Lycanthropy Files Box Set

Chapter 2-2

“Is this place haunted?” Lonna asked in a hushed tone as the door creaked inward to reveal the gray marble-tiled foyer. The central staircase curved up into the gloom, its mahogany banister dusty. The door to the left was open, and I could see the fawn-colored leather love seat and sofa that faced the granite fireplace on the opposite wall. The fireplace dominated the room and occupied most of the outer wall. Grandfather’s old sea chest served as a coffee table, and large wine barrels as end tables. Wan sunlight shone through the front windows and on to the dusty wooden floors.

I realized I still hadn’t answered Lonna’s question.

“I don’t know,” I told her.

“Don’t know what?”

“If it’s haunted. I still don’t know how or where he died.”

“It certainly looks like this place hasn’t been occupied in a while.”

“True.”

“Was there a funeral? I would’ve gone with you.”

I pondered. “Not that I know of. Not that there’s anyone to have gone besides my mother and myself, so you would’ve been welcome.”

“A formal reading of the will?”

“Nope. The lawyer just called me in.”

“That’s suspicious, Joanie.”

I also thought so, especially since it seemed Leonard Bowman had some grounds to challenge the will.

Another glance up the staircase and the shadowed second-story hallway was enough to convince me I really needed to get my leftovers out of the cooler and into the fridge.

“Let’s leave the suitcases here and go up later,” I suggested. We walked through the sitting room and into the breakfast nook. I stopped, dumbstruck.

“What?” asked Lonna.

“He completely redid this.” I gestured to the kitchen. The old-fashioned kitchen I remembered from my childhood had been replaced by new stainless steel appliances. A black marble island with a pot-and-pan rack hanging above it dominated the space, and all the cabinets had been updated. I couldn’t remember my grandfather cooking a day in his life, and I couldn’t imagine him giving his kitchen a makeover for some woman he paid from the village.

“Did he know you’re a gourmet cook?” Lonna asked.

“Not that I’m aware of.” The thought of being watched from afar, even if by a loving family member, made chills dance across the back of my neck.

Lonna walked to the island and tilted up one of the pans to peer at the bottom. “Wow, look at this. A full set of Le Creuset and All-Clad cookware.”

I just shook my head and put the leftovers in the fridge, one of the super-modern types with the freezer in a drawer at the bottom. I turned to the island and saw an envelope with my name on it. Lonna picked it up and handed it to me.

“Looks like somebody left you something.”

“It’s from Galbraith.” His long, slanted writing gave it away. I opened it with a knife—Wusthof, of all things—and found a brief note with cash, lots of it, and a spare key. The money was for spending and housekeeping expenses until the rest could be transferred to my accounts.

“I can’t even begin to believe this.”

“I can’t, either,” murmured Lonna as she walked around and opened cabinets and drawers. “This is moving a lot faster than most estate settlements, even if it’s simple.”

“Really?”

“Isn’t your mother a co-beneficiary?”

“Of a small amount, yes.”

“And you don’t think she’ll challenge it?”

“She probably will. She never shared well with others, not even her own children.”

Lonna opened and closed cabinet doors. “And would you blame her? I wonder why Galbraith is so eager to have you take possession of the money and property.”

“I don’t know. I wonder if it has something to do with that Leonard Bowman guy.”

She looked up at the name. “Why Leonard Bowman?”

I told her about the encounter at Galbraith’s office. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention it to anyone,” I said and remembered the blond man at the diner who’d winked at my friend. “Especially Peter if you happen to talk to him.”

“Not a word,” she promised. That she didn’t say she wouldn’t have a reason to talk to him made anxiety curl in my chest.

“So what’s your game plan?” I asked.

“For what?”

“The investigation.” I gestured to the window over the sink, which showed a wide expanse of lawn sloping toward the woods. “Finding the missing children.”

“I don’t know. I guess the first step is to call work. Do you think the phones are on?” She held up her cell. “No signal up here.”

After some searching, we found a cordless telephone on its charger in the sitting room. It sounded a dial tone when we clicked it on, so I left Lonna to make her call while I put on some coffee. I had just switched on the coffee maker when the doorbell rang.

I opened the front door to see a middle-aged man whose tan uniform strained over a belly that had probably been fed at the town diner too often. He stood with feet planted shoulder-width apart and thumbs hooked into his black belt. His sheriff badge said he must hold some respect in the community, but I struggled not to snicker.

“May I help you?” I asked. I had no reason to be nervous, but there’s something about a cop appearing at your door that prompts a quick examination of conscience. Had I gone too fast through the community? Did I roll through a stop? Was I supposed to have a parking permit?

“Miz Fisher?”

“Yes, and you are?”

