Crow's Caw at Nightmoon Creek Page 3

  He leads me into his bedroom. An unmade queen sized bed is pushed against the wall and clothes are scattered on the floor.

  My eyes widen as I spot an old, gray cat who looks like Muffin.

  The cat lifts his gaze, blinks at me in the way cats do to indicate acknowledgement. His head floats back to the bedding, as if too heavy to stay upright.

  “Is that…”

  “Mrs. McMurphy’s old cat? Yes.” He slides open a closet door and rummages for something for me to wear. “Try these. They’re my nephew’s. He left them here last time he came over.” He tosses a couple possibilities on the bed. “And here. He left some Vans, too. They’re probably too big but mine would be bigger.” He retrieves a pair of Vans Classics, the bomber gray canvas fabric shredded and worn.

  What are your nephew’s clothes doing here? Did you off him, too? I squint at him, but he’s too busy moving through his bedroom to notice. “Old thing wouldn’t leave,” he says, ruffling the cat’s head. “I caught him scrounging around outside for several nights. When I finally held the door open for him, he trotted inside, looked around, probably searching for his owner, and refused to leave. He must be, what? Nineteen? Twenty? He’s in his twilight, that’s for sure.”

  At least he’s kind to cats. I pick up the long sleeved T-shirt and sweatpants, a laundry detergent smell indicating their cleanliness, eyeing them dubiously. Am I about to put on a dead kid’s clothing? “Did you know her? Mrs. McMurphy?”

  He doesn’t answer, stepping toward the bathroom instead. “I’ll just be a minute. Help yourself to some coffee. There’s an easy to use coffeemaker in the kitchen and you can’t miss the coffee grounds. They’re right next to it.”

  When the door closes, I slide free of the coat. It snags against my skin, as reluctant to rid itself of me as I am to be let out of its cocoon. I don the teenage attire and crawl onto the bed to greet Muffin. “Hey, boy. Remember me?”

  He opens one eye, purrs loudly and resumes his nap. He’s curled up on one of Lennon’s shirts with a flyer poking out of the chest pocket.

  I scratch his gray fur, now dull with age. I guess I wouldn’t want to leave if this was my home, either.

  In my quest for information about Lennon Lusk, I carefully slide the flyer from under Muffin’s body. On top, there’s an artist’s rendering of a condominium complex sparkling next to Nightmoon Creek. A logo proudly displaying ARC – Atlanta Residential Construction sits in the corner. My blood begins to steam as I read.

  Apply today to work on the prestigious new project, Nightmoon Oasis. Nightmoon Oasis will be one of the leading residential communities in Woodland Creek, offering comfortable luxury to those who share a discerning palate for the finer things in life. All level openings, from construction to management available. Visit ARC local offices, at 232 Simpson Way in New Town to pick up an application.

  That asshole, I think, grinding my teeth. Not only did he murder my friend, he’s in cahoots with ARC! And ARC has moved here to start tearing up the land! I thought we got an injunction?

  I scoot off the bed, watery shower sounds and the clank of curtain hooks sliding across the metal shower stall rod emerging from the bathroom. It’s almost intimate, dressing in clothes Lennon has provided, wondering what he looks like as he stands under the spray. It also makes me want to puke. He’s going to help destroy the purity of the forest-enclosed creek.

  A loud gushing sound explodes from the bathroom, like he’s got a fire hydrant in there, instead of a showerhead. Curses follow. Then a playful splashing sound, like he’s got a toddler in the tub. Pressing my ear against the door, I call, “Everything okay? Lennon? Are you okay?” No response.

  I’m just about to open the door, ready to perform mouth to mouth—either that, or strangle him—when he calls, “Yeah, everything’s fine. Problem with the water flow. Coffee ready?”

  He says it like it’s part of our morning routine—he showers, while I make coffee. The notion stirs buried longing in me, as well as prickles of fear. It’s been a while since I had anyone to share coffee with, mostly due to my “no morning after” rule…meaning if you’re in my kitchen the morning after we had sex, you’ll wish you weren’t. No one’s going to clip my wings. Still…too bad he’s a killer or he might not be so bad. “Heading to the kitchen,” I say and make my way in that direction.

