Bell, Book and Corpses, page 1
Bell, Book and Corpses
Waincroft Manor has long been tied to rumors of witchcraft and fatal curses, and to Nora Charles, that makes it the perfect place for a Halloween fundraiser. But her first trip to the deserted old mansion turns out to be truly ghoulish when she discovers a dead body. What’s more, the corpse is laid out in a coffin—with two bite marks on its neck. Then the autopsy comes back showing that the body was drained of blood, and there’s no stopping the local gossips from whispering the word vampire to anyone who will listen.
Determined to dispel the rumors and save the fundraiser, Nora sets out to prove the murderer was quite human after all. Sifting through the clues, she learns of a bitter family rivalry that spans generations, and a more recent conflict that may point to the motive for the murder. And when Nick spells out a clue that proves to be the missing piece of the puzzle, Nora knows she’ll have to watch her back—because there’s a killer out there who wants to keep some secrets buried, and they’ll happily bury Nora right along with them . . .
Title Page
Copyright
Bell, Book and Corpses
T. C. LoTempio
Copyright © 2024 by T. C. LoTempio
Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs
Published by Beyond the Page at Smashwords
Beyond the Page Books
are published by
Beyond the Page Publishing
www.beyondthepagepub.com
ISBN: 978-1-960511-82-9
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Acknowledgments
Many thanks, as always, to my agent, Josh Getzler, and his assistant, Jon Cobb. I am also extremely thankful to have Bill Harris as the editor for Nick and Nora. Sometimes I think he loves them more than I do!
And, as always, many thanks to all the fans who support and buy the Nick and Nora series. It couldn’t continue without your support, and I value each and every one of you!
Dedication
To Mary Kennedy—a superb writer and an even better friend!
Prologue
Manny didn’t believe in ghosts, or the supernatural—although in retrospect, he probably should have.
After all, he’d been born in Salem, Massachusetts. Everyone there was practically weaned on tales of witchcraft and the like. Fortunately for him, his family had moved to California when he was six, and his father had always been a scientific sort of fellow—more interested in what he could see, feel and touch, not in something that was, for the most part, figments of someone’s fertile imagination. Thank God I took after you, Dad, Manny thought. To his mind, people these days read too much Stephen King and not enough Isaac Asimov.
There were no such things as ghosts, or witches, or . . . even worse, vampires. He gave a soft chuckle. What was the fascination with the living dead, anyway? People had been carrying on a love affair with them ever since Bram Stoker wrote Dracula. Although, he had to admit, he’d found the Christopher Lee movies quite amusing. But the thought of anyone sustaining life by actually drinking someone else’s blood made him want to puke.
He paused at the crest of the hill and glanced at the mansion silhouetted against the full moon. He had to admit, Waincroft Manor certainly looked like the kind of place a chap like Dracula would call home. With its sloping roof, wide gables, rounded windows and black shutters, the ancient mansion looked like the perfect place to film a horror movie—or hold a Halloween Festival, like he’d heard that real estate woman talking about at the Poker Face night before last. According to her, the deal was sealed. People were supposed to be coming tomorrow to look the place over, see how much cleaning had to be done to get it in shape.
That’s why he couldn’t put it off any longer. He had to get in there now.
He jumped as he felt a slight vibration at his hip, grinned sheepishly when he realized it was his cell phone. He’d left it on vibrate. He pulled it out, glanced at the number before hitting the answer button. “Thanks for calling back,” he said, fighting a sudden urge to whisper. “I’ll meet you in an hour at the usual spot. No, I’m not playing any games. You won’t be disappointed, I promise.”
He rang off, slid the phone back into his pocket, and then paused. For a minute he thought he heard the sound of someone cackling, far off in the distance. He passed a hand over his eyes and shook his head; as he did so, a giant crow flew right over him—a huge beast, with a giant wingspan, almost as big as an eagle’s. The crow circled, then lit on the branch of a nearby tree and sat, its black beady eyes fixed right on him.
“Caw. Caw.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Manny let out a long sigh and swore softly under his breath. “You and me both.”
• • •
He had the back door open in less than three minutes. The years hadn’t diminished his talent for picking locks, and the ancient ones in these doors were child’s play for him. He let himself in, pausing for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the abject blackness, then made his way toward the parlor. Just as he got to the double doors he froze in his tracks.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move in the dark shadows that surrounded the circular staircase off to his left. It had been swift, a blur of movement, but it had definitely been something. Gathering all his courage, he called out in a raspy tone, “Who’s there?”
Silence.
He laid his hand on the handle of the parlor door and felt a tingle go up his spine, like an electric shock. He sensed, rather than felt, the presence of someone behind him.
