Creeps, Cache, & Corpses, page 9
“Anyone here? Mr. Zasko?” Jane’s voice resonated in the space Willy had occupied earlier in the evening. Fortunately, not even her echo answered.
Jane’s fingers traced a pattern in the aged, dark wood of the desk as Patricia knelt and selected her favorite game from among the worn and tattered boxes—Clue.
It seemed too coincidental. My eyes went wide, and I said, “I’ll take Maverick and Renegade for a walk. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
CJ crossed his arms, surveying the scene, then turned and said, “Let me join you.”
Jane’s eyes stayed fixed on the gameboard as she pulled herself away, clearly wanting to play the game. But she exited with us.
The dogs trotted in tandem, not venturing out of sight. Jane cleared her throat and said, “You’ve got that look, Katie. What do you have brewing in that mind of yours?”
I brushed away the notion initially. “I haven't really thought about it much.” CJ’s amused snort drew a glare from me. “Edith Farthington has had her share of detractors. Take Willy Zasko for instance. He’s been sticking around like pinecone sap, and the women in the salon seem to think Edith had him on the hook for something, or they were simply jealous he paid attention to Edith.”
That brought CJ up short. “Blackmail?”
“They brought up the rumor about Reggie’s parentage and suggested Edith might've been getting money from Willy for some indiscretion.”
“That could be one explanation for his recent visit.”
“Maybe Edith’s will holds a few surprises. Willy could be presuming he’d receive a posthumous gift.”
“If any of the rumor is true, Reggie might be expecting a windfall. Or not. Reggie and Edith seemed at odds when we arrived,” Jane said.
“I’d forgotten about that fight. Reggie sounded disgruntled, but I don't know if that equates to murder,” I said.
CJ continued listening to our commentary.
“But isn’t Willy her attorney? He’d probably know the contents of the will.”
“Maybe.”
“And then there’s Irinia,” said Jane. “She practically danced on Edith’s grave tonight. She sounded downright gleeful until Sheriff Zasko made his presence known.”
After a few seconds of contemplative silence, I said. “The first night, I stumbled on Lauren crying in the pantry. She blamed Edith for Davy getting sick. But Lauren sounded more afraid than angry, like her job was on the line.”
CJ’s voice was sure and definitive. “We do not need to investigate. The sheriff is doing his job. Our time will be better spent on—”
“Oh, CJ, I’m terribly sorry. What can we do to assist with the memorial preparations?”
As we finished the walk, he rolled out his plan, assigning Jane to research scripture and me to explore music options. By the time we found the kids, they’d stashed the game and lazed around the table.
Kindra’s yawn worked like dominoes, and we all felt the weight of the day catching up to us. As we tramped up the stairs, I asked, “Who won?”
Galen grinned in triumph. “Mr. Green used the candlestick in the library to commit the murder. I cracked the case.”
If only every puzzle could be untangled so swiftly.
SEVENTEEN
The tranquil stillness carried us upstairs, but thoughts of contentedly curling up in our warm beds were shattered by a prolonged wail followed by a high-pitched lament. We froze in our tracks.
“Are you hearing that?” I whispered. No one answered. “I heard the same sound last night. The caterwauling sounds like someone in distress.” Fourteen feet and eight paws thundered up the remaining flight, searching for the culprit. I dashed to the bathroom and pointed to the vent from which the sound reverberated like the final dying notes of a haunting scream.
“That is totally eerie,” said Galen.
“You have weird looks on your faces. What’s happening?” asked Patricia. She and Kindra exchanged a few signs, and Patricia took a step back.
CJ advanced four or five steps up the next flight and came face to face with Reggie.
Reggie cocked his head, listening. “I apologize. Typically, when the bathroom door is closed, no one can hear the music.”
“Music?” I said, utterly perplexed as I tried to conjure an image of the instrument responsible for the spine-chilling cacophony and whoever created it.
“I’ll get it stopped immediately.” He spun on his heels, retracing his steps.
