“No, ma’am,” Osgood said politely, “you can’t make out an official complaint against the diner for running out of brownie squares and offering peanut butter cookies to youngsters coming in for a treat.”
Standing on the other side of the desk, Grimshaw couldn’t make out the words, but he heard the tone loud and clear—and he recognized the voice. Mrs. Ellen C. Wilson was one of Sproing’s newer residents. She seemed determined to let everyone know that living in a village the size of Sproing was beneath her. She complained about everything and reported poor quality at least twice a week in an effort to be given a steep discount at a store or receive something for free from any business serving food. And somehow, despite the growing dislike for her throughout the village, she usually managed to get what she wanted.
Personally, he thought it was because her voice grated in a way that reminded him of a horror movie he’d seen as a kid where sentient worms burrowed into people’s brains and took control, causing people to go on murdering rampages.
He’d love to see the back of her. He’d happily drive her and her son, Theodore, to the train station and see them heading anywhere. And he was afraid that, one of these days, she would offend someone who wasn’t human and most of her wouldn’t be seen again.
“We don’t have time for this.” He held out his hand.
Osgood hesitated, then gave him the receiver.
“Mrs. Wilson? This is Chief Grimshaw.” He listened to her diatribe for a full minute before he interrupted. “Since I saw your boy stuff a handful of those peanut butter cookies into his mouth earlier this afternoon, you and I both know any tummy ache he has right now was caused by overindulgence rather than him being sensitive to certain foods, and I’m telling you now that, at his age, he should know if there is something he shouldn’t eat. The people working at the diner aren’t going to act as surrogate parents while you go flitting from store to store, spreading ill will, but if you want to pursue this, here’s what you do. You have Doc Wallace give your boy a thorough physical and run whatever tests are available to check for food sensitivities. I, in the meantime, will inform the food businesses in the village that they should not serve your son unless he can give them a note from you specifying what food he is allowed to purchase. And if you think for one moment you’re going to use whiny complaints to slide out of paying for those tests or the doctor’s bill, you should know that the Sanguinati can also test blood for all kinds of things. They just take an extra pint or two as their fee.”
He hung up and looked at Osgood, whose brown eyes were wide with shock and whose brown skin was looking paler by the minute.
“The Sanguinati can test blood?” Osgood asked.
“They react to substances in the blood.” Grimshaw shrugged. “Any trouble in the village? Besides Ellen Wilson?”
Osgood shook his head. “The younger kids cleared out early. Even the home parties are done by now. No calls about any adult parties getting out of hand.”
“Anything about the people in the camper park? No trouble there?”
“No, sir.” Osgood waited a beat. “Were you expecting some trouble?”
If those teenagers were on the road, they were someone else’s problem by now, but he’d like to be sure. “In the morning, you go over to the camper park and knock on every door. I want to know who’s renting the campers and how long they plan to stay. If anyone doesn’t answer the door, you roust the park’s owner and find out who he has listed on the rental agreements.”
“You looking for someone in particular?”
“Four boys. Teens. They were looking to cause some trouble at The Jumble this evening. If they are renting one of the campers, I want to know if all four of them made it back. Right now, I want you to call Doc Wallace and tell him I’m picking him up in ten minutes. Then call Sheridan Ames and tell her we need her facility to examine some crime scene evidence, and Doc Wallace and I will be there shortly.”
Sheridan Ames and her brother Samuel ran the village’s funeral home. It was the only place to access the equipment to examine a body without driving to the mortuary in Crystalton or Bristol.
“You have a body at The Jumble?”
“Part of one.”
“Gods,” Osgood breathed. “Do you know what did it?”
This past summer, Osgood was one of the four police officers who had been left at The Jumble when Vicki DeVine had been brought to the station to answer questions about a dead body. He had been the only survivor when the other men ignored the boundaries the Others had heard Vicki establish.
“No,” Grimshaw said. “I don’t.”
CHAPTER 8
Ilya and Aggie
Windsday, Grau 31
Find out who is still here and who has returned to their own dens,> Ilya said, using the terra indigene form of communication, when he and Natasha stepped into the main house and closed the door. <And tell Boris that the youngsters should stay inside the lodge tonight.>
<I already did that,> Natasha replied. <Are you going to continue thinking that being mated to you has deprived me of the ability to use my brain?>
He wrapped a hand around her wrist, stopping her as he watched one of the academics bearing down on them. He could almost taste the man’s excitement. What he didn’t understand was the reason for it.
<I’m . . . concerned. The Sanguinati are in charge of the land around Lake Silence as well as the village of Sproing. Different forms of terra indigene have their territories within that land, especially around the lake itself.>
<The north end of the lake is exclusively terra indigene who have as little contact with us as they do with the humans.>
<Yes. But the Elders and other forms who live there are known to us. At least the feel of them is familiar. This was . . . different. Unknown. I think it’s terra indigene, but it didn’t acknowledge my authority. Didn’t acknowledge me at all.>
<An Elder?>
<Maybe.>
<You really are concerned.>
<Yes.>
<For me?>
<For all of us.> But now, especially you.
Natasha gave Ilya a full-fanged smile that stopped the academic two steps before he reached them. <Then you deal with the excited human, and I will deal with our kind.>
She glided away, leaving him to deal with the excited academic.
“Did you see it? Did you see?”
“Who are you?” Ilya asked. “We weren’t introduced earlier.”
“What? Oh. Professor Rodney Roash. I’m writing a book about urban legends, folklore, and myths, human and Other. I was hoping to interview some of the terra indigene about their myths and folktales to try to establish how such things come into being, but I never thought to see . . .” He reached for Ilya’s arm.
Ilya showed fang and snarled a warning. Not very proper for an attorney who was usually so good at mimicking human behavior, but he didn’t want to be touched and he didn’t want to be mistaken for human tonight.
Professor Roash took a step back but didn’t give up. “I’d like to interview those Crows about what they saw that frightened them so much. And why it frightened them.”
“Not tonight,” Ilya said. “If I think there is anything that would be of interest to you, I will tell you.”
“But . . .”
“If you persist in being a pest, I will shove you out the door and let you find out for yourself what is out there in the dark.”
Roash’s expression was one of offended dignity. “Being enthusiastic about one’s field of study is not being a pest.”