  Muffin follows me, perhaps wondering if I’ll be his feeder human. He races ahead and stops near the living room wall. He sits and patiently blinks at me.

  “What is it, Muffin? Am I too slow?”

  He turns and scratches the wall.

  I’m thinking, hey, cat, the wall isn’t a litter box.

  He turns and looks at me expectantly and sits.

  I stand, hands on my hips and stare at him.

  Once again he turns and scratches the wall.

  I’m about to pick him up and head to the kitchen when Lennon rounds the corner.

  He’s dressed in grubby work jeans, a clean, blue and green flannel shirt and work boots. His eyes are red-rimmed, like he’s been crying. That’s so not an image of him I ever thought I’d see. Whenever I see him around town, he’s usually talking to a woman, laughing and carrying on like he’s the man of men. Or he’s drinking at the pub with his construction crew. Or fighting with his crew, usually winning—those boys get into brawls all the time. I’ve heard rumors of him spearheading practical jokes. Apparently, he’s got a fantastic sense of humor. Obviously, he doesn’t find anything about me worth joking around about.

  Currently, he’s carrying sopping towels, drenched with water. Both his usual, typical guy behavior and his current one don’t match my new image of him as cold-blooded killer. Unless…did he have to clean some bloodstains?

  “Wow, pipe must’ve burst, eh?” I say.

  “Something like that.” He marches past me, his shoulder brushing mine.

  I shiver at the contact.

  He seems to do the same, but then his whole body stiffens and he strides toward the kitchen.

  I follow him, watching him drop the sodden mess of terrycloth in the huge double stainless steel sink. I sidle close, looking for signs of blood. Nothing. Maybe he scrubbed them really well.

  “What a mess,” he says. “Coffee ready?”

  “Uh, no, I was petting Muffin.”

  “Is that his name?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see. Well, I’m in a hurry. I’ll make it. You go…” He points toward the living room. “You go entertain yourself in the living room.”

  “No, no, I’m sorry. I can help. What do you need?”

  “Nothing. Go on, then. Get.”

  “Get? What if I don’t want to entertain myself?” I cross my arms over my chest.

  “Please, Mercedes, planners and architects and builders are all convening at the job site in about twenty minutes and if I don’t get at least two cups of coffee in my system in the next twenty, I’ll be comatose when I arrive.”

  He’s speaking to me in a more civil tone, at least.

  “We’ve all got to show up looking sharp,” he says, a touch of sarcasm leaking through.

  “Can’t I stay and watch? I’ve never seen a man make coffee before.”

  He rolls his eyes. “No. Please. Go.”

  Miffed, I wander to the living room, Muffin trotting at my heels.

  Lennon closes the door to the kitchen.

  I listen to water flowing from the sink, and the whirl of coffee beans being pulverized in a grinder. Two seconds later he appears with piping hot to-go insulated metal containers of coffee. Odd. That was fast. “How’d you get the water hot so quickly? You have one of those instant hot water thingies?”

  “Sure. Cream? Sugar? Black?”

  “Black’s fine.”

  “Okay, then, let’s go so I can drop you off at your house.”

  He disappears into the kitchen and returns with a thermos, no doubt full of hot coffee. He heads toward the bedroom, and reappears holding his coat. He places the to-go mug and
thermos on a small table near the door and holds his coat open so he can put it on.

  I stare, wide-eyed and apprehensive, as a flurry of black feathers falls from the coat.

  “What the…” He looks at me, uncomprehending. “Did you kill a bird with my coat, too? Trap and smother it? Your best friend wasn’t enough?”

  Sometimes, when I’m stressed or scared, my body blurs between human and crow. And unlike my blurt-out risk with Chief Rickman earlier, all the shifters in town try to blend in. We don’t want to alarm the humans. What will he think I did to line his coat with feathers? Never mind. He already told me. He thinks I like to kill things. But I think he’s the killer.

  “Ottery Pottery, huh?” Lennon says as he pulls up outside my pottery studio after a frost-filled drive to my house. “Clever.” He lets one of his famous smiles form along his face.