“Bud Knowles, sheriff.” He held out his hand, and I took it. His handshake was firm, if a little moist. “I just wanted to make sure you’re rightly welcomed to the community.”

“Thanks. Would you like to come in?”

His face lit with a grin. “I’d love to, ma’am.”

I suspected the true reason for his visit was to check out the place, but I didn’t mind. I had nothing to hide.

“I just made some coffee. Would you like some?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Call me Joanie, please. How do you take it?”

“Black.”

This guy was not going to be easy to talk to. I led him through the sitting room, where Lonna sat at the card table to the right of the fireplace with an open file. As most men do, Bud Knowles took a second look.

“Who is that, Miz Joanie?”

“My friend Lonna. She’s a social worker with the state. Her friend Matt called her up here to help with the missing kid problem.” Gads, I sounded flippant. The truth was this laconic sheriff made me nervous in spite of his ridiculous appearance. I felt like the kid whose teacher has suddenly appeared at the door to talk to her parents.

Knowles’s only response to my statement was a heavy sigh. I brought him into the kitchen, and after some searching, found a few cobalt blue mugs and poured the coffee—black for him, with cream and sugar for me, and with cream for Lonna. Apparently Galbraith had done a little grocery shopping when he left the note, and there was at least some creamer in the fridge and sugar in a stainless-steel tin on the counter.

“This seems like a nice community. Crystal Pines, I mean.”

The sheriff looked at his coffee so hard I wondered if a bug had landed in it. “It was nice until the kids started disappearing.”

“That must be awfully hard on the people here.”

“Some of them.”

“I’m glad you’re here. I’m sure Lonna will want to talk to you.”

“I’d rather deal with her than the Feds.” He winked.

I took a deep breath and prepared to change the subject, but Lonna walked in.

“Coffee’s ready,” I told her.

“Thanks.” She held out her hand to Knowles, who stood up so quickly he bumped the table, and his coffee sloshed. She ignored it and smiled. “Lonna Marconi, it’s nice to meet you.”

“Bud Knowles, sheriff,” mumbled the red-faced man. I hid a smile as I wiped his coffee with a dish towel and poured him a little more.

“It’s so nice of you to stop by,” Lonna said as she sat and crossed her long, slender legs in full view. “Is this a social visit?”

“More or less. Just wanted Miss Fisher to know she could call on us if she needs anything.”

“How kind of you.” Lonna smiled at me. “Joanie, isn’t that kind?”

“Very.”

“Now, Mr. Knowles, you came at a good time. I was just thinking about how to get in touch with you.”

She was turning on the deep charm now. I hoped she remembered our earlier conversation and would ask the questions I wanted, too. I took a deep breath and attempted to calm the resentment building in my chest at her usurping the situation. Not that I had been doing spectacularly.

“Yes, ma’am?” asked the sheriff.

“I’m with DFCS”—as I had, she avoided mentioning she was also a licensed P.I.—“and I was wondering what you could tell me about the children who have vanished.”

Bud had no more information than Matt had given us. When asked about the full-moon connection, he only said, “I don’t believe in that voodoo witch stuff.”

“Now, Mr. Knowles, I have one more question.” She studied her coffee as though attempting to divine an answer to a long-standing riddle, then hit him with the full force of her gaze. “Do you know what happened to Joanie’s grandfather?”

Bud looked over at me, and I tried not to betray how eager I was for the answer. He leaned back and laced his fingers over his ample gut. “Well now, we don’t rightly know.”

“There must have been something,” pressed Lonna. “Fortunes like this aren’t handed over at the mere suspicion of death.”

“All I know is we found his canoe, life jacket and shoes a little ways down the river. The jacket and shoes had been chewed, and there was some blood, but no body.”

My breath left me as though someone had punched me in the stomach. Lonna put a hand on my arm.

“Breathe, Joanie. Sheriff, what did the coroner say?”

“Likely the old man’d had a heart attack and drifted down stream ’til he ran aground, and then wild animals got ’im. I’m sorry ma’am,” he said to me. “I thought that city lawyer would’ve told you.”

“He didn’t.” I tried to still the welling tears. I hadn’t been close to my grandfather for years, but I had been fond of the eccentric old man. He had been the one steady source of support in my family after my brother died and my parents divorced. Some days I would take comfort in knowing I had a safe haven if I needed it. Now that security had been shattered, doubly so now that I knew he’d been interested in my life and had watched me – watched over me? – from afar.

“If it’s okay with Joanie, I’ll see you out, Sheriff.”

Lonna and the sheriff both got up and walked out of the room. I held tight to the coffee mug, heedless of the heat scalding my palms, so my hands wouldn’t shake. The image of a black wolf flashed into my mind.

Was my grandfather hunted down, too? What have I gotten myself into?