Lake Silence

CHAPTER 17

Vicki

Windsday, Juin 14

Opening the safe-deposit box the next morning was better than watching a magician pull a rabbit out of a hat. You got the happy surprise of something empty being filled without the brown presents at the bottom of the hat.

Everything had been returned—all the paperwork, which Ilya Sanguinati checked off the list he’d made from my record of the documents I’d put into the box. And there was even seven thousand dollars, nicely bundled.

Besides me and my attorney, there were three other people crowded into the privacy room to witness the Return of the Paperwork: Officer Grimshaw, Detective Swinn, and Valerie, who had been the head teller and was now the reluctant, and temporary, bank manager. When Ineke called me at the crack of dawn, telling me she’d pulled out all of her money as soon as she’d heard about yesterday’s naughtiness with the safe-deposit box, I didn’t ask how she’d found out—and I didn’t need to talk to anyone else to know the bank was going to crash. The whole village was holding its breath, especially the folks who hadn’t gotten to the bank yesterday and were now hoping that something would save them.

Frankly, I think everyone was hoping that the bloodsuckers who sucked blood would take over the bank. The penalties for a late payment might be steep, but at least there would be a brutal kind of honesty when they sucked you dry.

I placed each piece of paper in an old leather tote bag as Ilya Sanguinati checked it off. But when it came to the money, I hesitated. I had tucked six thousand into the box. Who had made up the other thousand? Had the bank manager taken it from his personal savings or had he used the bank’s money, which would be another bit of naughtiness?

I hesitated. Then I looked at Valerie, said, “Sorry,” and stuffed all the money in the tote bag.

“Don’t be,” Valerie replied. “I opened my box yesterday and removed the antique jewelry that belonged to my grandmother. It has more sentimental than monetary value, but I didn’t want to discover it missing one day.”

I hesitated a moment longer, wondering if I should put back the thousand dollars that didn’t actually belong to me. Then I glanced at Detective Swinn and swiftly closed the box, which was empty once again.

Swinn wasn’t old, but he looked a bit freeze-dried and his ash brown hair was cut short and stuck up across the top of his head, like it was iron filings being pulled by a magnet. He wore glasses with heavy black frames that dominated his face and didn’t suit him at all. But the glasses didn’t disguise the undiluted venom in the way he looked at me, and there was nothing I wanted more than to get away from him. Unfortunately, he was the person in the doorway and was, therefore, the person I had to squeeze past.

Valerie smiled at Swinn and moved her arm in an unspoken request for him to step aside so that we could all leave the privacy room and she and I could follow procedure and return the safe-deposit box to the vault.

As I eased past Swinn, he spoke one sentence so quietly no one else would have heard it. It was cutting and cruel and painfully familiar.

Valerie and I returned the box to the vault. Maybe, if it had just been Officer Grimshaw and Ilya Sanguinati waiting for me, I could have remained polite, could have clamped down on the hurt and anger churning inside me until I got home and could break down in private. But Swinn was still there, and he looked at me as if he knew what would hurt me most—and I couldn’t breathe. Just couldn’t draw in enough air for my heart to beat and my brain to work.

I bolted out of the bank, ignoring the “Ms. DeVine? Ms. DeVine!” behind me. A few Sproingers were out on the sidewalk. They were sitting up the way they do when they’re given chunks of carrots for treats, but they weren’t wearing their happy faces. Neither was I. I still wanted to talk to Julian Farrow about books, but I couldn’t do that until I could breathe.

I marched next door and stomped into the police station. Officer Osgood, looking even younger in his official uniform, jumped to his feet. I might have jumped down his throat because he looked like a relatively safe target for the feelings building in my chest, but Officer Grimshaw and Ilya Sanguinati burst into the station, Grimshaw slamming the door in Swinn’s face and pausing to turn the simple lock.

And Mount Victoria erupted.

“I know I’m not pretty, and I know I’m not smart, but I don’t deserve to be treated like trash, to be pushed and pushed until I’m too tired and worn down and I agree to something that I don’t believe.” I pointed at the door, aiming my finger between Grimshaw’s and Ilya’s shoulders. “Why is Detective Swinn here? I didn’t know the man who died. I didn’t have an appointment to see him or talk to him. And I didn’t kill him. So why is Swinn pushing and pushing, saying it’s my fault and I’d better come clean about what I did, and how selling The Jumble will be the only way to pay for any kind of attorney who might be able to get me a reduced sentence? Why is he saying that?”

