Top Secret Vampire (Monsters, PI #4)

22. Wolfram

Chapter 22

Wolfram

I stiffened.

The dog stopped howling only to slink off its bed and slide beneath Thain’s desk.

Thain lifted his hands off the doll and shoved his chair back. “That was an interesting experience.” His gaze met mine before gliding to Reese. “This doll was purchased for a little girl long ago. I don’t sense that the child ever received the doll. I didn’t catch the child’s name, but her mother was called . . .” His frown deepened. “Josephine? Joelle?” He shook his head. “Not those, but—”

“Jolene?” Reese asked, glancing at me. “A woman named Jolene used to live in my house, though it was eighty or so years ago. She died there, though we don’t know if it was from natural causes or . . .”

“You suspect murder?” Thain asked, his calm voice lifting. “Is all this related to a ghost issue?”

Reese shrugged. “If there’s a ghost in the house, she’s not making her presence known other than to Wolfram.”

I explained how I’d seen her but hadn’t spoken with her, that I’d tried to reach out to her since without success.

“Here’s the thing,” Thain said. “This doll,” he poked his finger toward the toy mostly covered by the garbage bag, “was intended for Jolene’s daughter. The doll . . .” A grumble rose in his chest. “I didn’t get more than a few impressions, but I think the doll was left for you on purpose.”

“You’re saying it’s a message from Jolene or whoever’s been stalking me?” Reese asked.

“That, I don’t know. The only impression I got was that whoever left the doll wants you to act in some way to help the child.”

Perhaps it was a coincidence that the intruder was inside Reese’s office on the same night the doll appeared.

“I believe this is a message, and you need to heed it.”

“Could the doll have been left to help give Jolene closure?” Reese bit down hard on her lower lip.

“That’s my assumption from my reading,” he said. “I can’t be sure, but I don’t believe the doll was left by the intruder.”

“If that’s the case,” Reese looked my way, “how will we figure out what Jolene needs? I want to help her.”

“We’ll do more investigating, hoping we find clues that will point us in the right direction.” I tucked the bag back around the doll, secured the knot, and rose, lifting it. “We’ll go to the historical society next and see if they have any information about Jolene and her daughter, plus show them the doll. Thanks, Thain. I know that was hard for you.”

“I don’t mind doing readings but that thing,” his concerned gaze fell on the doll again, “it’s not only creepy, it’s almost haunted itself. Don’t keep it inside your house. I’m not sure what it might do.”

Reese shuddered. “I want to take this one out to the firepit and burn it.”

“I wouldn’t.” Thain stood. “Burning might activate the spirit lingering inside the doll.”

He walked us out to the door and with a wave, left us to return to his office.

“How can we dispose of it?” Reese asked as we left his office, the bag holding the doll in my hand. She was right to suggest I wash my hands last night. “Once we deal with whatever Jolene wants us to do, that is. I don’t want to keep it in my house after that.”

“I’ll ask my witch friend to handle it for you. She’ll send the spirit on, and after the toy is cleansed, it can be donated to someone who might actually want it.” I scratched the back of my neck. “Whoever that might be. Not someone who can sense paranormal activity, that’s for sure.”

We paused on the sidewalk.

“Do you have a witch in mind for the doll?” she asked.

“I do, though you won’t be able to meet her.”

“Why not?”

“Few witches are willing to reveal their identity.”

“You’re saying I might know her but not that she’s a witch.” Reese wrapped her arms around her waist.

“She’s a good person, but it hasn’t been that long since witches were hunted.”

“I don’t blame her then.” She sucked in a breath and released it. “Let’s go to the historical society first and then the hardware store.” She blinked up at me. “I can’t believe we’re casually talking about witches. Monsters are an amazing addition to our everyday lives, but those who can perform magic? I’m not sure what to think about that.”

“They can’t craft spells like in a fantasy novel. They mostly do spells that might influence a person in a slight way, craft charms to keep another away, or even perform incantations to help someone find a lost item.”

“All things we could use.”

