used for horses. It’s a tough ball about the size of a volleyball. Food drops through holes as it’s rolled around. Pigs figure it out pretty quick, and it’s a fun way to get both food and exercise.”
Did Pokey actually roll his eyes?
Coombs rubbed him behind the ears. “He’s a smart boy. He needs a little entertainment.”
“I think he prefers old movies and the local news,” Nann said.
The vet laughed. “Entertainment for pigs isn’t the same as for people. Give the diet change a try. If he still won’t eat, give us a call. Hopefully someone will be here to answer the phone.”
Chapter 8
When she walked Pokey out, the reception area was vacant. All the names had been crossed off the long list on the clipboard. Before heading out, she noticed a light on in the office behind the desk. Since all the staffers had confessed to homicide, Nann wondered who was working.
“Stay here, Pokey,” she whispered. Pokey obediently, or out of boredom, dropped to his belly. He put his head on his hooves. The position tugged on Nann’s heart. Whatever the doctor thought, Nann was fairly certain Pokey was depressed.
Curiosity still had a grip on her. Nann walked behind the desk and peeked through the open door. It was a filing room, cabinets against all the walls, and forming a kind of island in the middle. She heard shuffling papers on the opposite side of the island.
As a drawer rolled and slammed, Nann froze. Edging around, she saw a figure kneeling down to search through a cabinet’s lowest drawer. A briefcase lay open on the floor. Although he was in three-quarter profile, facing away, Nann had no doubt about it. The dark hair, the dangerously sharp jaw line, the high cheekbones, the poreless skin. Nick O’Broin was looking through Dr. Coombs’ records.
It seemed he found what he was looking for. He yanked a large file out. At the same time, he turned in Nann’s direction.
She ducked away, pressing herself against the cabinet island. Handles poked into her sore back. Excuses whirled in her mind as she waited for the tap of Cuban heeled boots coming her way. Oh, this isn’t the ladies’ room. Why, Nick O’Broin, I thought I saw you earlier. Is your pet sick? Oh, hi, Nick O’Broin, have you seen my pig?
But footsteps never fell. After a few long moments, she unleaned herself and peeked around the corner. The drawer still stood open. No one rifled through its contents. Still, the gap from a sizeable record remained. Nann crouched down. The file between Perez, J. and Peterson, M. was missing. It was just the right spot for a file labeled Perkins, A.
Nann looked around. The space was essentially a very large closet. Only one door led in or out. Nick O’Broin was nowhere to be seen. Then she did hear footsteps. Nann hurried out of the filing room, not wanting to be locked in for the night. Dr. Coombs walked around the office, turning out the lights. “Oh. Nann. I thought I heard someone. Are you all right?”
“I was...” She went back over her excuses. “...Looking for the ladies’ room.”
Coombs raised her brows and pointed to the big blue sign.
“That’s okay. Hopefully they’ll have one at the feed store. C’mon, Pokey.”
THE FEED STORE WAS open late in the summer. Leaving Pokey in the car, windows down (Pokey wasn’t spry enough on his best day to leap out of a car) Nann ran in and grabbed a bag of mini pig chow and a Snak-Y-Ball. She dumped her purchases in the back of Cricket and drove to the Topps to grab some apples and pears. And, okay, there were some Little Debbies stocked in the impulse section.
Pokey still looked dejected, laying down in the back seat. Nann drove for home.
“Are you excited about your Snak-Y-Ball?” She fiddled with the radio.
The pig put his head between his hooves.
“If you’re feeling sick, I need to know. C’mon, pig, talk to me.”
“I don’t wanna.” Pokey’s voice came through the car speakers.
Aha. “Are you sick? What would make you feel better.”
A silence followed, a few crackles of static. Finally, Pokey raised his head. “A frozen peanut butter pie.”
Nann stopped at a signal. “Are you sure that won’t make you sicker? You’re not supposed to have so much sugar. Or chocolate. Or peanut butter. Or cream cheese.”
“I knew it!” Pokey’s voice wailed in the little car.
Nann put the car in gear, making a right toward home. “Knew what?”
“You’re putting me on a diet!”
“No, I’m just changing your—”
“A diet! Nothing but turnips! Why, Nann, why? Was I bad? What did I do? Am I a bad pig?”
Nann let her eyes go wet. “No, Pokey. You heard the doctor. We’re just adding some fruit and some pig chow—”
“I heard you talking to the vet on the phone.”
What? Nann hadn’t called Dr. Coombs recently. “You must’ve misheard something. I didn’t call the vet.”
“Prove it!”
Nann sighed. She tried to be a good pig owner. Pokey
was her familiar, after all. But didn’t good pig parenting involve not feeding your pig pie? She thought she heard distant sobbing on the radio. Damn that manipulative animal.
