“Nope. She was done in by a blow to the back of the head – a blunt, flat object. There was a spot of blood on the corner here.” Jo tapped the stone with her nail. “The police thought the killer might’ve pushed her and she hit her head. That’s definitely possible, but…”
“But not if Dracula’s our killer.” That wasn’t how he operated. Dracula used coercion – he prided himself on his mind-fuckery prowess. He didn’t go about shoving people in cemeteries.
“Exactly. And there were some other odd things. She was all tarted up – six-inch heels, red dress, sexy lace knickers. Definitely not your usual late-night cemetery-wandering attire. I’d say she’d come to meet someone with amorous intent.”
I remembered something one of the ladies from DIABLO said. “Do you think she could have been the woman seen ‘cavorting’ amongst the headstones? Maybe Dracula seduced her and convinced her to meet him there with the dirt? But it still doesn’t tell us about where she got her dirt or what the container might look like…”
I trailed off as I noticed Jo peering over my shoulder, her brow furrowed. “Mina, look.”
I turned and tried to focus on the beam of her flashlight, but of course, I couldn’t make out what she was staring at. I threaded my hand through her elbow again, and she led me and Oscar over to a low building – the maintenance shed, I guessed. Stacked up beside the door was a stack of old wood. Jo bent down and started to sort through the planks. She held one up.
“I can’t believe Hayes and Wilson didn’t search here.” She pointed to the end of the wood. All I could see were a few bent nails sticking out the end. Jo jabbed at the wood with her thumb. “I’ll take this back to the lab to check, but I’d bet my signed Black Sabbath record that this dark patch here is a bloodstain. I’m holding the murder weapon.”
Chapter Nineteen
Quoth made a point of hopping onto my shoulder as soon Jo and I trudged in the front door.I made some hot chocolate. It’s on the stove upstairs.
I knew this was him apologizing, but it was my umpteenth late-night in a row and I did not have the strength to dig into my emotions with him right now. I shut down my thoughts as I trudged up the stairs. Fiona’s bangs and shrieks emanated from my bedroom, and Victor stomped through the shop, leaving a trail of squelchy carpet behind him as he muttered about the subpar service of our local handyman, who still hadn’t shown up. Jo raced inside ahead of me, eager to sit by Fi’s side. I desperately needed a pee and a stiff drink that wasn’t tainted apology chocolate.
Mina, please talk to me.Quoth fluttered up the stairs behind me.I want to—
“I’m sleeping with Morrie tonight,” I snapped, slamming the bathroom door in his face.
* * *
The next day, Jo headed off to work early to test the blood on the wooden board we found at the cemetery. Heathcliff had promised Mrs. Ellis he’d run security at today’s Halloween Craft-A-Thon at the village hall, just in case DIABLO had any sabotage plans. Socrates co-opted Morrie into starring in a video demonstrating the Socratic Method, and my Master Criminal could never resist a chance to demonstrate his mental prowess, so they were upstairs filming while Robin took practice shots at some old books he’d lined up along the stairwell. Puck stood behind Robin, snapping his fingers to shuffle the books so Robin’s arrows always sailed wide. If Puck didn’t watch out, he’d find himself riddled with arrow holes like a Shakespearean Saint Sebastian.
The shop was blissfully empty today – everyone in the village was over at the Craft-A-Thon. I spent a little time scrolling through Jenna Mclarey’s social media accounts, looking for any possible connection to Romania or dirt, and coming up completely blank. The dead woman smiled at me out of every photograph, reminding me that I couldn’t let her death be in vain. Something about our cemetery visit last night was niggling at me, but I couldn’t figure out what it was.
I knew there was no point fruitlessly searching – our best chance at a clue would come from Jo’s analysis of the murder weapon. I shut down Facebook and opened up a secret file.
My novel.
It was a fictionalized account of the first murder I solved – my ex-best friend, Ashley Greer – and meeting the guys. I’d been secretly working on it during whatever spare bits of time I could snatch. I still hadn’t told the guys I was writing it. I didn’t know why. I guessed…I wanted this just for myself for now. I was going to tell Quoth first – of all of them, I knew he’d understand. He didn’t like for me to see his work before it was finished, but he loved to talk about his paintings with me, his process, his choices for composition and medium and colors, his existential angst when things didn’t go his way. At least, he used to talk to me.
Right now I didn’t want to tell Quoth anything.
My fingers paused over the keys. I clicked the button to hear my words read back to me. In the quiet of the deserted bookshop, surrounded by the works of all my favorite writers, everything I wrote sounded awful. Cliched. Riddled with errors and tautologies and poxy adverbs.
I slumped over the desk, my head in my hands.Who am I kidding? I’m a peddler of books, not a creator of them.
Who knew it was so much harder to write about murders than it is to solve them?
But then I remembered this was how I felt about fashion, too. Whenever I created a piece I’d start with an idea that excited me, but as soon as I laid out the pattern and started cutting, a wave of existential dread washed over me. I felt in my bones that I was making a terrible mistake, but being at school and working for Marcus taught me that I had to work through that fear until I could see my vision emerging from the chaos.
The only way out was through.
I placed my fingers on the keys again.You can do this, Mina. You lived this mystery. Just write what happened. You can fix it all later.
I sucked in a breath and drew my mind back to the first day I walked into Nevermore Bookshop. The smell of dusty shelves and leatherbound pages and Heathcliff’s peaty, spicy scent. Quoth’s voice falling into my mind, as if he’d always been a part of me. My fingers flew over the keys, and my heart soared as the words poured out of me…just as the computer made a defiantPOPand shut down.
All the lamps in the shop flickered out.
“Victor!” I yelled.
A moment later, the cellar door opened and Victor Frankensteinsquelch squelch squelchedacross the rug. “You called?”
“You took out the power.”
