Page 18 of Dead & Breakfast
“That was me, ma’am.” A rosy-cheeked deputy raised their hand, as if volunteering to answer a question in class. “Standard procedure whenever one of their kind is involved in a crime.”
Arthur took a step back. The feds. Not the FBI; they dealt only with humans. There was a special branch of federal law enforcement for anything involving paranormals, or suspected paranormals—the FPI. They had a habit of ruining lives and driving people from their homes, whether the paranormals were guilty or not.
Arthur had dealt with the FPI before, most recently when they’d had to leave Chicago after their apartment complex had burned to the ground. They’d been officially cleared of arson, but the localrumor mill hadn’t been so kind. They had incurred some uncomfortable lingering stares and some cold shoulders that had nothing to do with undeath, but in a place like Trident Falls…well, it was already hard enough as it was without the FPI showing up.
“They’ll be here Monday,” Quinn said, and Arthur braced himself for the rest. “Sheriff McMartin, you’ll turn the investigation over to them when they arrive.”
A disappointed frown made its way across McMartin’s face. “Guess I’ll just have to wrap up this investigation before they get here if I want this done right.”
For once, Arthur agreed with the sheriff. In a few short days, the Federal Paranormal Investigators would be in Trident Falls, and they’d rip Arthur and Salvatore’s life apart.
Again.
Unless Arthur could solve the murder of George Roth first.
Chapter 5
Half an hourlater, Arthur found himself in a booth at the Big Bad Brew, staring listlessly into a fancy espresso latte something or other bearing the name Grandma’s House Special. It was enough to make one give up coffee altogether.
Nora sat across from him, sipping her What Big Tea You Have. They’d come in search of a cup of coffee for Salvatore, but then she’d said something about Arthur’s sagging shoulders and weary face, and before he could argue, she’d ordered them both beverages with cringeworthy names in ceramic mugs rather than recycled paper and shoved him into a seat.
With a sigh, Arthur tasted the coffee. It was better than he expected, with hints of nutmeg and cinnamon. The shop was too wolf themed—fine, too openly paranormal—for his liking, but Salvatore would probably love it. The ambiance reminded Arthur of similar shops in Portland—acoustic folk rock played over the speakers, and the menu proudly boasted more alternative milks than Arthur knew existed. The space was full of youths—and not just people relativelyyounger than Arthur’s immortal self, but actual teenagers, perhaps visiting the establishment during a free period or otherwise playing hooky. They laughed loudly as they pushed tables together on the other side of the shop, calling a greeting to the owner behind the counter as if they were regulars.
What Arthur wouldn’t give to be a regular somewhere.
“I’ve been thinking,” Nora said, breaking the silence between them. “It doesn’t make sense to suspect Salvatore. What kind of vampire kills someone and leaves the body in their own garden?”
“Your best defense of my husband is he’s too clever to get caught for murder?” Arthur glanced up from staring into his cappuccino/latte/whatever, wishing his voice sounded more cavalier. Worry crept into the joints of his fingers, which were gripping his mug too tightly, so he let go and laid them flat on the tabletop instead.
“Is that wrong? For all his dramatics, Salvatore doesn’t strike me as careless.” Nora shrugged.
Arthur bowed his head slightly, his chest swelling at her words. “He’s not—careless, I mean.” In fact, Sal had always taken great care, especially when it came to things that would impact Arthur and their life together. That someone else saw that from the outside—despite Salvatore’s ridiculous antics—meant more than Arthur could express. “Thank you for saying so.”
“I’d like to help you, if that’s all right.” Nora’s expression softened and she looked for a moment as though she might take his hand. Instead, she threaded her fingers through the handle of her mug and drummed an indiscernible pattern into the ceramic. “The sheriff is jumping to conclusions based on nothing but prejudice. It’s irresponsible, to be frank. That deputy shouldn’t have called in the FPI so soon.”
“I can think of a fair few other things the whole organization shouldn’t have done.”
If Sal were present, he would have said something about the regrettable nature of the sheriff’s dye job or some other jab to break the tension. Instead, a bitterness that had nothing to do with coffee took hold of Arthur’s tongue. “There’s really only one thing to do now. I’m going to have to solve this murder before they arrive. If you thought the sheriff was hasty, the FPI will undoubtedly be worse, and we don’t need them falsely accusing anyone.” Arthur clamped his jaw shut. There was no need to get into the details of their past. It would all come up when the FPI arrived anyway.
“Solve it?” Nora’s eyes widened. “Are you sure you should interfere with the investigation?”
“I’m almost certain I shouldn’t,” Arthur said with a resigned smile. There was a time when he would have simply let the authorities handle things, but his faith in institutions like the police had been well and truly broken over the years. They were almost never the well-meaning, hyperintelligent truth seekers he saw on TV, especially not when it came to people like him and Sal. In Aruthur’s experience, the real deal was meaner and messier than the silver screen would ever admit. He couldn’t trust Sheriff McMartin, and he couldn’t trust the FPI. There was only one person he could trust to get to the bottom of things, and that was himself. He took a deep breath and said, “But I’m going to anyway.”
“Well, count me in.” Nora grinned, and Rumble poked her head out of Nora’s purse to give a sniff of approval—of the plan or the coffee shop aromas, who could say? “What’s our first step?”
“Motive, means, and opportunity.” Arthur considered for a moment. “Let’s begin with motive. Salvatore had no reason to hurt George Roth.” But that wasn’t true. Sal had said himself on more than one occasion that the mayor was bad for paranormals everywhere, and especially here in Trident Falls. Arthur cleared his throat, hoping he’d become a better liar since his mortal days oflosing at poker. “Someone wanted him dead, so we should make a list of his enemies or anyone who benefited from his death.”
“I can think of a few people who would benefit, politically speaking,” Nora grumbled.
Arthur cocked his head and peered at her. With only one day on the job, she’d made an interesting enemy of her own in Quinn. Arthur couldn’t think of a single person who could inspire such loathing after so short an acquaintance. Although, Salvatore was certainly capable of such a feat. Before he could ask Nora for more details about Quinn’s involvement in their local government, she straightened her shoulders and continued.
“You were here for the recent election, right? Do you know how Roth was viewed by the public?”
“I didn’t vote for him, but enough people did.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. This was no way for a proper detective to act, of course. All the fictional ones were so calm and collected. Perhaps he should do more to emulate them.
Nora raised her eyebrows.
“I also didn’t kill him,” Arthur added in a hurry. Maybe beginning with motive was a mistake, but it was too late now. “Mayor Roth wasn’t exactly hospitable to paranormals. He never said anything that could’ve gotten him in legal trouble, but his supporters did plenty of talking for him.”
