Chapter 17
The McMartin Ranch was situated a few miles outside town, but after they picked up the tandem bike from outside Trident Slaws, the trip passed quickly.
The roads were deserted and a bright gibbous moon hung overhead, lighting their path.
If not for the business with the murder and attempted murder, it might have been a very lovely night indeed.
As the neat rows of houses in town fell away to sprawling fields and old-growth woods, the scent of wildflowers hanging in the air, Arthur found himself relaxing.
He didn’t mind the hustle and bustle of town, as long as Salvatore was with him, but he much preferred quieter places where nature wasn’t so far away.
Set back from the road was a long structure with a gabled roof and large double doors—horse stables, if the ranch sign was to be believed. Arthur raised his eyebrows as they passed. The building was larger and nicer than most people’s homes.
The McMartin house was massive as well. A towering shadow in the night, it was more of an estate than anything else. The family had owned this land for a long time, as Arthur understood, and all the local McMartins lived there.
Salvatore let out a low whistle, looking up at the house as they pedaled up the driveway before coming to a stop. “Reminds me a little of the old days, back in Italy. Have I ever told you the story of the time I dated one of the Medicis just for the architecture?”
“I don’t think so.” Arthur made sure the bike was steady on its kickstand before stepping away. “Perhaps after we’ve talked to McMartin you can regale me.”
“Assuming he even answers the door.”
“What, no tricky workaround to get us inside this time?”
“And incur the wrath of the great McMartin family? No, thank you. I’ve had enough of jail.” Salvatore pulled off his helmet and fluffed his hair around his shoulders.
“Preening for the sheriff?” Arthur whispered as they walked up the front steps.
“Ew.” Sal knocked three times on the door and straightened his shoulders. “But yes—one must always look better than one’s enemies.”
Enough time passed that Arthur began to worry it was indeed too late to come calling on McMartin, but eventually the door opened to reveal an elderly white woman in a robe and slippers, curlers in her wispy gray hair.
“Can I help you?” she asked, narrowing her eyes up at them. She was even shorter than Salvatore.
“We hope so, ma’am,” Arthur said. “We’re here to see Patrick McMartin.”
“Awfully late to visit my grandson.” She continued to scrutinize them. “What’s this about?”
“You might have heard about some recent unpleasant events in town. We’re here to help deduce what happened to Brody Young.” Arthur used his most polite tone. He was normally great with parents and grandparents. “We think your grandson’s input will be instrumental.”
“I should think so, as he’s the sheriff and it’s his job.” She stepped back. “Come on in, but no funny business—no necking.”
“We—we would never—” Arthur sputtered. “Just because we’re vampires—”
“You’re vampires?” Mrs. McMartin stopped in her tracks, adopting an astonished expression of dubious sincerity. “I just assumed if you were calling this late you had some ulterior motive of the boudoir variety.”
“Certainly not!” Arthur began, but Sal laughed.
“I must say, Mrs. McMartin, you’re a delight. Your son isn’t even remotely my cup of tea, but if you’re ever in the market for a nighttime visitor—”
Arthur elbowed him hard in the ribs. Far be it from him to stop Sal from flirting with the occasional senior citizen, but Arthur would be damned if it got in the way of his interrogating the sheriff.
“What? I was only being polite!” Sal clutched his side.
“You’re being petulant, that’s what,” Mrs. McMartin said, but Arthur could’ve sworn she winked as she left them in the grand foyer. “I’ll get Ricky.”
“Did she just call him Ricky?” Arthur whispered.
“I do believe she did.” Salvatore’s grin was wide and full of fangs. “Ricky McMartin. It’s honestly an insult to the entirety of pop music.”
A minute later, the sheriff walked into the foyer, arms crossed. “What are you two doing bothering my granny at this hour?”
“Don’t be rude,” Mrs. McMartin said. “Invite your guests to sit down at least. I’ll bring them some tea.”
McMartin rolled his eyes—when his granny’s back was turned, of course—and gestured to a doorway. “Living room’s through here.”
Out of his uniform and in a T-shirt and sweatpants, McMartin looked somehow more authentic, like he wasn’t playing a role for once. Arthur couldn’t let that cloud his judgment, though. McMartin had paid Brody a lot of money for some reason, and they’d find out what it was before they left.
The living room was large but cozy, one wall covered in photographs of the family dating back generations—though he felt confident Sal was still the oldest thing in the room.
“Take a seat,” the sheriff said, channeling a small portion of his grandmother’s hostess instincts, “and explain what you’re doing here.”
