Lake Silence

  No point at all, he thought. But he wondered how many of Sproing’s citizens were going to empty out their boxes once word got out that their valuables weren’t any safer in the bank than they would be under the bed.

  CHAPTER 9

  Vicki

  Sunsday, Juin 13

  We hadn’t gone more than a couple of steps past the bank when a black luxury sedan with tinted windows glided into a parking space in front of the police station. It was so shiny, like road dust didn’t dare touch its surface. Maybe they used a special wax that repelled dirt. If I asked the driver, would he tell me? My little green car was more a mottled brown these days, what with driving up the gravel access road to The Jumble’s main house.

  Then a man got out of the back seat.

  He was . . . yummy. I mean, he was a double-scoop sundae with hot fudge and caramel sauce and a mountain of real whipped cream yummy. His hair was darker than Ineke’s double-fudge brownies, and he had the most luscious melted-chocolate eyes.

  He smiled at me, and I tried to move toward him, but Officer Grimshaw gripped my arm and wouldn’t move at all. Didn’t he know that gorgeous men never smiled that way at dumpy women with unruly hair? Stupid man.

  “I’m Ms. DeVine’s attorney,” Yummy said. “I would like to speak to my client in private. We can use my office.” He pointed toward the second floor of the police station. Then he handed Grimshaw a business card.

  He was who? I was what?

  “Crap.” It was one of Grimshaw’s breathed rather than spoken words.

  “You’re not a public defender,” Swinn said, pushing forward. “And she can’t afford anything more.”

  Too true, especially since someone stole the emergency fund I’d kept in the safe-deposit box.

  “I will speak with my client in private,” Yummy Attorney said. His eyes didn’t look like melted chocolate anymore.

  “Then you can talk to her in the station. We have a little room in the back just for that,” Swinn said.

  Sure, go ahead and smirk.

  “Mr. Sanguinati and Ms. DeVine can talk in the front room, if that’s acceptable,” Grimshaw said.

  Sanguin . . . Oh. It figured he wouldn’t be a regular guy.

  Then again . . .

  Grimshaw released my arm and I sort of teetered into the police station, followed by the yummy vampire attorney.

  I took one of the visitors’ seats. He brought the other visitors’ chair over and sat facing me, our knees almost touching. Then he leaned forward and took my hands.

  “You’re trembling, Ms. DeVine.” He rubbed a thumb over my knuckles. Was that supposed to calm me down, especially when he was looking at me as if I might be a plain vanilla cone but that was just what he was in the mood for? “Did those men hurt you in any way?”

  “What men?”

  “Are you unwell?”

  Something was upsetting him, and when he glanced toward the door of the police station, I began to put it together. I wasn’t the sharpest crayon in the box at that moment—stress does that to me—but like I said, I read a lot of thrillers, so I finally put the questions together. On the TV shows, the good guys refer to it as nonphysical interference or psychological intimidation.

  That’s what he wanted to know. Was his client shaking because of something that had been done? Trouble was, I’d developed a technique throughout my childhood and my marriage to Yorick where I would go to a safe and secret place in my mind, a closet that had a blankie and bunny slippers—a place no one else could find. I’d still hear whatever was being said to me or about me, still hear the list of my failings, but it was muffled by a thick door. So I heard and didn’t hear.

  Within a minute of driving away from The Jumble, I’d slammed that secret closet door shut. So I had absorbed but hadn’t processed what Detective Oil Slick Swinn had said to me. I didn’t come out of the closet until Grimshaw took my hand and I understood it was safe to be completely present again.

  Not willing to pull away, I twisted my wrist to look at my watch. “Huh. It’s past lunchtime. I get a little shaky when I’m stressed and forget to eat.” And I hadn’t eaten anything that day except the cookie, which was not smart.

  “Wait here.” He gave my hands a squeeze and stood up. Then he paused. “I didn’t properly introduce myself. I’m Ilya Sanguinati.”

