Page 41 of Dead & Breakfast
“Please, don’t tell us.” McMartin shot Salvatore a glare.
“Well, the point is, I would rather go to jail for a murder I didn’t commit than go through that again. Nearly ruined blood for me altogether.”
“Not sure I believe that,” McMartin muttered.
“Doesn’t really matter what you believe.” Lore stood and removed her gloves. “Based on the absorption, I’d say the blood’s been here more than a few hours, however it got here.”
“Still doesn’t mean it wasn’t them,” McMartin said sharply.
Lore shrugged. “I guess, but they’d have to be pretty stupid to move the body from a neutral location like this to their own flower beds.”
Arthur didn’t love that their best defense was based on something so tenuous as the sheriff’s opinion of their intelligence, especially as Sal chose that moment to step directly into the blood spot on the ground before them. The squelching sound of oxfords on wet soil was cringeworthy enough without Sal’s subsequent groan of disgust as he leaped back and frantically began wiping his shoe on clean blades of grass.
“More likely,” Arthur interjected, if only to distract the sheriff from Sal’s antics, “someone else moved him to our property in order to point the finger of blame at us.”
“Maybe you moved the body to your place to make it seem like you were being framed.” McMartin hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and struck a pose as if he were on camera. “You’re the only two vampires in town, so to deflect blame, you—”
“What, we framed ourselves?” Salvatore laughed, though his tone was devoid of humor. “I have to admit, Sheriff McMartin, I’ve always had a distaste for the establishment, and your incompetence is doing nothing to change my opinion. You’re a lousy, rotten—”
Arthur cleared his throat. “I think it might be more productive to pursue different avenues of the investigation.” He couldn’t make McMartin do his job well, but he could at least gently suggest he do it at all.
“Gotta be cameras around here somewhere.” McMartin looked around, searching the tree line. “Yeah, that’ll prove it. Bet you chucked the blood jars into the woods before you called us in.”
A few deputies shared significant glances with one another. Finally, one of them stepped forward.
“Uh, Sheriff, there aren’t any cameras in this part of the park. But there are some by the entrance, the parking lot, and the storage sheds.”
“Great!” McMartin clapped his hands together once. “I’ll pull the footage and prove it.”
Arthur might have told McMartin they’d arrived via tandem bike, in full view of dozens of other people who would’ve noticed a jug full of human blood, but he let the sheriff have his fun. It would keep him busy for a while, leaving Arthur and Sal to do the real investigative work. From what he’d gleaned thus far, Rumble would do a better job of it than McMartin.
When the sheriff, Lore, and all but one deputy—left to guard the crime scene—were gone, Arthur pulled Salvatore away.
“We should look into the cameras, too,” Arthur whispered. Though McMartin’s bluster was a pain, Arthur wasn’t above admitting that the sheriff had managed to have a single good idea.
“Oh, I love seeing myself from new angles. I bet these pants make my butt look amazing.”
“More important than how you look—”
“As if there could be anything more important.”
Arthur rolled his eyes and plowed on, pretending Salvatore hadn’t spoken. “We might see if anyone suspicious was here the night of the murder.”
Salvatore raised his eyebrows. “Very clever, dear. But won’t the sheriff beat us to it?”
“Perhaps, but we have an advantage.” Arthur smiled. “Friends in high places.”
Salvatore adjusted the straps on the backpack holding Rumble. “If only you had a way to contact the acting mayor—like a carrier pigeon or telepathy or aphone.”
“Oh, just text her for me, will you?”
“Not until you admit my butt looks amazing.”
Arthur sighed but acquiesced, extolling the virtues of Salvatore’s physique all the way back to the bike rack in the parking lot.
City hall wasnearly deserted, typical for a Saturday, though a few people hurried down hallways as they made their way to the mayor’s office, on the third floor. The interior of the building was old but well maintained, and the scents of wax and wood polish filled the air. The mayor’s office was the liveliest spot in the place, with a dark oak door and furniture to match. The walls were painteda respectable eggshell, and floor lamps with bell-shaped shades stood stalwart in all corners of the room like sentries.
An actual guardian stood watch at a desk just outside in a small vestibule. The mayor’s receptionist, a young white woman with mouse-brown hair and a furrowed brow, sat in a wheelchair behind a small desk. Her hands moved with lightning speed across Post-its and loose papers that littered the space, covering a sensible corded phone and a brick of a computer. She barely looked up at them as she waved them inside, too busy fending off reporters on both her landline and cell.