  It’s the first smile I’ve seen on him since I saw him last week, hanging outside the bar with his smoker friends. He’s got a great smile. Like a dimpled invitation for no-strings-attached fun…for cavorting in the sheets or a romp in the woods. For skydiving or bungee jumping. The possibilities in his grin seem endless.

  “Yeah. I love otters. I love to watch them frolic at the creek.”

  “Do you?” His face brightens. “I’m partial to them, too.” His smile grows even wider.

  “Oh, I forgot. It’s the creek habitat you want to help destroy.”

  The smile quickly changes to a scowl. “What makes you say that?”

  “I saw a flyer advertising for employment with ARC.”

  “That fits. A murderer would tend to snoop.”

  “I’m no murderer. You are. You’ll be working with the bastards I’m at war against. I’ve been fighting this project for months. I didn’t think it was approved. Now, I guess it’s happening and you’re going to be one of the assholes who assists them. You want to destroy my favorite hangout.”

  “I do not.”

  “Do, too.”

  “Do not. And no, I didn’t kill Elena.”

  “Do, too, and yes, you did.” And we’re back to the bicker zone, when he’d barely begun to let down his guard. I need to learn to keep my trap shut. I put my hand up. “Look, I’m sorry. We’re both exhausted. I plan on getting to the bottom of this murder. If it’s you who did it, I’ll figure it out.” I grin, trying to appear playful.

  Now he sneers at me. “What, you’re a private dick on the side? Puh-lease.”

  “Not a detective. I have a skill or two. If it’s not you, I’ll take you out for a beer.” I shrug.

  “What makes you think I’d take you up on the offer?”

  “Never mind, I take it back. You like Elena’s type.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “She’s a nurturer. A giver. A kind and caring person.”

  “Yeah, well, she sure wasn’t you,” he says.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He doesn’t need to say anything. Truth is, I had a competitive sort of sibling rivalry with Elena since our friendship began in kindergarten.

  For starters, thanks to my mother’s side of the family, I’m a crow shifter, aka hybrid human. Which means I had to keep secrets from her.

  She’s not a shifter, aka neurotypical. Which means she’d freak if I ever told her my secret.

  Elena was pretty. She made cheerleader in high school.

  I’m sure no cover model. I get called “attractive” and “healthy, outdoorsy looking.” I made the soccer team.

  She was popular, making friends wherever she went.

  I work hard to be noticed and to at least be acknowledged as a person who makes a difference in the lives of the downtrodden in Woodland Creek.

  Elena made a difference in every life she touched.

  I make an impact, not always appreciated. I fight hard for equal rights, and stand up for those less fortunate. I fight hard for places like Nightmoon Creek. As a result, in certain circles I’m shunned, but at least I feel like I’m an important part of the town.

  She was the curvy prom queen.

  I was the strong, slender, fastball pitcher of the women’s softball team.

  She was the high school valedictorian.

  I played pranks and nearly got kicked out of school.

  She was like a beautiful butterfly in a field of boys. She could take her pick. They sought her out and fought over her.

  I went out with the guys for beers, just like one of the boys, secretly wounded each time I’d watched pretty Elena sneak out of the bar with a new guy. I ended up having what I called “sport fucking” which amounted to a lot of one-night stands with losers. It beat having to put up with any one guy for more than an evening.

  Elena had dramatic, heart wringing relationships. The last one was with Bill Holloway, a local jerk wad who worked at Woodland Creek Fire Station as a firefighter. He wanted to bed her, wed her, and tie her to the fencepost, like a pretty filly. She broke it off and played the field again, after I encouraged her to look at the kind of life she’d have merely being eye candy on some hunky guy’s arm. And then she apparently yielded to Lennon Lusk’s charm.

  I blow out my breath. I’d let her have him, if she wasn’t dead.

  Still, all in all, we managed to have a warm friendship, talking into the night about boy troubles and homework, going for hikes and bike rides, going to the movies and dreaming of what we would do when we got out of high school, and then scheming of what we’d do when we turned thirty.

  Elena pursued a teaching degree from Hastings-Albrecht University on the far side of town. She would have graduated next spring. It would have been a perfect fit for her caregiving personality.

