A Bite of Blueberry Page 4

Priscilla raised an eyebrow. “You think he fell backwards onto the toilet, cracked his skull open, and bled out? All without any sound?”

  “I didn’t say that’s what happened. That’s just what it looks like. We won’t know anything else until the coroner has had a crack at the body.”

  “He has a name,” Priscilla said. “His name was Benedict. He was a high school senior. He’s not just a body.”

  “I know that, Priscilla.” Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. “But I don’t see how else I can put it.”

  “Until the autopsy report comes back?” she ventured dryly. “Until the coroner has done his job? Until cause of death has been determined?”

  “All right, all right. I get it. You’re not usually this sensitive, Priscilla.”

  “I’m not usually treated to a tour of your precinct so often, Arthur.”

  Arthur shook his head. “I know. Don’t make this a habit, Pratt. This is the second body you’ve uncovered in the last six months. I know you’re not guilty, but I doubt the tabloids will find it as coincidental as I do.”

  Priscilla scowled. She still remembered the article that had named her as a suspect in the murder of a former client. She was going to have to call journalist Sam Hodges and tell her to keep her pen to herself.

  “I’m not trying to stir up trouble, Arthur. In fact, if you let me out of here, I’ll stay out of your hair altogether on this one.”

  “Well …”

  “Arthur, come on!” she exclaimed. “You can’t be serious. I’m going to be sick all over your shoes if you don’t let me out soon.”

  “That’s not it. I’m going to escort you home myself, Priscilla. It’s just that—” Arthur cleared his throat and looked away. It was hard to tell in the low light, but she thought he might be blushing. “We’ve been talking, and we’d like you to assist on this case.”

  “Pardon?”

  Arthur finally looked at her. Yes, he was definitely blushing. “I know you don’t have a background in police work, Priscilla. Leave all the serious stuff to me and the boys. But you did good work last time. And there are things you may be able to sense that we can’t.”

  “Any vampire could do what I do,” Priscilla said.

  “Perhaps any vampire could sense what you do. But you took down a killer all by yourself. That, in itself, was impressive. To that end, the Bellmare PD would like to hire you on as a consultant on an ad hoc basis. Starting now.”

  She blinked. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m dead serious. Like I said, hopefully it won’t ever have to happen again. But if this turns out to be a murder, I want you on the case with us. Last time you helped us out, you lost out on business. Anna told me you had trouble making the bills that month.”

  Priscilla scowled. She’d be having a talk with Anna, the traitor. It wasn’t any of Arthur’s business what she’d done outside of the investigation she’d helped him with. After all, she’d been able to make payroll, and she’d only had to go without blood for a week to do it. It wasn’t as if her lights had been shut off.

  Arthur’s face softened. “I just want to make sure you’re being compensated fairly for your time, Priscilla. No insult intended, I promise you. Will you fill out the paperwork?”

  “Fine,” Priscilla said. “As long as you let me go. And most of the money you give me isn’t going into my pocket. It’s going straight to a charity of my choice. I’m doing just fine.”

  He shook his head with a small smirk and stood to get the door. “You’re going to have to let go of those Puritan roots sometime, Priscilla. It’s not pity, it’s capitalism. Deal with it.”

  She snorted. “You do know we had trade back then, don’t you?”

  “Ah, but now we have labor laws. So you need to be paid. Progress, lady.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Just take me home, Arthur.”

  “Yes, m’lady,” he replied, presumably just to annoy her.

  “Call me Goodwife at any point and I’ll bite you, I swear.”

  Arthur just laughed and escorted her out into the precinct, which was flooded with the light of the midday sun. Priscilla put her head in her hands and gagged.

  “Don’t get out of the car,” Arthur warned her as they pulled up to the square. She’d been keeping her eyes closed for the majority of the journey. Her stomach rolled uneasily, only partially due to sun sickness.

  “Why?” She tried to squint up ahead, but it was like trying to see through a lens flare. Nothing was clear when the sky was this bright.

  “There’s someone waiting for you outside the shop. Let me deal with her.”