“One slice.”
Pokey met her eyes in the rearview mirror. “Really?”
“One very small—”
Her phone bleeped, interrupting. Nann answered with the hands-free thingie.
“Nann, help! They’ve got Manuel!” Tink’s voice blared out.
Cricket signaled and flipped a U-ey.
“Who’s got Manuel?”
Tink’s voice went all skippy and garble-y. Nann only heard “The cemetery.”
CRICKET DROVE AT TOP speed back to Amity Corners, top speed being about fifty-two miles per hour. Still, the little car was giving it all she had. The Amity Corners Cemetery sat on the eastern bluff of the so-called Corner Bluffs where the city was founded. The western one was in partial collapse. The bluff sat high above Lake Ontario, presenting an awesome view of a lake that filled the horizon. Nann ignored this, and pulled up to the locked cemetery gates.
She looked out the windshield, scanning the tombstones and mausoleums, seeing no sign of anything. Pokey jumped out of the little jeep. “Finally some action,” she heard through the car speakers.
Damn it. She shut down the car and ran to the gates. On the other side, Manuel’s truck parked near the office. Pokey squeezed himself between the wrought iron fence posts and turned back to look at her.
Shut. The truck. Off. With a few running steps, she grabbed the top of the brick gate and hauled herself up. With a foot on an iron crosspiece, she levered to the top and dropped on the other side. Despite all the gates and fences, cemeteries were generally not very secure, she’d learned over the years.
“Ha!”
Nann followed the triumphant shout around to the back of the cemetery office building. She was greeted by a scene straight out of a low budget horror film. Tom, her landlord, along with papermill employees and vampire hunters Bob Reynolds, Ralph “Rascal” Metzger, Jim (she didn’t know his last name, but he helped her paint her store) and his friend and Zinnia’s sort-of boyfriend Branden Morris, held crosses high in the air. Rascal held an aspergillum—a holy water sprinkler—and a pistol in his right; Bob held a long wooden stake, Jim a sledgehammer.
“Take that, spawns of Satan!” Rascal bellowed.
She took the turn, and saw Manuel and his landscape crew pressed against the back wall of the office, hands raised. The crew, who didn’t speak a whole lot of English, Nann knew, quavered and gaped at the strangely armed men. Manuel stood in front of his crew.
“We have a contract with the city,” he said. “We work here. You’re trespassing.”
“We do what we need to, to wipe out vampiristic threats. Even break the law.” Rascal hit them with holy water. “Ha!”
Manuel grabbed the key ring out of his coveralls. “Look, I have the keys to the office, the work shed, the front gate. We. Work. Here.”
“At night?” Tom challenged.
“We just finished!”
“See how they cower!” Bob waved his makeshift cross.
“Oh. My. Gawdess! Knock it off, all of you.” Nann put her fists on her hips. “What are you doing? These are landscapers. They work in the sun. They rescued my garden from invasive vines. They aren’t vampires.”
The VHS faced her, crosses lowering. Rascal shrugged. “They cower.”
“Of course they’re freaked out. They think you all are loco,” Nann said.
The word “loco” brought a few murmurs from Manuel’s crew.
“They’ve been turned,” Jim said. “Obviously.”
“Obviously? How do you know?” Nann said.
Quick expressions were exchanged. Before they could answer, a hollow booming sounded from a nearby crypt.
“Aha!” Ralph said.
As one, the Vampire Hunter Society raced to the mausoleum. After a moment’s fumbling, the rusty iron door creaked open. From within, an enormous beast flew out. Fangs and claws glistened in the moonlight. In a blur, it knocked Bob Reynolds to the ground and set about devouring him.
“Werewolf!” Bob screamed.
A moment later, Tink stepped out of the mausoleum doorway. After watching the action for a moment, she put her fingers in her mouth and whistled. The werewolf deserted his prey and stood by her side. “Good boy,” she said. Primrose sat at her feet.
“What are you doing here after dark?” Bob struggled to his feet. “You’re not allowed to be here.”
“I’m here with city employees. We wouldn’t be here after dark if you hadn’t been chasing us all around the cemetery,” Tink said. “Manuel and I were walking the dog while his guys were locking up.”
“You guys are trespassing,” Manuel said again. “I should call the cops.”
“I should be the one calling the cops!” Bob said. “That animal is dangerous.”
Primrose wandered over to sniff Pokey’s butt. Pokey grunted at him. Primrose gave a yelp and went back to sit at Tink’s feet, eyeing the pig.
“Well even if you are employed by the city, what was she doing in the crypt?” Rascal said.