Or was it something?
He whirled, ducking as something dark and slimy flew past him. He peered upward and made out the outline of a pair of wings, two beady eyes.
Manny started to laugh. “A bat! That’s all it was. Just a bat.”
Still, he wasn’t taking any chances. He whipped the parchment from his jacket pocket, ripped it down the middle. He tiptoed back into the tiny room just beyond the alcove and walked directly to a square of the wood floor he knew was loose. Prying it open, he shoved half of his prize into the dark cavity, then replaced the square and made his way back to the parlor. He’d barely stepped inside when that feeling of being watched swept over him again.
“Give it to me,” said a gruff voice behind him.
Manny whirled and found himself looking into what he could only describe as a grinning skull. Moonlight streaming in through the large picture window reflected off the shiny bald pate, bathing the newcomer in a sinister light. “Give it to me,” the figure repeated.
Manny took an involuntary step backward. “Give what to you? I don’t know what you mean?”
“Oh, yes, you do. I know you found it, I saw you. Give it to me.”
Manny turned and started to run, but then another dark-caped figure emerged out of the shadows, blocking his way. The second figure raised its arm and Manny saw it held a dripping syringe.
“What the heck?”
The first figure spun Manny around, roughly pulled his jacket off. His fingers closed over the map, and his face twisted into an ugly sneer when he saw there was only half there. “What did you do with the other half?”
“I ate it,” Manny shot back. “You’ll never get it.”
“That’s a shame,” the figure said softly. “It seems you leave me no choice.”
Manny shrugged free of his grasp and darted around the other figure out of the parlor and into the hall. Behind him he heard the gentle pad of footsteps. No time to escape out the back, he reasoned, and careened down the hallway toward the front door. He lunged for the door handle, twisted it—and nothing happened. Frantic, he pulled harder.
The door was stuck.
His breath came faster, and the pounding in his chest was so hard he felt sure people in Cruz could hear it. He tugged harder on the handle. Behind him, he could hear the soft pad of footsteps. Someone . . . or something . . . coming closer . . . closer . . .
His breath wheezing out in short, uneven gasps, he pulled down hard on the handle and the door suddenly swung inward, almost smacking him in the face. He thought, for a brief instant, of glancing over his shoulder, but then quickly abandoned that idea and launched himself onto the front porch, letting the door slam shut behind him with a resounding thud! He leaned against the railing, huffing and puffing. He knew they wouldn’t be pleased that he had nothing to give them, but maybe he could put them off a day or two, get someone to come back out here with him, maybe in the daylight . . .
A shadow slipped out of the darkness of the porch. Manny saw the hand raise out of the corner of his eye, felt a sharp thwack! at the base of his skull and then . . .
Darkness.
Chapter One
“Here we are. What do you think?”
I eyed the enormous mansion and bit back a shudder. A vision of every old Hammer horror flick I’d ever watched on late-night TV flashed through my mind and I shot my BFF, Chantal Gillard, a dubious look. “Wow, do you think Gomez and Morticia are at home?”
Chantal barked out a laugh. “Actually, I think this place might have given Charles Addams a few nightmares,” she said, with a cautious glance toward the crumbling edifice.
“Why would anyone want to host a charity event here?” I murmured. “It’s like they want to scare everyone into being generous.”
“Well, Kay Trilby got it into her head it was the perfect place to hold a Halloween gala, and you know Kay.”
I certainly did. When it came to wealth and influence, Kay Trilby was right up there with Violet Crenshaw. A widow who’d inherited millions from her deceased husband number two, she was very active in community affairs. I’d catered several fundraisers for her over the past year, everything from a casual cookout to elegant sit-down dinners. Kay had recently decided to make the Cruz Youth Club one of her pet charities and had been working tirelessly to ensure its success. The club had always been funded through the town budget, helped along by generous donations from wealthy patrons, but the last few years had seen some of the patrons die off and its budget had suffered some severe cuts. Actually, I was glad Kay decided to get involved. The charity would surely flourish under her wing.
Chantal chuckled. “Kay certainly worked her magic on you. Free catering for the gala, plus help with the cleanup.”
“I’m glad to do it,” I said. “Although if the inside’s as bad as the outside, I hope we can get the place ready in time. The gala’s only three weeks away.”
“Joannie said she doesn’t think the inside is too bad. She came here the other day for a quick look-see. Said it just looked deserted and dusty. Lots of white-sheeted furniture.”
“Um, well, I guess that’s to be expected. No one’s lived here in what? Fifty, sixty years?”