I held open the door to the historical society for her. “How so?”

“Maybe we can get a spell to keep whoever’s stalking me away from my home. A charm might bring me good luck, something I’m out of right now. And we need to gather more information about what this creepy doll and Jolene want.”

“Good points.”

We paused in the foyer, standing on the antique carpet, looking up the staircase on the opposite side that disappeared into darkness. The red carpet lining the stairs contrasted with the bright white painted rail and treads. A closed door stood on our right and another down a hallway beside the stairs. Two paintings of stoic-faced men hung on the pale green painted walls, and a small table held an ancient statue the size of my forearm. An urn with closed umbrellas had been placed beside the table. The sound of shuffling papers came from the open doorway to our left, and a handwritten sign with an arrow pointed in that direction, stating Come on In!

With a shrug and a shy smile, Reese stepped into a large room that must be the main office of the organization.

The building appeared to be over a hundred years old, and I admired the smooth plaster walls and the dark wooden trim with intricate features in the corners. A tin ceiling hung overhead, the white paint accenting the pattern.

Tall shelves packed with books and artifacts had been built into the left and right walls, and a large, polished desk, strewn with papers, occupied the center of the room. An elderly woman wearing a dark blue blouse with a white lace collar sat behind the desk, not looking up when we stopped on an ornate oriental carpet inside the door from the foyer.

Light filtered through gauzy curtains covering tall windows between two long stacks of bookcases on the back wall, casting shadows on framed sepia photographs mounted nearby.

The air smelled of old paper and polished wood. A grandfather clock ticked in the background, and simple chairs had been arranged near small tables piled with books and other antique items, including a wooden coffee grinder and, surprisingly enough, a third century Chinese urn in perfect condition. The overall atmosphere was quiet and studious, appropriate for a place designed for research rather than comfort or decoration.

“May I help you?” the woman asked in a crotchety voice, looking up. I’d place her in her mid to late eighties, if her heavily lined face and gray hair in a bun were anything to go by.

She laid a magnifying glass to the side and rose as we approached the desk. The tag pinned to her blouse said, Margaret, Director .

“I’m Reese Hamilton and this is Wolfram Zegrath,” Reese said, gesturing to me. “I bought the Molson place two months ago, and during my renovations, I found an antique doll.”

An interesting way of telling her how we’d discovered it.

“It’s inside here.” I lifted the garbage bag into view. “We believe it belonged to Jolene Molson’s daughter.”

Reese continued. “We brought it by to see if you or anyone working here might be able to give us information about the era the doll might’ve come from, plus anything you might know about the Molson place or Jolene.”

“I don’t know much about the Molson home or Jolene, for that matter, but a doll, you say?” Margaret asked, her gaze fixed on the bag. “Let me see? I adore antique dolls.”

Someone had to.

I laid the bag on her desk and as she sat again, I parted the top, revealing the doll curled on her side.

“Interesting,” Margaret said, leaning close. She held the magnifying glass above the doll. “A porcelain head, which is quite common, and hand-stitched clothing.” She looked up at us. “It’s common for dolls such as this one to wear hand-stitched clothing, though you’ll find that some current collectors make clothing themselves by hand as well. It helps keep it authentic.” She lifted the doll from the bag and gently turned it, lying it on its back on the black surface. Her head tilting, she scrutinized the doll further, turning it this way and that.

“I’d say early twentieth century,” she said. “Possibly German in origin due to the craftsmanship and materials used. The intricate detailing on the dress suggests it belonged to a child of wealth.”

“That fits with Jolene’s daughter,” Reese told me softly. “The house was well constructed and has many features that weren’t common for that era, such as the intricate moldings and high, coffered ceilings, plus the bay windows with stained glass and marble fireplaces in all the main living areas and bedrooms.”

I’d noted how lovely her house was and was glad she’d restored those features rather than removed them during the renovation process.

“Dolls like this can be worth a significant amount of money if they’re well-preserved, which this one is,” Margaret said. “I doubt a child played with it much or it would show more wear. Do you mind if I undo the back of her dress? Visible markings or stamps might indicate the specific manufacturer, which could potentially increase its historical interest or market value depending on rarity. Are you planning to sell the doll?”