“I let her in there to keep her safe from you,” Manuel said.
While the VHS went back and forth with Manuel and his workers, Nann pulled Jim aside.
“You said you knew they were turned,” Nann said. “How?”
Jim studied his feet.
Nann had a hunch. “Was it a dream?”
He met her eyes in surprise. Then he quickly returned to his inspection of the ground. “No, it couldn’t have been a dream. We all knew it. That’s why we decided to patrol the cemetery.”
Jim wasn’t very convincing. The VHS argued on with the landscapers.
“What kinda name is Primrose?” Rascal said. “That’s a male dog.”
“He likes it,” Tink said.
Nann ignored them. “C’mon, Jim.” She gave his shoulder a light slap.
“It was so real. It couldn’t have been a dream.” He lifted his face, features smooshed in a desperate expression. “Five guys couldn’t have the same dream. Right?”
“Fine, we’ll let you go,” Rascal said, pocketing his gun. “For now.”
“You’re letting us go? You’re lucky you’re not going to jail,” Manuel said.
“Just let us out of here,” Bob said.
“You broke in here,” Tink said. “You can break back out again.”
Grumbling, the VHS headed back to the cemetery gate. Jim gave her a final, beseeching look, and joined the group.
“Thanks for saving me,” Tink said when the vampire hunters struggled back over the gate.
Nann frowned. “I’m sure you would’ve managed.”
Manuel’s crew headed to the quad-cab truck. Tink waved Manuel to join them. She faced Nann. “What the heck is going on around here?”
With a sigh, Nann folded her arms. “I don’t know. But I think I’m getting sucked into it whether I like it or not.”
Chapter 9
“You call that a slice of pie?” Pokey’s eyes strayed from the sliver of peanut butter pie in his bowl to Nann.
“That’s a lot more than you should have.” Nann came up the secret stairs from the Lady Lair with an armful of books. After putting the books down, she closed a trap door disguised as an oriental rug. The dining room table, though huge, easily rolled back into place, further hiding the hidden door. Dreams were important to Druids. Her late, Great-Aunt Nancy had a lot of books on the subject.
“How about some Little Debbie snacks?” Pokey finished his pie.
Nann flipped through one of the titles. It was mostly about dream interpretation. It was also mostly not very helpful. “No more junk food.”
“Nutty Buddies have nuts.”
She poured over the other books, hoping for an insight into shared dreams. The VHS seemed to be having shared, lucid dreams. What could possibly cause that?
“How about a Strawberry Shortcake Roll?” Po
key said. “The vet says I need more fruit.”
The vet, Nann thought. She eyed the pig. Did pigs dream? She’d seen his little legs running when he was asleep. “Pokey, did you dream that I called the vet and put you on an all-turnip diet?”
“A dream, you say?” Pokey sat on his haunches and angled his head. “I’m not sure, Nann. Perhaps a Nutty Buddy would jog my memory.”
“C’mon, Pokey! People are being weirdly affected by dreams. It’s getting serious.”
“Bribe me.”
Nann stalked over to the drawer where she kept the Little Debbie snack cakes and unwrapped a Nutty Buddy. She held it aloft. “Talk.”
“I don’t think it was a dream. You were sitting under the veranda in the jungle with Elvis and Marilyn Monroe. Elvis said, ‘I like your pig, Nann, but maybe that’s because I really like bacon.’ And Marilyn said, ‘Oh, Elvis, you’re being morbid. There’s hardly any bacon on that little pig. But there is probably a lot of pork belly.’ So you picked a banana off a tree and called the vet. You said, ‘Nothing but turnips? Okay.’ Honestly, I couldn’t hear Dr. Coombs’ side of the conversation. Bananas don’t make for good phones. Oh, speaking of which, do we have any Banana Marshmallow Cream Pies? They also have fruit.”
Nann thought it over as they watched the eleven o’clock news. Pokey was definitely influenced by a dream. So was she, being so irrationally angry at Charlotte. Zinnia was under the impression that Nann would cheat on her with Branden. Keith—well, no telling what Keith was thinking. He kept ’em close to the vest. But the VHS chasing Tink and Manuel around the cemetery, all believing he had been turned into a vampire, well, that meant things were flying off the chain.
Did the six confessed suspects to Arthur Perkins dream they had murdered him? The whole dream-thing started when the man died. Perkins must have something to do with it. Nick O’Broin apparently thought the same thing. Or was his sneaking around the veterinary hospital a dream memory of Nann’s? People didn’t just disappear like that.
She suddenly realized she was nodding off in front of the weather forecast. Tomorrow, she would track Nick down and have a chat.
A Witch Axe to Grind Page 4