  “My attorney.”

  “Yes.”

  I sighed. “I appreciate the offer. I really do. But frankly, Mr. Sanguinati, I couldn’t afford to pay for a sleeve of that very nice suit you’re wearing, let alone your hourly rates.”

  “We can work out a payment plan.”

  I stared at him. A payment plan? I could guess what the interest might be while a person was paying off the principal on the bill. But . . . he was soooo yummy. And, really, what’s a pint or two of blood between a girl and her attorney when she gets to have her neck nibbled by that mouth? And since neck nibbling wasn’t the same as having sex, I was pretty sure I could handle it as well as the girls in the romances I’d read last week. I’d sure be willing to give it a try.

  He opened the door partway and spoke to someone. I heard Oil Slick Swinn squawk when Ilya Sanguinati closed the door and returned to the other seat.

  “Now,” he said. “Tell me how you came to be the caretaker of The Jumble and what you know about the human who had the poor taste to die on your land.”

  “Being dead is more inconvenient to him than it is to me,” I pointed out.

  His shoulders moved in what might have been a shrug. The movement was almost too subtle to see, but for all I knew, it could have been a wild, unrestrained gesture for someone like him.

  I skipped the part about Yorick’s Vigorous Appendage and explained about receiving The Jumble and some cash as my settlement in the divorce. I was happy to leave Hubb NE (aka Hubbney) since I wanted a fresh start and had hoped to turn The Jumble into a viable business that would provide me with a living. The fact that the property was on the western end of the Finger Lakes area was perfect since it was a happy distance from Hubbney and my former hubby.

  I blamed low blood sugar for not being able to sound as upbeat and sassy as I wanted to sound. But Ilya Sanguinati didn’t roll his eyes or sneer or make cute-but-cutting remarks. He just listened. I finished telling him about Aggie and the eyeball, which had led to me reporting the inconveniently dead man, moments before someone knocked on the station door.

  Julian walked in. “I wasn’t sure what you needed in the way of food, so I guessed. Grilled cheese sandwich and a chocolate milkshake. And there’s a small bowl of sliced strawberries because Helen at the diner said you should have a little fruit with your meal.”

  “This is great. Thank you.”

  Julian set out the food on the desk blotter and pulled out the rolling desk chair.

  “Now,” Ilya Sanguinati said once I was seated behind the desk. “Let’s get this settled.”

  My stomach rolled.

  He raised a hand. “You eat and listen. I’ll get this settled. And then we’ll go back to The Jumble and take a look at the paperwork.”

  I noticed Julian took up a position behind me and a little to one side when the other men walked into the station. Officer Grimshaw took up a position at the far corner of the desk. And Ilya Sanguinati stood in front of the desk. It was like having a force field made out of male bodies, so I felt safe enough to stay out of the mental closet and listen while I ate my lunch.

  Really good grilled cheese sandwich. Helen wouldn’t say what she did to make them so good—a blend of cheeses, I think—but they were one of my favorite comfort foods when I ate at the diner.

  Detective Swinn came in, attempting to swagger. He had a swagger attitude but not the build to pull it off. Rather like Yorick that way. The bank manager was the last one in. I guess the other CIU man wasn’t invited to the party.

  “No
w,” Ilya Sanguinati said. “Let’s come to some small understanding.”

  “Ms. DeVine has to answer some questions,” Swinn said.

  My attorney ignored the CIU investigator and focused on the bank manager. “As we speak, two of my kin who deal with banks and banking issues are at the bank examining the contents of all the safe-deposit boxes held by the residents of Silence Lodge. Like Ms. DeVine, we keep a detailed list of everything we allow the bank to hold.”

  I looked at the bank manager, then at the dill pickle spear that had come with my sandwich. They were the same shade of green.

  I nudged the pickle to one side and concentrated on the sandwich.