“I want to give her away,” Reese said.

To a witch. Another sly way of putting it. Reese was savvy and this only made me adore her more.

Margaret gently unfastened the back of the dress and eased it away from the torso. Taking her magnifying glass from her desk, she squinted through it. “Ah, Meissen.” She looked up. “They held a prestigious reputation for porcelain production, though they shifted most of their focus to figurines, tableware, and decorative pieces in the early twentieth century. This doll could’ve sat on a shelf in a store for a while before it was purchased, however. I’d say this doll’s worth in the five to twenty thousand dollars range.”

Reese gasped. “That much?”

To think it was lying on the floor in Reese’s office, where anyone could step on it.

“Or more,” Margaret said with a sweet smile. “Rare or uniquely detailed dolls like this one might fetch an even higher price at auction or among collectors who specialize in fine antiques. Would you like a referral? Oh, no, wait. You said you plan to give the doll as a gift.”

To a witch who’d destroy it, if need be, but yes.

“As for the Molson place, you’ll no doubt find most of what interests you about the home in . . .” She paused, peering through the magnifying glass at the exposed doll’s back. “Oh, that’s too bad. This may change things.”

I leaned closer, wondering what she meant.

“See here?” She pointed to a thin line of tiny stitches. “This will decrease the value considerably. Someone appears to have damaged the doll. A fall on a sharp rock perhaps? It created a tear that needed to be repaired. The repair is well done, but I’m afraid that does decrease its value. Collectors can be quite picky and aren’t always interested in something that’s not in pristine condition.”

After refastening the back of the dress, she turned the doll over and stroked its face. “Lovely. I can see why someone would buy this for a precious child.” Her gaze went wistful. “I was raised by a kind enough family after I was found abandoned, wandering through town. My new family didn’t have much, especially after the depression. There was never enough money for a treasured plaything such as this.”

“I’m sorry,” Reese said.

“I’ve always wondered if I had a mother and father who adored me.” Margaret’s sad smile rose. “When they found me, I told them my name was Margaret, but they couldn’t determine where I came from. For some reason, the name Margaret May echoes in my mind. Perhaps May was my last name, though there were no Mays in the area. My new parents gave me their last name. When I was small, I’d make up stories that my parents had lost me and were looking for me, desperate to find me. They’d knock on my new parents’ door and demand she give me to them. They’d take me to their glorious home where they’d treat me like a princess.”

Her soft huff jutted out. “A silly dream that never came true. My family treated me well, but it’s not the same, is it? Oh, I know lives can be better for adopted children, but that wasn’t the case for me.”

What a sad story.

Her wistful smile rose. “There’s nothing to be done about it now, is there? It’s water under the bridge, as my adopted parents used to say. No use longing for such things now. I’m much too old to dream.”

“No one is too old to dream.” Reese strode around the desk and gave Margaret a hug, stepping back after. “Everyone deserves a loving family.”

Fortunately, someone had given Margaret a home and, to some extent, affection, even if it hadn’t been her original parents.

“Now, about that book I was thinking of,” Margaret said. “It was among my adopted mother’s things, and I put them all on one shelf. Honestly, my eyesight isn’t what it used to be, and I’ve barely looked them over. But I vaguely remember there being one that might have some information about your lovely home. Let me see if I can find it for you.” She walked slowly over to the farthest bookcase and ran her fingertip along the spines. “Here you are.” Pulling a book from the shelf, she returned to us and gave it to Reese. “Normally, we ask guests to study our books here inside the office, but I’m about to close for the day. If you’ll let me make a photocopy of your driver’s license and write down details as to where I can locate you if need be, I’ll allow you to take the book home with you for a night. Please promise to return it in the same condition by the end of the day tomorrow.”

“That would be great,” Reese said, giving Margaret her driver’s license that the elderly lady photocopied using a machine in the small room beyond this one before she handed it back.

