Vicki had picked a good spot to park her car. Not only did it block the road, but the trees on either side guaranteed there wasn’t a chance of anyone squeezing a vehicle around it. He parked the cruiser, and then he and Ilya hurried up to the main house.
Vicki looked shaky, but Grimshaw figured she wasn’t going to have an anxiety attack brought on by being yelled at, simply because she was too busy holding on to Cougar to keep him from mauling the guests. It was a dumb-ass thing to do, but he’d let Ilya explain why it wasn’t a good idea to grab a big angry kitty.
Wilma Cornley was screeching about wanting to leave. Her husband, Fred, was waving his arms and threatening to sue. Vicki was trying to tell them the police would be there soon to talk to them.
Grimshaw let out a piercing whistle, then boomed, “Shut up, all of you!”
“What the . . . ?” said a male voice from another room. But no one came out to investigate.
“Since you’re so eager to leave, I’ll interview you first,” Grimshaw said. “Ms. DeVine? May I use your dining room?”
“Sure,” Vicki said. She looked at the husband and might have said something conciliatory—or offered to forgive the rest of the bill so he wouldn’t go through with his threat to sue—but Ilya calmly opened his thin, obscenely expensive briefcase, took out a business card, and handed it to the husband.
“I am Ms. DeVine’s attorney,” he said. “If you want to threaten a lawsuit against Ms. DeVine because the police needed to speak to you and there was some concern that you might not wait to be interviewed—implying that you had something to hide—have your attorney call me, and I will explain everything to him.”
Fred Cornley looked at the name on the business card and paled so quickly Grimshaw was surprised he didn’t faint.
“Of course we’ll assist the police in whatever way we can,” Fred stammered. “It’s just . . . This weekend has been upsetting, you know?”
“I do,” Ilya replied. He turned to Grimshaw. “Why don’t I interview the gentleman while you get all the details about what the lady was doing between the hours of nine p.m. and seven a.m.? Would that not cover the window of opportunity for the incidents?”
You bastard, Grimshaw thought with grudging admiration. Anyone with eyes could figure out what those two had been doing for most of the time after leaving the party and going up to their suite. He might be willing to accept general descriptions of the activities, but Ilya was going to wring every excruciating detail out of the man as payback for yelling at Vicki and stirring up The Jumble’s employees.
Grimshaw led Wilma Cornley into the dining room and pointed to the chair farthest from the door.
“Now,” he said. “Let’s be clear about a few things. So far this morning, I’ve dealt with two mutilated bodies, and I’m looking for a teenage boy who is missing and might be in serious trouble. I’m all out of patience. I’m going to ask questions; you’re going to answer. If you get mouthy or if I suspect you’re telling even the smallest white lie, I will require every last detail of what you did last night and early this morning, and those details will go in my official report. If you cooperate, I can show some discretion.”
Her lower lip quivered, but she was smart enough not to try the big-sad-eyes routine on him.
He sat down, took out his little notebook and a pen, and said, “Why did you come to The Jumble for Trickster Night?”
CHAPTER 22
Ilya
Thaisday, Novembros 1
Ilya listened and wondered if human females actually enjoyed some of these mating activities as much as this male seemed to think. Eventually he stopped trying to hide his distaste and asked about Fred Cornley’s employment—where he worked, who he knew, what connections he had to any of the other guests. If he knew anything about spooky Crowgard folklore or had talked about such with other guests.
“We’d heard this place was a quiet getaway. Discreet because, well, the service is nothing to write home about.” Cornley tried huffy attitude. “We didn’t expect this.”
“And didn’t anticipate having your name show up in an official police report?” Ilya asked mildly. “It would be awkward for you if your mate found out what you’ve been doing for the past couple of days, would it not?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Ilya caught the whiff of fear that confirmed a guess. “Ms. DeVine gives people the benefit of the doubt. The Sanguinati do not.” That wasn’t quite true. Victoria had serious trust issues, especially when it came to men. Discovering that The Jumble had been used for illicit mating would be difficult for her since her ex-husband had been unfaithful many times. “Be assured that if any of us hear so much as an unkind whisper about Ms. DeVine or The Jumble, your name—your real name—will appear in more than just a police report.” He smiled, showing a hint of fang. “I see no reason why you can’t leave—unless Chief Grimshaw uncovers a connection between you and the human’s death that occurred here last night.”
“Death? What kind of death?”
“The gruesome kind.”
Having finished with Fred Cornley, Ilya found the guest register and read the information the humans had provided, then decided to check on the Sanguinati youngsters.
Lara was in the library with a human female and one of the males who was staying in the lake cabins.
“Mr. Stern is an author,” Lara said excitedly.
“I don’t write anything as exciting as the Wolf Team books,” Stern said.
Something about the way the man met his eyes made Ilya wonder if Stern might be more interesting than he’d anticipated. Stern had listed Ravendell as his place of residence. Since he wasn’t one of the Simple Life folk, that meant he was probably Intuit.
“Mr. Stern writes thrillers under his own name and also writes under a pseudonym,” Jenna McKay said. “We’ve been trying to guess the genre of his other work. So far, Michael hasn’t admitted to writing any of the books on the shelves here.”
“Ilya?” Lara smiled at him but hesitated. The way she hugged the Wolf Team book, he had a good idea what she wanted to ask.
“I don’t believe the bookstore will be open today. However, if Natasha is still in the village, I will ask her about purchasing some books from Mr. Farrow.”
“Are you taking orders?” Jenna McKay asked.
He wasn’t a clerk; he was the leader of Silence Lodge. Then he realized he owed these humans some consideration because their presence in the library wasn’t just about selecting a book to read; they’d been keeping an eye on Lara and engaging her in a discussion about books—a safe and carefully chosen topic.