  Endlessly creative, I pursued my craft in pottery and sculpting, making ends meet by selling my wares at the local farmer’s market.

  “Keep the clothes. I’ll buy my nephew new ones.”

  “What?” I blink rapidly, staring into the forest green eyes of my new rival. “Why would I keep them? Do you think they fit with my personality? Is this what you think of me? One of the guys?” I cringe, realizing I might be a little defensive, having shaken loose my rivalry with Elena.

  “What? No. I just…do what you want with them.” He looks disgusted with me. “Later, Mercedes.” He pulls away from the curb without another word.

  “Fine!” I watch him disappear down the street before unlocking and wandering into my studio.

  “You’re in early,” comes a voice next to the window facing the street.

  I jerk, hearing the nasal twang of my assistant, Mary Weatherly. “I could say the same about you,” I say, perplexed by her early arrival. I close the door behind me, lock it, and flip on the studio light. Apparently, Mary’s been sitting in the shadows. “What are you doing here so early? It’s, what, barely eight? I’m going to the back room and have a nap. I had a long night.”

  “With him?” she says. Her eyes appear huge behind Coke-bottle lenses. I’ve tried to get her to use contacts but she says they don’t feel good in her eyes.

  “Him, who? Lennox?”

  “Yes,” she says dreamily.

  “I’d steer clear of him. Honestly.” Besides the fact he likes pretty girls, like Elena.

  “Why?” She appears like she might fall into a swoon, knocking over a table full of discounted pottery that didn’t make the cut when it came out of the kiln.

  I hustle to where she stands, putting myself between her and the table of dishes, figurines and nick knacks. “Seriously. What are you doing here so early?”

  “Oh, I got into a big argument with my roommate, Brody Greenling, again. He told me he needed ‘space from my prying eyes.’ He had a girl over again last night and I may or may not have been spying on them.” Her gaze shifts back and forth.

  It’s true; she tends to be a skulker. She appears out of nowhere, like she did just now, in my pottery studio. It would creep me out to live with her. I may need a new lock and a new policy. In the meantime, I’ll probably cont
inue to feel sorry for her and support her in making changes, like I tend to do. Everybody needs someone on their side, willing to go to bat for them.

  “I didn’t know where to go.” Her swamp brown eyes fill with huge crocodile tears, the kind sad, slovenly, slightly chubby, low self-esteem girls manage to produce.

  Mine come out sparingly, if at all. “I really think you need a new roommate, Mary. It’s your house. Give him the boot. You need to stick up for yourself.”

  “Thanks. I always appreciate your support.”

  I glance toward the back of the studio, to where my bed beckons. “I, uh…I really need to get some rest. Can you come back later? At the agreed time?”

  “I can pack pottery for shipment. Fill orders. Clean the shelves. Anything but go back home. Please,” she begs, shaking free the tears from her eyes.

  I scan the room. She’s only worked for me a few months. What harm can she get into while I’m sleeping? I either trust her to work the business or I don’t. “All right, fine. I’ll be out when the store opens at eleven, if not sooner,” I add, to keep her on her toes. I unlock the door to the back—I’m the only one who has the key to my living quarters—make my way to bed, and fall into a heavy, well-earned sleep.

  I drop one of my sculpting tools in the jar with the others and stare at the piece I’ve been working on for weeks. It’s a commissioned piece of a dead loved one’s head. I’ve been getting a lot of those kinds of commissions lately. Maybe it’s because I’ve got this eerie sixth sense kind of affinity for the dead, a real winner of a trait. If I hadn’t ignored the initial call to arms about Elena, I would have perhaps paid more attention to the fact that I got a full body shiver alert when that out-of-towner crow cawed. I hope it’s part of my soul snatcher status.

  For this sculpture, I’ve got pictures galore spread on my worktable. It’s coming along, I think, picking up the sharp, stabby looking carbon tool—the one that looks like a weapon. Then there’s that stainless steel one that looks like a dagger. A grimace forms on my face. I haven’t been able to look at some of my sculpting tools as anything but weapons, ever since I entered the studio this afternoon – ever since I saw Elena’s dead body. I wipe away an errant tear that’s escaped from my eye. Damn, damn and double damn. Elena’s dead.