“Wait,” I called, and Reggie turned back. “That might not be necessary.” I searched the befuddled faces around me. “If we close the bathroom door, the sound is negligible, right?” I shut the door to demonstrate the soundlessness. “And you know what is causing the, ah, disturbance so it shouldn’t bother us anymore.”
Reggie looked like he mulled over my suggestion and finally nodded in agreement.
“I think they should be allowed to continue. Kudos to anyone practicing anything,” Jane said. “I never heard a sound last night. It obviously didn’t bother me. And our room is closest to the vent, so I’m okay with it.”
Reggie heaved a sigh. “Thank you.”
“Reggie, please accept our condolences once more for your loss,” I said.
He gazed at the ceiling, a reflective expression dimming his features. “Edith was a force to be reckoned with and her absence leaves a void. However, she left her affairs meticulously organized. Your stay will not be disrupted.” He lifted one corner of his lips in the semblance of a smile. “She was quite the taskmaster. Now if you’ll excuse me, have a goodnight.” He resumed his trek down the stairs and along the hallway.
For my final task of the day, I sent off three texts, one to Dad, saying goodnight, one to Pete, telling him I missed him, and one to Ida, inquiring as to the health of her cousin.
My heart skipped a beat when my phone chimed, but only to tell me home was two hours and thirty minutes away by car. No replies.
* * *
Mother Nature continued to unleash Minnesota’s unpredictable weather, and we woke to a world smothered in a thin blanket of fluffy white.
Jane and I yanked on boots and bundled up in enough layers to rival an onion and, carrying cups of steaming liquid courage, climbed into Jane’s Edge. The dogs sat bolt upright in the rear seat, observing the cold world come awake around us, conscientious judges presiding over the trial of winter. We covered all but the last few hundred yards before her heater coughed up its first puff of warmth. “Hang in there, Greenie,” Jane said, stroking the dashboard, treating her vehicle like royalty. She cupped her hand in front of her mouth and whispered, “I might need a new car soon, but don’t let on.”
Jane got a little squirrelly if she didn’t get enough sleep.
Sheriff Zasko stood amid a trio of official cars awaiting us in the parking lot. “You remember Deputy Gray?” he said.
“Morning,” I said with exaggerated cheerfulness.
The sheriff introduced us to the other law enforcement officers and said, “We have almost three hundred acres to investigate and not much manpower. We’re hoping you can remember where you were yesterday and whittle down the possibilities.”
Jane opened the geocaching app on her phone.
Sheriff Zasko shot her a questioning glance. “What are you doing?”
Jane took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “The breadcrumb detail of the app will allow us to follow the exact trail we used yesterday. Katie will have to remember where she threw the stick, but we can't get any closer than this.”
If the technology could be trusted, we traversed the same path, and my heart thumped in my chest. Our surroundings morphed into a gray-scale painting of frosty brushstrokes and looked decidedly different today. The earth melded with the cloudy sky the exact same color and formed a dreary, unbroken tableau.
I hoped I could locate the stick and it would provide the information the sheriff was looking for. I unzipped the plastic bag holding the jeans I’d worn yesterday. Maybe Maverick would make the correct association. Maybe not. I held them to his brilliant nose and said, “Find.”
Maverick and Renegade snuffled back and forth across the path, seeking a scent matching the black smear of ash on the jeans. As we moved forward, I kept my eyes on the lookout for landmarks I might recognize, and Jane directed us down the path.
The dogs’ movements became more animated, their excitement palpable. Sweat beaded at the small of my back, and I unzipped my jacket. Patches of black dirt broke through as the temperatures quickly rose and the hard ground transitioned to mud, oozing around my boots. We hopped over a small stream running to the lake, fed by the melting snow.
“Sheriff, I think I stood here.” I simulated an overhand throw. Maverick’s head snapped up and his nostrils flared. He scrambled in front of me, navigating through the brambles, and emerged triumphant, brandishing the javelin-like stick, too unwieldy for him to carry safely.