  “Who is it, Arthur?”

  “Can you trust me for once?”

  “At least tell me who it is.”

  “Clarissa Montgomery.”

  Priscilla flinched. Benedict’s sister. She thought she had a good idea of why the girl was here.

  “I need to talk to her.”

  Arthur cursed. “Priscilla, you don’t need to be a hero. Just let me clear the way and go to bed. You’ve done enough for one day.”

  But she hadn’t. She hadn’t saved Benedict Montgomery from his fate, whether it was murder or simply an accident. If she’d kept him in the main lobby, maybe he would still be alive. Perhaps if she’d gone to check on him sooner, she might have been able to save his life. It had looked like his skull had been fractured. If she’d gotten him to the hospital before he bled out …

  “Let me talk to her.”

  Arthur grumbled and parked near the front of her shop.

  “I’ve never been good at this parallel parking thing,” he muttered.

  Priscilla, who was no fan of parallel parking herself, could tell that Arthur was infinitely worse than she was. He nearly hit the expensive-looking Mercedes. Priscilla grimaced. She knew that wasn’t going to go over well with Clarissa either.

  “At least let me go first,” Arthur said. “In case she attacks you.”

  “Fine,” Priscilla said, opening her door. “But I don’t see why you keep insisting on protecting me. I’m at least twice as strong as you.”

  “I can handle a teenage girl, thank you” he grumbled, opening his own door. He stepped out onto the street and turned toward the hazy figure that crouched by one of her wide shop windows.

  The sunlight reflected brilliantly off Clarissa’s golden hair. From what Priscilla could make out, she looked very similar to Benedict, even though they were only fraternal twins. The girl stalked toward them until, finally, she could make out Clarissa’s red and blotchy face, her blue eyes shining from the tears that continued to fall.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to step back, ma’am,” Arthur said in his best authoritative cop voice. It would have been funny to hear in almost any other circumstance. Despite holding a reputation as one of America’s most haunted towns, not a lot usually happened in Bellmare anymore. There was usually little call for his cop voice when he was issuing a citation to rowdy teenagers.

  “It was you!” Clarissa said, trying to go around Arthur. “You’re the reason he’s dead.”

  To Priscilla’s chagrin, there were several people pressing their faces to the shop windows. She’d never actually gotten to see the lunch crowd in person, as she was usually dead to the world by noon. There were an impressive number of people staring at her.

  “I didn’t do anything to Benedict,” Priscilla said, fighting the urge to sway. The sun was too warm, too bright, and the snow on her sidewalk reflected the light into her eyes, regardless of the sunglasses.

  “That’s a bunch of horse hockey!” Clarissa shouted. “You were the last one to talk to him and you lied to us until the cops got there. They’re helping you cover this up! I’m not going to let you get away with it. My daddy has the best lawyers in town. We’re going to take you to court.”

  Sad to say it was not the first threat of legal action she’d received from an angry young woman in the past six months. Unfortunately, that woman had also ended up dead, putting most of
the suspicion on Priscilla. Was it some kind of cosmic joke that rich young people kept dying around her?

  Arthur shook his head. “I’m not sure of much, Miss Montgomery, but I know Priscilla is innocent. There were over thirty people in the community center who can vouch for her whereabouts.”

  Tears streamed down Clarissa’s face and her lip quivered. “She took my brother away from me,” she said, voice tight with grief. “I’m going to make her pay.”

  And with that, Clarissa turned on one ridiculously high heel and stomped away through the light dusting of snow that coated the streets. Priscilla lost track of her after several feet, because her eyes simply refused to register the field of reflective white snow.

  “That went well,” Arthur muttered.

  Priscilla was baffled when she realized that he seemed to be sincere. How could that have been a good outcome? She didn’t doubt that Clarissa could make good on her threat. Dr. Montgomery had to come home sometime—for his son’s funeral, at least. The hour-long commute to get to Westwend Hospital was no excuse not to show up. She knew that the family was sue-happy to begin with. If they couldn’t convict her in a murder trial, they’d convict her in the court of public opinion, then make it stick by stealing away her livelihood. She doubted very much that she’d be keeping the contract with the Debutante Society of Worcester County.