That’s the trouble with hiding in your safe place and hearing but not hearing a verbal hammering. You do hear the words, and with the right trigger, all your feelings come out as word vomit or lava—a hot projectile that can’t be controlled at all.

“And why would that bank manager help someone take the things out of my safe-deposit box? I’ll tell you why! Because no one thought I would make a fuss, and even if I did who would listen to me, and I was just expected to swallow it. Well, I’m not going to swallow it. I was given The Jumble as the main part of the divorce settlement because everyone thought it wasn’t worth much of anything but the assessed value looked good on paper. See how generous he was to give her some of the land that had been in his family for generations. But now someone thinks it is worth something and wants to take it away after I worked so hard to build a new home, a-and . . . a-and . . .”

I was done, drained, didn’t even have a piddle of lava left to finish the sentence.

Three men stared at me. Osgood looked ready to crash through the window and run. Grimshaw looked grim. And my vampire attorney? I couldn’t begin to figure out what he was thinking about my hysterics.

I took a couple of deep breaths to steady myself. “I still have some business with Julian Farrow that I would like to take care of before I go home.”

“I’ll walk you over,” Officer Grimshaw said.

“Could Officer Osgood do that?” Ilya asked. “I can hold the bag with Ms. DeVine’s valuables while she runs her errand.”

Grimshaw hesitated, then looked at Osgood. “Officer?”

Osgood swallowed hard. He wasn’t dill pickle green like the bank manager had been yesterday, but his brown skin did have a green tinge. “Yes, sir.”

I wondered whom he feared more, me or Swinn? But I didn’t ask, didn’t make some lame joke designed to hurt feelings. I didn’t want to be caught alone by Swinn either, and I was grateful for any escort, even if I should have been adult enough not to need one.

It turned out Officer Osgood and I both had an escort. The Sproingers formed two lines, a hopping honor guard for us to walk between as we crossed the street to Lettuce Reed.

Julian Farrow opened the screen door as we approached. The Sproingers sproinged into the shop, then clustered around the door. I hurried over to the island in the center of the front room.

“I handed out carrots this morning,” Julian told the Sproingers.

They all gave him the happy face, but none of them crowded him as if they expected food.

Julian nodded to Officer Osgood, who took a position between me and the Sproingers, as if he couldn’t decide what was more dangerous. I guess he hadn’t seen them before. Otherwise he would have known he would be safe unless he wore orange socks. Apparently orange is the color of carrots and pumpkins, another Sproinger favorite food, and their little brains couldn’t quite understand that not everything that was orange was tasty or food.

Or else they just liked biting things that were orange, and woe to the ankle under the orange sock.

“You look a bit flushed, Vicki,” Julian said. “Would you like some water?”

“Yes. Thanks.” I felt a little sick and desperately needed to regain control.

“Officer?”

“Thank you,” Osgood said.

While we waited for Julian, I eyed the stacks of books on the island—books that had been returned for used-book credit but hadn’t been processed yet to be put on the shelves.

Julian returned with a large wooden tray that held three glasses of water and a small dog bowl of water. He set the bowl near the door. I’m not sure any of the Sproingers drank any of the water, but they seemed to have a good time giving each other a bit of a splash before grooming.

Despite the splashing, at least half of them watched whatever was going on outside, standing on each other in order to look out the screen door.

Maybe their brains weren’t so little. And maybe those ankle-biting incidents weren’t mistakes caused by orange socks. At least, not all of them.

“Are you browsing, or are you looking for specific titles?” Julian asked.

Recalled to my task, I leaned forward. “I have some friends who really liked the cop and crime shows on TV last night and probably would enjoy reading thrillers, but I don’t think they have the reading skills for the books I already have at The Jumble.” I didn’t want to buy something inappropriate that could sour their anticipated pleasure in visiting the story place—or sour their opinion of me.

“Would those friends be your new employees?” Julian had a knack for figuring things out. Oddly enough, he was rubbish at playing Murder, a board game where you tried to figure out who was murdered and how they died.

“Have you met Conan and Cougar?”

“Yeesss.”

I went up on my tiptoes so I could lean a little farther before whispering, “I don’t want to insult them by offering kiddie books. They are adults after all. But I don’t want them frustrated either.” And I didn’t want them to blame me for being frustrated.

Julian stared at the counter. Then he looked at me. “Wait here.”