“Here, Maverick.” He sat in front of me and relinquished his prize. The sheriff picked up the piece of wood. I rewarded both dogs with tasty treats. They sat and their tails swept the ground with enthusiasm. “Good dogs. You couldn’t have done any better.”
The sheriff examined both ends of the tree limb and gazed over the expanse of land in front of him. “This branch is definitely charred, and it still smells smokey. Fan out, men,” he said. “We’re looking for the remains of a recent fire.”
“What about us?” Maverick nudged my hand, bumping my fingers for more scratches. Renegade sat next to him and eagerly awaited the same from Jane.
“If you’ve got the time, you can check out the terrain as you head back toward the parking lot.” He sent us off with a distracted wave of his hand.
“Do you just want to leave?” Jane whispered. “He’d never notice.”
“No. Do you?”
“Nope.”
We split up. Jane and Renegade tramped through the snow on one side of the path, and Maverick and I forged a parallel trail. I reveled in the peace and quiet, devoid of houses, cars, and people. The absence of animal sounds struck me as curious, but I attributed it to the hunting dogs wandering through their neighborhood. Jane drifted out of sight.
When Maverick took off at a trot, I jogged behind. After a short distance, a small bay came into view. Thin disks of ice floated on the placid waves near the shore. Twigs, decaying plant life, lake debris, and a modest heap of discarded plastic bottles littered the narrow strip of sandy beach. Determined to recycle, I marched up to the manmade mound, but before I plucked the first offender from the top, I stepped into a depression.
“Maverick, sit.” I retreated cautiously as I made sense of the scene and called as loudly as I dared without causing alarm. “Jane.”
That failed and I screamed instead. “Jane!”
She zipped through the trees, a coral-colored blur, Renegade bounding next to her, tongue lolling in anticipation of play. Maverick sat perfectly still. I knelt and held him close, my heart thumping in my chest.
Jane came to a screeching halt and snapped on Renegade’s lead. “Katie?”
I leaned away for her to see behind me.
Jane retrieved Sheriff Zasko’s card and punched in his number. When he answered, she pulled the phone away and I could hear him clearly from where we knelt. “What do you want now?”
“Sheriff, you’d better get down here.”
EIGHTEEN
The sheriff groused about jittery women wasting precious time or nervous nellies afraid of their own shadows. He grumbled until I stepped aside and allowed the evidence to speak for itself. The pile of ashes and the remains of scorched pieces of finished wood along with natural branches punched holes in his skepticism.
He carefully examined our find, peering at the detritus. “Did either of you touch anything?”
“No, sir,” I said, trying not to sound offended he’d even consider such a thing, although I easily could have.
“Did you hear anything, see anyone?” We shook our heads. “Then there’s little more you can do here. You may leave, but don’t say anything to anyone.”
Jane’s lack of sleep continued to make her fidgety and none too compliant. She shifted from one foot to the other.
“What are you waiting for?” Sheriff Zasko said in a curt voice.
“I realize you are under a lot of pressure, Sheriff, but a simple ‘thank you’ would be appreciated,” she said.
He stammered and growled a few words that vaguely resembled gratitude, then swiftly returned his attention to the investigation. Sensing Jane’s frustration, I gently took her arm and let the dogs guide us to the parking lot.
Back in her vehicle, she gripped the steering wheel and turned to look at me.
“What? What’s wrong?” My insides churned.
“That was it, right? No more snooping. You’re out of it.”
“Yes. That was it.” I certainly hoped so.
“Good,” she groaned. “I need coffee.”
She swung by a local caffeine emporium, procuring two large black coffees and two pup cups of whipped topping for our canine companions. Happily sated, we returned to the inn just as the grandfather clock in the foyer struck nine.
The exhausted pups dropped onto the rug in our room. We changed out of our dirty clothes and met CJ and our troops in the kitchen. After indulging in soft, delicious bagels smeared with an assortment of fruit studded cream cheeses, CJ shared his plan for the morning.