  “If you say so,” she mumbled. “Could you get the door, please?”

  Arthur held the door for her. She heard, rather than saw, the crowd of people in her shop rushing back to their seats. It was just like small-town people to be nosy to the point of rudeness, but paranoid at being caught in the act. She didn’t acknowledge any of the whispers that broke out in her wake.

  Anna, bleary-eyed and pale, stumbled up to her. Arthur’s early departure from home had probably woken her from her much-needed rest. It shouldn’t have surprised Priscilla that Anna would drag herself out of bed and put in an appearance at the shop. She was a sweet girl, and it appeared most of the town knew what had happened at the society breakfast that morning.

  “Priscilla, you look awful. Have you slept at all?”

  “No,” she mumbled.

  “Dad.” Anna smacked Arthur’s arm. “You shouldn’t have kept her out! She’s going to be sick.”

  “You should be home, asleep,” Priscilla said, squinting down at her assistant. “I don’t think you can throw stones.”

  “I’m not going to vomit if I lose a few hours of sleep,” Anna countered. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

  “I should just stay up,” Priscilla said. “There are customers—”

  “Becca will take care of them,” Anna said impatiently, pushing her toward the stairs. “Bed. Now.”

  Anna practically wrestled her up the stairs. It wasn’t as impressive a feat as one might think. Priscilla was dizzy and nauseated. It was only her pride and Anna’s supporting hands that were keeping her upright as they tottered up the stairs.

  It was a relief to reach her room above the shop. She always kept the blackout curtains drawn, day or night. A bedside lamp provided enough light for her to navigate the room when she first woke. The room wasn’t lavishly furnished, so she wasn’t in much danger of tripping over anything as Anna led her to the bed.

  Priscilla collapsed onto the soft down comforter with a groan. A part of her still wanted to help Becca Peckman with the large lunch crowd, but a rapidly growing portion of her was committed to staying in bed until the pitching in her stomach stopped.

  “Sleep,” Anna commanded with an imperious glare. “And for the love of all that’s good, do not set your alarm for five. You need more than five hours of sleep after the day you had.”

  “But my shift starts at five,” she mumbled.

  “I’ll cover it, Priscilla,” Anna said. “I may not be the cook that you are, but I can whip something up.”

  “Wake me up at seven,” Priscilla insisted. “I need to work tonight.”

  “We’ll see.” Anna proceeded to wrap Priscilla like a burrito in the comforter and tucked a pillow beneath her head. “Now sleep.”

  Priscilla was too weary to argue. She closed her eyes and snuggled deeper into the pillow. She was out in seconds.

  Chapter Four

  Priscilla swam in pink water that tasted of metal and death.

  She didn’t like that her body responded so viscerally to the tang of it in her mouth. The taste made her stomach twist in hunger, while her mind rebelled, telling her it was wrong to enjoy the blood that coated her tongue.

  Great drops of clear water rained down on her head. No matter how much of the clear liquid she swallowed, it didn’t erase the taste of blood. Priscilla craned her neck skyward, trying to get a glimpse of what lay above. All she could see was a series of interlocking tiles, much like the ones on the floor below her feet. Tile above, tile below. The only thing that was out of place was the spigot from which the water poured. It was a dull gray color.

  When she peered more closely at it, she realized what she was looking at. It was a pipe, or perhaps what had been left of one. Someone had pried the main portion from the wall and, without anywhere else to go, the water now poured onto the bloodstained floor below.

  Priscilla closed her eyes and let the water fall on her face with a smile. At last. Something made sense. It didn’t wash away the taste of blood in her mouth, but it did ease the tightness in her chest. She had not sent a young man to his death. Death had been waiting for him in the wings, with a pipe in hand.

  When Anna shook her awake, the first words Priscilla mumbled were, “Cell phone.”

  “What?”

  “Cell phone,” Priscilla repeated. “I need yours.”

  “Where’s yours?”