  “More of my kin, the ones who are most interested in commerce and real estate, are also at the bank, withdrawing the funds we have on deposit.”

  “B-but you can’t,” the bank manager said. “If you withdraw that much . . .”

  “The bank will no longer be a healthy, viable institution.” Ilya Sanguinati smiled. “I must also inform you that the lease for the building, which is owned by Silence Lodge, will not be renewed unless two conditions are met.”

  “But there isn’t another building in Sproing that’s suitable to be a bank, not without extensive renovations,” the bank manager protested.

  “I know.” That smile again.

  I blinked. Had I seen a hint of fang?

  “What are your conditions?” Officer Grimshaw asked.

  “Ms. DeVine will return tomorrow morning and open her safe-deposit box. If the missing papers and the missing seven thousand dollars have reappeared—”

  “It was six thousand dollars,” the bank manager said.

  “Now it’s seven.”

  Wow. This was better than the crime drama I’d watched on TV last week.

  A light finger tap on the back of the chair reminded me that I was supposed to be eating. But, really, talk about bloodless bloodletting.

  “The second condition is that you resign your position as bank manager before tomorrow morning. You will not retain any position with this bank. If those conditions are met and we have not discovered any discrepancies in our safe-deposit boxes, then we will restore enough of our funds to assist the bank in remaining solvent.”

  Now my attorney turned to the CIU investigator. But a movement at the window caught my attention.

  “Is that a Sproinger?” I pointed at the face in the window. “Do they get that big?”

  Ilya Sanguinati looked toward the window, then at me. “No. They are doing . . . Athletic human girls do this trick during sporting events.”

  “A pyramid? They’ve made a Sproinger pyramid?” I looked at the Sproinger. He—or she—made the happy face. “Can I get a picture?”

  If I got out of this in one piece, I was going to buy an I ♥ SPROINGERS T-shirt.

  Silence.

  “Sorry,” I muttered. “Brain-to-mouth disconnect.”

  “There are several people standing in the street taking pictures, including Dominique Xavier,” Julian said. “I’m sure she’ll give you one.”

  “This banking business is beside the point,” Swinn said. “There are questions about why the dead man was lured to The Jumble.”

  “I agree,” Ilya Sanguinati replied. “But you’ve already received the medical examiner’s preliminary report, so you know there is no possible way that Ms. DeVine could have killed that man.”

  More silence.

  “What did kill him?” Grimshaw asked. “I secured the scene but was relieved when the CIU team began their investigation.”

  “Spinal injury.”

  “That’s not public knowledge,” Swinn said, sounding unsure of himself.

  “It is to us.” Ilya Sanguinati looked at me. “Finished your lunch? You can bring the milkshake with you.”

  Even Oil Slick Swinn stepped out of the way when my attorney escorted me and the milkshake to his fancy black car. The driver, another Sanguinati judging by his looks, opened the back door for me, and Ilya Sanguinati blocked any attempt by Swinn to get close before we drove away.

  “Thanks.” I didn’t know what else to say. Okay, I did know something else to say. “Why are you doing this?”

  “You have been kind to Aggie. You are the first person since Honoria Dane to show some understanding about the nature of The Jumble.”

  “Which is?”

  His eyes were back to looking like melted chocolate. “That it was built within a terra indigene settlement, with the understanding that the human caretaker would help those interested in learning to correctly mimic human ways.”

  Oh. Wow. That explained a few things about Aggie. She was the test volunteer to see if I was suitable. Now I wished I had talked to her about the nightie.

  “There is no objection to your having human lodgers as well, as long as they are tolerant of their neighbors.”

  I sipped the milkshake to give myself time to think. “Does everyone know that about The Jumble? That it’s really a terra indigene settlement?”

  “During Honoria’s time? I would think many of the residents in Sproing knew. Whether anyone outside the village understood . . .” He did that subtle shoulder movement.

  That explained why Yorick’s family always said Great-great’s business venture was a failure. They hadn’t known what she’d really built—or why.