“More like a hundred,” my friend answered. She lowered her tone to a mere whisper. “All because of the curse of Waincroft Manor. You remember that story, chérie?”
“Vaguely. Things like that don’t interest me the way they do you.” My friend has psychic abilities, and she’s a big believer in things that go bump in the night.
Chantal tossed me a sly glance. “Hm, what does interest you lately, Nora?”
“I’ve been experimenting with some smoothie recipes,” I said. I’d recently purchased a used smoothie machine with the proceeds from Nick’s television debut on a popular daytime drama. Even though his scenes had been cut, he’d still been paid, and I had an idea it was because he—and I—had been instrumental in solving a cold case and bringing the killer to justice. “A lot of them call for coconut water, so I put an order in at the farmer’s market for a case. There’s one in particular I’m anxious to try. They call it Coconut-Banana Delight.”
Chantal waved her hand. “All well and good, but I was thinking more along the lines of a certain dark-haired former head of Homicide turned FBI agent?” Her lips curved upward in a cat-ate-the-canary grin, and I knew why.
A few weeks ago I’d made the decision to start dating FBI agent Leroy Samms. Samms and I had shared a brief, intimate moment back in college and neither of us could deny there was a certain amount of chemistry between us. My sister and Chantal had been urging me to give the guy a break for months, and now that the man I’d currently been dating, FBI agent Daniel Corleone, had accepted a top secret assignment in London with no visible end date, I’d run out of excuses.
“You know, chérie,” Chantal said, “I am not one to say I told you so, but . . . things are going well, are they not?”
“They are considering Samms’s schedule is even worse than Daniel’s was, especially now that they’re short-handed. But we did manage to get to the multiplex at Branson to see the new Robert Downey Jr. movie last week, and the week before that we tried out the new seafood place in Monterey.” I let out a small sigh. “I do enjoy his company, and we have fun. Still . . .”
“There is a part of you that misses Daniel,” Chantal finished as I grew silent.
“It’s more like feeling guilty,” I admitted, “even though he practically gave me his blessing to date. Lacey thinks I’m nuts. She has no problem dating both Hal Frey and Peter Dobbs.”
Chantal raised an eyebrow. “Peter is back in the picture?”
I nodded. “She was out with one of her friends and ran into him. Apparently time heals all wounds and they kissed and made up. Literally.”
“Hm,” Chantal muttered. “How do the men in question feel about it?”
“Lacey made it very clear to both of them that they’re not exclusive, and there are no strings attached. Apparently both of them like her well enough to accept it.”
“Well, you and your sister are two distinct temperaments. Lacey’s specialty is playing the field, but you, Nora Charles, are definitely a one-man woman. Your problem is deciding which man.”
“True. Unless, as you said, the Universe has already made that decision for me.”
“That sounds rather ominous.” Chantal raised a brow. “You think Daniel gave you permission to date because he thought he might not return from this mission?”
“He didn’t come out and say that, but he did say it was a dangerous mission.” I felt a bit uncomfortable discussing this, so I stole a quick glance at my watch. “It’s getting late. Should we wait for Joannie or take a look inside ourselves?”
“Owrrr?”
We both glanced toward the backseat of Chantal’s convertible, where the large black and white cat who’d been asleep there now raised his head and opened one golden eye to stare at us. The cat formerly known as Sherlock had belonged to a now MIA private eye, but when I’d adopted him (or rather, when he’d adopted me) Chantal had christened him Nick, after my favorite fictional detective (a no-brainer, since my name is Nora Charles). Nick has a definite talent for detection, and his abilities can be downright spooky at times, particularly his penchant for spelling out a pertinent clue with his favorite toy, Scrabble tiles. Together we’ve managed to solve a few mysteries, with the exception of the one I considered the most puzzling of all: the whereabouts of his former human, PI (and possibly spy?) Nick Atkins.
Chantal leaned into the backseat. “What’s the matter, Nicky,” she crooned. “Did we disturb your beauty sleep?”
“Owrrr,” Nick said again, and this time closed his eye and put his paw across his face.
I laughed outright. “I think he wants us to hurry up and get this over with so we can get home. He prefers to take his naps in front of my refrigerator.”
Chantal reached over to give Nick a pat on the white streak behind his ear. “He is probably impatient to get home. He must sense that I have some new collars I want him to model later.”
Another grr from the backseat and I sighed. “Remind me again why I brought him along.”
“You didn’t,” Chantal said and giggled. “He snuck in the backseat, remember?”
“Ah, yes.” I cocked an eyebrow at my cat, who now lay on his back, all four paws in the air. “You have a distinct talent for that, don’t you, Nick?”