  Priscilla yawned hugely. “Downstairs in my purse. If I get up, I might as well use the rotary phone while I’m down there. I need to tell your father something important.”

  Anna’s brow furrowed in confusion, but she did as she was asked, digging her phone out of her back pocket. Priscilla wasted several minutes trying to figure out how this so-called smart phone worked. In her opinion, the newer models were too complicated to be useful. The simple flip phone she’d been given by Police Chief Sharp the year before was straightforward, and she still sometimes had trouble with it.

  Finally, they managed to fumble their way through a cell phone call. Anna pressed a button she called speaker phone, so they could both listen. Priscilla suspected it wasn’t so much out of nosiness, but out of fear tha Priscilla would accidentally hang up the phone if she handled it herself.

  After three rings, Arthur finally picked up. “Hello?”

  “It was a pipe.” Priscilla skipped a greeting in favor of giving the pertinent information first.

  “What?”

  “Benedict Montgomery was killed with a pipe.”

  “Nice guess, Pratt, but I’m afraid you’ve lost the game of Clue. Benedict wasn’t killed in the bathroom with the pipe. The coroner says he was killed with a .22 caliber bullet. Probably from a pistol, though we’d expect to find GSR in the stall, and a lot more damage to the kid’s skull. The .22 tends to ricochet when it hits bone. So you were right about that, at least, Pratt. We’re looking at a murder. But a murderer with a very strange gun.”

  Priscilla frowned. “I don’t speak cop, Arthur. What are you talking about? What’s GSR?”

  “Gunshot residue,” Arthur explained patiently. “It’s discharge from when a gun goes off. Consists of a lot of burnt particles from the primer and propellant. It can spread up to five feet away from the gun. We expected to find it all over the stall.”

  “But you didn’t?”

  “Right on the money, Pratt. There was no GSR except on the victim. It’s bizarre.”

  Priscilla was flummoxed. “I thought for sure it was the pipe,” she muttered to herself. “The water was leaking out of the sink when I arrived.”

  “Perhaps it was broken in the struggle,” Arthur said.

  “No. It was gone. Complete
ly removed. I could have sworn someone had taken it out with a wrench. I was sure someone was going to use it.”

  “What part of the sink did you say?” he asked.

  “Well, I’m no plumber, so I can’t give you the precise name.”

  “Describe it to me,” he said.

  “It was one of the smaller pieces,” Priscilla said, recalling the piece she’d seen in her dream. “The ones that used to be copper, before everyone started stealing them.”

  Arthur grunted and Priscilla heard the faint scratching of a pencil on the other end of the line. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. What does that mean?”

  “Maybe nothing,” Arthur said. “Maybe everything.”

  “Cryptic, much?” Anna interjected, sounding annoyed. “What does it mean, Dad?”

  “Get off the phone, Anna,” he said flatly. “This is not a conversation for your ears.”

  “But Dad, it’s my phone,” Anna whined.

  “Out.”

  Anna stuck out her tongue at the phone screen before flouncing off, leaving Priscilla with the high-tech monstrosity. Arthur didn’t speak again until Priscilla’s bedroom door slammed behind his daughter.

  “I can’t make any definitive guesses at this point, you understand.”

  “What’s your theory, Chief?” she asked.

  “At this point? I think we may be looking at a zip gun.”

  “A what?” The only image her mind could conjure was of a giant zipper, and she knew that wasn’t right.

  “A zip gun is an improvised weapon,” Arthur explained. “It’s usually composed of cheap, homemade materials. They aren’t technically illegal, but I highly doubt our murderer complied with the 2016 law that requires makers of homemade guns to get a serial number and pass a background check.”

  “You think he used a pipe to make this gun?”

  “It would explain a lot. A normal .22 should have swiss-cheesed the kid’s brain. There’s a lot of firepower, even in small guns. But an improvised weapon wouldn’t pack the same kind of punch. It would have been quiet, and fairly clean.”

  “But if he used a pipe, then this wasn’t an opportunistic murder,” she mused. “He had to have been planning it from the time that Benedict arrived at the society breakfast.”