  Yes, visionary and eccentric. Maybe I could be like her when I grew up.

  I looked out the window just as we passed the sign for Mill Creek Lane, which meant we’d missed the turn for my road. When we finally turned down an unmarked gravel road that I was pretty sure was on the other side of the lake, I started feeling nervous. “I thought we were going back to The Jumble to look at my papers.”

  “Not just yet,” Ilya Sanguinati replied. “I am confident those papers are in order—or as much as they need to be. We’re going to Silence Lodge so that you can assist me in reviewing some other papers.”

  “What other papers?”

  He smiled, but there was a little bit of an edge to it. “The ones the dead man was carrying.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Grimshaw

  Sunsday, Juin 13

  Detective Swinn gave Grimshaw a look that would have scorched paint. Then he turned that look on Julian before he walked out of the police station.

  “He doesn’t like us,” Julian said.

  Grimshaw blew out a breath. “He’s going to run a background check on you.”

  “Someone usually does, sooner or later.”

  And then that someone suggests that you move on?

  “Why would the Sanguinati be interested in Vicki DeVine?” he asked.

  “Might be as simple as she’s the person who has control of The Jumble,” Julian replied. “She arrived in Sproing last fall and started renovating the main house and some of the cabins with an eye to having things ready for the summer, when you’d expect people to want to rent a place for a weekend getaway or a lakeside vacation. As far as I know, this is the first time the Sanguinati have made contact with her.”

  “If the vampires own as many buildings in this village as Ilya Sanguinati implied, then how did everyone pretend the Others kept their distance from the people who live here?”

  Julian hesitated. “In another place where I lived for a while, I took a job as the land agent—the person who collected the rent and arranged for repairs and listened to complaints. It was a small community like this one, and the humans swore there had never been a sighting of any kind of terra indigene in their village, despite the fact that they lived around the Addirondak Mountains and, occasionally, when the ground was soft after a rain, they would find huge prints under a window—evidence that something stood on its hind legs to look into the second-story window. There was a man in that town who had a side business making plaster casts of those prints. People would hang them on the wal
ls of their family rooms and show them to guests—and they still swore the Others didn’t prowl the streets at night, that some of the particularly gruesome deaths that occurred weren’t caused by a large, angry predator. Wayne, a lot of people stay sane by pretending the terra indigene are Out There and not the individual sitting next to you at the counter in the diner.”

  “The only lodger currently at The Jumble is one of the Crowgard,” Grimshaw said.

  “Vicki knows?”

  “If she didn’t know before, she does now.”

  “But the Crow is still there?”

  “Still there.”

  A hesitation. “The Crow she knows about may not be the only terra indigene living in one of the cabins or, at the very least, living on the land connected to The Jumble.”

  The phone rang. As Grimshaw reached for the receiver, he said, “That did occur to me.” Then: “Sproing Police Station.”

  “O-officer down. O-officer needs a-assistance.”

  Gods. There weren’t any other cops in the area, except . . . “Where are you?”

  “Th-The Jumble.”

  “Can you hold your position?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re on our way.” Grimshaw hung up and called the Bristol Police Station’s number. “This is Officer Grimshaw in Sproing. Tell Captain Hargreaves I’ve got a situation at The Jumble. Officer down and another officer requesting assistance. I’m heading there now. I need whoever you can send me.”

  “Isn’t there a CIU team in the area? Can’t they supply backup?” the dispatcher asked.

  “I think it’s the CIU team that got hit.”

  A heartbeat of silence. “I’ll put out the call.”

  Grimshaw hung up and looked at Julian. “You’re coming with me.”

  “No.” Julian took a step back. “I’m not a cop anymore. I don’t have a gun.”

  Grimshaw headed for the door. “You still have a gun. After what you went through, you wouldn’t leave yourself without a weapon. I need someone to back me up, Julian. Someone I can trust.”