“Enjoy,” Margaret said, though her smile faded. “I will point out one detail. You mentioned this doll belonged to Jolene Molson’s daughter?”

Reese nodded.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. Jolene had no children.”

After thanking her, we left, striding toward the parking lot.

“It’s strange that she thinks Jolene had no children,” Reese said as we stopped at her SUV to leave the doll and book in the back. “As the director of the historical society, Margaret must be well versed on the history of the town and those who lived here. I doubt the community was larger back then, and I assume the records were good enough to indicate something like that.”

“People received birth certificates in that era. While they often weren’t born in a hospital, the birth was registered with the town.”

“Maybe the book will give us more information.”

She locked the vehicle, and we walked down Main Street, entering Shriek & Nail, the local hardware and all-around general store. A bell jangled overhead, and we were greeted with the scent of fresh lumber and herbs. The wooden floors creaked underfoot, adding a rustic charm to the business. A long counter stretched across the right side, where clerks busily rang up customers’ purchases. Rows of shelves stretching all the way to the exposed beams overhead held an assortment of tools, and neatly organized bins had been stacked along the back wall.

In another section, I spied stacks of canned goods beside garden seeds in colorful packets. Barrels containing various items, like loose nails you could buy by weight, had been tucked into spots here and there.

“Can I help you?” a teenage yeti asked, coming over to stand beside us.

“I’m looking for a weapon for self-defense,” Reese said.

The yeti glanced at me. “You’re standing here with a vampire, and you’re worried about protection?”

“I can’t be around her all the time,” I said.

“I get it, dude,” he said. “I get it.” He waved for us to follow him. “We’ve got guns and knives and an assortment of other things.” Stopping beside a glass-fronted, locked case, he nodded. “Handguns are wonderful, but you need to know how to use them, and you should practice regularly. Since you said self-defense, I’ll point out that guns are great, a solid line of defense. But if whoever’s after you happens to take the gun from you, then . . .”

“What about a knife?” Reese asked, worrying her lower lip with her teeth.

“Same deal. Perfect for gutting someone.” His low chuckle rang out. “I speak figuratively. No need to do something like that.” He lifted his clawed hand. “Aim to disarm and disable them, not kill them, I always say.”

“Can you suggest anything else?” I asked.

“Pepper or bear spray. Both are legal in Massachusetts, though you should know that pepper spray isn’t legal in all states, and they’ll take it from you if you travel over the border to Canada.” He unlocked the case and handed Reese a cylinder on a keychain. “Bear spray contains capsaicin, a natural ingredient found in chili peppers, which makes it effective at deterring aggressive animals without causing lasting harm. Take it from one who knows, it’s effective.”

“You tried it yourself?” I asked.

“Not on purpose, dude. I was checking it out when I was a little kid, and I kind of accidentally shot it straight into my uncle’s face. From personal experience, I can verify that bear spray works on monsters. Yetis, anyway.”

“What about witches?” Reese asked.

“I’d assume so. As for my uncle, it took me forever for him to forgive me.” He removed another cylinder from a pile inside and gave that to Reese. “There are no specific restrictions or permits required for adults to purchase, possess, or use pepper spray for self-defense purposes in our state. But remember that while you can legally carry and use it in your defense, if you use it against someone without cause, you could wind up in jail.”

I wasn’t going to ask him how he knew this detail. Maybe all the clerks were taught information like this about the weapons they sold.

“Pepper spray also contains capsaicin, though in a lower concentration,” he added.

“Which works better?” Reese asked, studying them both.

“Bear spray, for sure. It’s more effective because it not only contains a higher concentration of capsaicin, but it also creates a wider cloud that covers more area faster. It’s perfect for chasing away large animals like bears. In contrast, pepper spray’s narrow stream was designed for human threats at close range.”

Reese sighed. “I’m not sure what I’ll face.” When her gaze sought mine, it hardened.

This woman was not only savvy, but she was also incredibly strong both inside and out.

“So . . . If I have to choose,” she said. “I pick the bear.”