Sal leaned back, letting his full weight be absorbed by the cushions, but Arthur sat gingerly on the edge of the sofa. This was going to be a delicate conversation. Comfort could wait.
“You mentioned before you employed Brody Young for a while,” Arthur said.
“Yeah. So?” McMartin sat on the armchair across from them, hooking his hands around both armrests rather more aggressively than was strictly necessary.
Arthur cleared his throat and continued. “We’ve been looking into who might have had reason to hurt Brody—”
“That’s a police matter.” McMartin glared and pointed with two fingers at them both. “I’ll remind you that you’re my top suspects.”
“We didn’t hurt anyone,” Arthur insisted. “And we intend to find the real culprit before you can wrongly arrest us.”
“We know you paid Brody Young an extra bonus after you fired him,” Salvatore exclaimed, sitting up straighter and returning the sheriff’s irritable stare.
Arthur stiffened. Sal really had no instinct for timing. If they came on too strong, McMartin would simply utilize his authority to avoid the conversation. “We received a tip, you see,” he said as gently as he could.
McMartin shifted uncomfortably. “A tip?”
“Yes, a tip.” Salvatore jumped to corroborate the lie.
“I don’t have to tell you anything,” McMartin snapped.
“That’s no way to talk to guests,” Mrs. McMartin said as she entered the room, carrying three glasses of iced tea. She handed them to Arthur, Salvatore, and McMartin.
“Sorry, Granny.” McMartin sipped the tea. “Thanks for this.”
By its scent, the tea was a floral blend, primarily hibiscus.
“Don’t let me catch you being rude to guests again, even if they are undead.” Mrs. McMartin turned to Sal and Arthur. “Now, if you two boys need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”
Sal raised his hand as if he were a student in class. “Don’t suppose you have a straw, do you?”
“Let me check, dear.” Mrs. McMartin bustled from the room, leaving them alone with the sheriff once more.
“As we were saying,” Arthur began to break the awkward silence. “The amount you paid Brody is suspicious.”
“Excuse me if I don’t take your tip very seriously.”
“You should!” Sal leaned forward, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Arthur here says I’m a wizard with—”
“We have photographic evidence,” Arthur interjected, keen to steer the conversation away from wherever Sal was taking things. He withdrew the phone he’d confiscated from Sal back at the Young residence and produced the picture of the pay stub.
“Where did you get this?” McMartin asked, leaning in. “That looks like a desk in the background.”
Sal, to his credit, did not miss a beat. “One of Brody’s friends sent this to us. So, Sheriff, why the large payment to someone you fired?” Salvatore raised his eyebrows.
“I don’t have to sit here and let you interrogate me while that kid is in surgery. He might not wake up, you know.”
Arthur’s stomach plummeted. He knew Brody’s condition was unstable, but hearing the sheriff say it out loud was another thing entirely.
McMartin stood. “I know you think Brody killed the mayor, but he’s not a murderer. He was a model employee—”
“Yes, what did he do around here exactly? Was he a ranch hand?” Sal asked.
“He didn’t work for the ranch, he worked for me. He was my assistant, he managed my social media, my fan mail, that sort of thing.” McMartin waved a hand. “He was great.”
“Then why did you fire him?” Arthur pressed. McMartin was clearly losing his composure, though his concern for Brody seemed sincere.
“I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”
Arthur stood, too. If McMartin could leverage his height for a little extra authority, Arthur could as well. “If you don’t want to talk to us, maybe the FPI will. I’m sure when they arrive on Monday they’ll be interested to hear how a small-town sheriff tried to frame vampires for his own crimes.”
McMartin hesitated. “I didn’t kill George Roth or attack Brody. I have alibis for both times. When George Roth died, I was on duty, filling out paperwork at the station. Security cameras there will show it.”
“And for earlier tonight?” Arthur pressed. He hadn’t really thought McMartin had killed the mayor, but he might have hurt Brody for unrelated reasons.
“That’s also not your business.” McMartin’s face was very red now.
Arthur glanced at Salvatore, who was still reclined on the couch, sipping his glass of tea. Sal made a small shrugging motion that wasn’t particularly helpful.
“I think you paid Brody to do something illegal, like graffiti the town, so you could put a stop to it and be the impressive sheriff you so clearly want to be.” Arthur was shooting in the dark, but he had to try.
“Or perhaps you just wanted him to spread an anti-paranormal message that couldn’t be traced back to you. ”
McMartin paused. “What? That has nothing to do with the money—”
“Then what is it? Did he find out you’re a murderer, so you had to keep him quiet?”