Officer Osgood relaxed enough to look at the bookshelves closest to him, and I watched the Sproingers. The ones who noticed me watching made the happy face; the rest of them blocked the doorway and stared at something in the street.

Julian returned with a large stack of books. He set them on the counter, then held one up so that I could read the title and see the cover.

“The Wolf Team?”

He nodded. “They’re stories about a group of adolescents with special skills who help . . . beings . . . in trouble.”

Did they have a phone number? I could be a being who needed help.

“They’re written for terra indigene youngsters.” Julian opened the book to a random page and held it out. “Take a look.”

I didn’t know the characters or their mission because Julian had opened the book a few chapters into the story, but I started reading midway down the page just to get a feel for the language and decide if I should add a couple of the books to my guest library.

Oh.

Ew.

Goodness! Could terra indigene Wolves really do that?

A hand came down on the book, and I . . . squeaked . . . and jumped back as far as my arms allowed without giving up the book and losing my place. After all, I did have priorities.

My heart pounded. My lungs strained against muscles that were corset tight. I heard chattering behind me, followed by the thumps of several things hitting the floor. I stared at Julian and realized he looked as startled by my reaction as I felt.

And then there was the weird way my slacks were twitching at knee height.

Maybe I should reorder my priorities until we sorted out the whole thing about the dead man.

Julian lifted his hand off the book and offered a wary smile. “Maybe you’d like to take the book with you and start reading from the beginning?”

Why would Julian be wary of me? I turned my head just enough to see the handful of books at Officer Osgood’s feet—probably the thumps I’d heard when I squeaked in alarm.

Something patted my knee. I looked down at the Sproinger standing next to me. The Sproinger looked up at me and patted my knee again, a silent query.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Really. I’m fine.” I smiled at the critter.

The Sproinger made the happy face and returned to his buddies. They all looked at me and made the happy face before resuming sentry duty.

I went back to staring at Julian. “He understood what I said.” Actually, I didn’t know if that particular Sproinger had a vigorous appendage. That wasn’t important. The fact that Sproingers understood human speech was important. Gods, they hopped around the village every morning, cadging treats from most of the businesses or browsing in people’s yards.

“Uh-huh.” Julian sounded like it wasn’t the least bit important, and I took the hint. Sproingers probably knew every secret in the village, and if the people realized the critters not only heard but understood those secrets, there would be a lot fewer people handing out carrots.

But that sidestepped the real question. If the Sproingers understood everything, or almost everything, that was being said around them, whom did they tell? And how would they interpret the past few minutes and my squeak of alarm—and who might get blamed for alarming me?

I suddenly understood why Julian felt wary. “I zoned out.”

“You got caught up in the story. That’s a good sign. Do you want the series?” He held up a hand as if I had already protested that I couldn’t afford them. “The human females in the early books are wimps. I fully acknowledge the lack of understanding about your gender, so don’t come back and snarl at me about it. However, I’d heard that some of the writers of the Wolf Team books spent a few weeks in Lakeside last winter while planning some new stories, and the human female pack attached to the Courtyard helped them adjust their thinking, to say nothing of their attitude. The human girls in the latest story still can’t take on the bad guys by themselves—it is a Wolf Team story, after all—but they’re more kick-ass. Or as kick-ass as human females with no special powers beyond intelligence and good hearts can be.”

“I can’t burn through my whole book budget.” I eyed the books, willing to be persuaded because, darn it, I wanted to find out what happened!

“I told you before I would open a line of credit for you.”

I loved books, and given a line of credit, I could imagine having to sell my car to feed my book addiction and pay off my bookstore debt.

“Two-hundred-dollar limit,” Julian said.

I needed some kind of solace, and it was either books or ice cream. If I bought the books, I’d have more than an evening’s pleasure, and I could justify it because other beings would read them too.

But I’d ask Aggie if she liked ice cream, just for future reference.

I left the store with a stuffed Lettuce Reed carry bag, and Officer Osgood left with three of the five books he’d originally selected.

We scanned the street, noticed Officer Grimshaw’s cruiser was gone, and scurried back to the police station, relieved that there was no sign of Detectives Swinn and Reynolds. Of course, that didn’t mean anything. They could be waiting for me inside the station. The bad guys in stories always managed to slither out of hiding places just before the hapless protagonist thought she had reached safety.

But it was my yummy vampire attorney who opened the station door and stepped aside. As we walked in, I wondered—briefly—if I should switch to reading romances again. At least those stories wouldn’t keep me up at night.