Crowbones

CHAPTER 21

Grimshaw

Thaisday, Novembros 1

Because something about the academics staying in the Mill Creek Cabins made his cop instincts itch, Grimshaw chose to interview the people staying at The Jumble first. He also wanted to hear the Crowgard’s version of the Crowbones legend before he heard the human version.

He didn’t recognize the naked earth native who unhooked the chain that ran across the access road, but he knew it was a Coyote in a between form that blended human and Coyote well enough not to be too disturbing.

“I don’t believe he . . . associates . . . with humans except to attend Victoria’s story times,” Ilya said quietly as they watched the Coyote drag the chain to one side of the road.

Vicki DeVine was the Reader, an important position in any terra indigene settlement because it gave all the residents access to stories, both human and Other, that had been written down. Each form of terra indigene had its own teaching stories and oral tales, but it wasn’t that long ago that stories written by Others were first published and could be read by anyone.

Grimshaw lowered his window and gave the Coyote a friendly smile. “Thanks. Anything Mr. Sanguinati and I should know before we go up to the main house?”

The Coyote cocked his head and took his time pondering the question—or attempting to adjust his vocal cords to accommodate human speech.

“The mated pair are screeching at the Reader,” Coyote said. “Cougar doesn’t like it. The young fanged shadows are talking to humans. Some of the shadows are pleased. Some are . . .” He made an angry sound.

“We’ll take care of it.” As he drove up the access road, Grimshaw looked in the rearview mirror and saw the blindingly quick shift from partly human to all Coyote seconds before he heard the yipping howl.

Then he heard answering howls—and not all of those howls came from another Coyote.

“Are we riding to the rescue?” Ilya asked dryly.

“Yes, but who are we rescuing?” He didn’t expect an answer, and he didn’t get one.

Vicki had picked a good spot to park her car. Not only did it block the road, but the trees on either side guaranteed there wasn’t a chance of anyone squeezing a vehicle around it. He parked the cruiser, and then he and Ilya hurried up to the main house.

Vicki looked shaky, but Grimshaw figured she wasn’t going to have an anxiety attack brought on by being yelled at, simply because she was too busy holding on to Cougar to keep him from mauling the guests. It was a dumb-ass thing to do, but he’d let Ilya explain why it wasn’t a good idea to grab a big angry kitty.

Wilma Cornley was screeching about wanting to leave. Her husband, Fred, was waving his arms and threatening to sue. Vicki was trying to tell them the police would be there soon to talk to them.

Grimshaw let out a piercing whistle, then boomed, “Shut up, all of you!”

“What the . . . ?” said a male voice from another room. But no one came out to investigate.

“Since you’re so eager to leave, I’ll interview you first,” Grimshaw said. “Ms. DeVine? May I use your dining room?”

“Sure,” Vicki said. She looked at the husband and might have said something conciliatory—or offered to forgive the rest of the bill so he wouldn’t go through with his threat to sue—but Ilya calmly opened his thin, obscenely expensive briefcase, took out a business card, and handed it to the husband.

“I am Ms. DeVine’s attorney,” he said. “If you want to threaten a lawsuit against Ms. DeVine because the police needed to speak to you and there was some concern that you might not wait to be interviewed—implying that you had something to hide—have your attorney call me, and I will explain everything to him.”

Fred Cornley looked at the name on the business card and paled so quickly Grimshaw was surprised he didn’t faint.

“Of course we’ll assist the police in whatever way we can,” Fred stammered. “It’s just . . . This weekend has been upsetting, you know?”

“I do,” Ilya replied. He turned to Grimshaw. “Why don’t I interview the gentleman while you get all the details about what the lady was doing between the hours of nine p.m. and seven a.m.? Would that not cover the window of opportunity for the incidents?”

You bastard, Grimshaw thought with grudging admiration. Anyone with eyes could figure out what those two had been doing for most of the time after leaving the party and going up to their suite. He might be willing to accept general descriptions of the activities, but Ilya was going to wring every excruciating detail out of the man as payback for yelling at Vicki and stirring up The Jumble’s employees.

Grimshaw led Wilma Cornley into the dining room and pointed to the chair farthest from the door.

“Now,” he said. “Let’s be clear about a few things. So far this morning, I’ve dealt with two mutilated bodies, and I’m looking for a teenage boy who is missing and might be in serious trouble. I’m all out of patience. I’m going to ask questions; you’re going to answer. If you get mouthy or if I suspect you’re telling even the smallest white lie, I will require every last detail of what you did last night and early this morning, and those details will go in my official report. If you cooperate, I can show some discretion.”

Her lower lip quivered, but she was smart enough not to try the big-sad-eyes routine on him.

He sat down, took out his little notebook and a pen, and said, “Why did you come to The Jumble for Trickster Night?”