“I would like to attend Mass at ten and meet with the priest afterward. You are welcome to join,” he said and pushed away from the table. “I have preparations to make.” He kissed the top of Carlee’s head. “If you will excuse me.”
Jane pressed all the right buttons on the high-tech brewing machine and set before me another creamy smooth hot chocolate topped with melting miniature marshmallows. I brought the cup to my lips and closed my eyes, inhaling the aroma of sweet warm cocoa. When I peeked through the steam, I caught the surreptitious looks among the kids. “What?” I asked and slurped my beverage.
The girls giggled. Carlee whipped out a piece of paper and waved it like a white flag of surrender. “We give up, Ms. Wilk.”
“Give up?”
“We can’t decrypt your code,” Kindra said and put her fists on her hips. “We think it works like the puzzle cache, but won’t you give us a clue?”
I knitted my brows. “May I see it?”
Someone printed the names of my students in bold letters at the top of the page. Unfamiliar words assembled to make what looked like a sentence in the middle of the page. ‘Ishdáwiri mirúxi buuxága naxbicci áhba ágawidaba ishdáwiri áhba xarée arupi caráa …’The reverse side was blank.
“This wasn’t from me. Where did you find it?”
Carlee said, “It was slipped under our door. Can you still help us figure it out?”
“A puzzle enthusiast like you?” Jane said. I’d been inclined to agree until she added, “That’s probably why you get caught up in so many investigations.”
I read the clock face and slid the message into my pack. I stood, urging haste, and promised to attempt a decoding after the service.
* * *
The final transcendent chimes resonated from the bell choir, bringing a serene conclusion to a beautiful Mass. As the congregation filed out of church, processing to a majestic Bach piece played on the pipe organ, curious parishioners scrutinized the unknown faces occupying the entire back pew.
I held my breath until the last triumphant swell of notes completed its trip around the towering ceiling, meandering through various alcoves, lingering, thrumming, and finally burying themselves in the very foundation of the church. I gawked and marveled at the intricate embellishments adorning the cavernous interior. In reverent stillness, my gaze drifted upward and traced the elaborate pattern on the molded tin ceiling.
Jane leaned in and whispered, “Those statues look scary real, don’t they?”
Full sized figures occupied niches on three distinct altars at the front. Additional sculptures hung on the walls around the church, depicting the fourteen stations of the cross. Filigree decorating the tops of columns and the panels on the elevated pulpit attested to an artisan’s skill and unwavering dedication. The detailed carving in the wood of the baseboards, headers, doorframes, and furniture further confirmed craftsmanship imbued with love.
The vivid stained-glass windows painted a fluid kaleidoscope of colors across the faces of our awestruck group as we awaited the priest.
With our eyes trained to the wondrous architecture, the man magically materialized next to me, and his voice echoed our amazement. “Lovely, isn’t it? I believe a tour is in order.” As the tall, white-haired gentleman rolled down the cuffs on his black shirt, he led us to the front altar.
He eloquently narrated the tale of Minnesota’s oldest Czech church. The explanation included how the Romanesque Revival and Georgian architectural elements represented logic and order, reminiscent of the houses of worship back in the old country. Father Svoboda proudly pointed out the church’s distinguishing features and strategic use of color.
We exited the vestibule past a stone baptismal font, through arched heavy double doors Father had difficulty latching, and silently collected our thoughts, standing on a meticulously crafted tiled motif. Jane took my arm, and as we began the long descent, a comforting warmth enveloped me. I glanced over my shoulder and met the compassionate eyes of the golden-hued statue depicting a youthful warrior leader, offering us courage though powerless to lend a hand.
“St. Wenceslaus,” said Father Svoboda raising his face to the skies. He drank in the air for a moment, then shifted his gaze to CJ. “Follow me.”
We gathered in the church basement. CJ related all he knew of Danica’s tragic death and shared his thoughts on the fate of her remains. Carlee gave no visible sign of distress, but when she squeezed my fingers, I could feel the pulse of her heartbeat. I held tight.
