Chapter 3
I dropped the body off behind the police station. Even if someone like Mr. Rothschild had seen something happening at my house, at least nobody would think I was the one who killed the victim. I hoped.
After leaving the body, I drove for a bit, trying to decide what to do.
It all depended on what the person who called the authorities saw.
Perhaps if I headed home now, I could play it off as if I hadn’t been there all evening.
I mean, I wasn’t home when it happened. And I had an alibi.
Perhaps I was freaking out over nothing.
The only problem was that if anyone examined too closely, they’d uncover the truth that the body was undoubtedly meant to reveal.
That the killer was a vampire.
Vampires in Austen Heights, or well, anywhere, were illegal.
The sun was setting for the day, so I switched on my headlights.
A small amount of snow continued to fall gracefully outside, landing in silent whispers in the street’s glow in front of me.
I took a slow breath. Unless I wanted to spend the rest of my life in hiding, I’d have to go home and see what the police suspected.
I drove to my townhouse and steeled my nerves at the red and blue lights flashing from several patrol cars. I shut my eyes. I only needed to pretend innocence.
I was innocent.
Opening the door, I stepped out. I caught sight of old man Rothschild in his pajamas, though it was only early evening, standing with the police.
He spoke to a woman with graying hair that I recognized as Marge, a resident witch detective who worked alongside law enforcement.
My neighbor’s hands gestured wildly. That wasn’t necessarily a sign of concern.
Mr. Rothschild always had a story to tell, whether it was about the time he fought off a cougar with a folding chair, or the instance when he got in a fistfight with the previous town mayor over a parking spot.
“Saw them out my window. Two people. It proved difficult to see, and they had on heavy coats and beanies, so I couldn’t discern particulars.
As I watched, I swear I witnessed one attack the other, and the second man collapsed.
The hedge blocked the rest of my view. Then the first man ran off, and I immediately called the police. ”
A vampire couldn’t completely drain a person of blood in such a short time.
I mean, I wasn’t an expert or anything—I didn’t have a vampire stopwatch—but still.
If the victim had already been, uh, pre-drained, then sure, maybe it wouldn’t take long to finish the job.
Efficiency and all that. Perhaps whoever was trying to set me up had compelled the fae guy to tag along to my townhome—and when they realized Rothschild was watching (because of course he was, that man could detect a scandal through three walls), the killer probably staged a fake fight to make him call the cops faster.
Which, honestly, was kind of genius… if you ignored the murder part.
“What did you do after that?” Marge asked Mr. Rothschild.
“Well, I had to use the bathroom. When nature calls at my age… it calls, you know?”
Marge caught sight of me and directed Mr. Rothschild to another cop to tell his story. She walked up, notepad in hand. I noticed the heavy sweater under her coat with an image of a snowman in a monocle and a top hat that read, “Freeze a Jolly Good Fellow.”
“George Wickham?”
Looking around, I feigned shock. “Is something wrong?”
“We got a phone call about suspicious activity happening on your property at roughly 7:00 p.m. this evening. The person who phoned said there were two figures, and they appeared to have had an altercation, and one ended up leaving and the other… we aren’t sure what happened to them. Do you know anything about this?”
“A fight at my house?” I said, trying to filter as much surprise as possible into my voice. “I’ve no idea. Around that time, I was leaving the Winter Festival.” I leaned over, looking past Marge at my front doorstep. “Is the other man in the area?”
“There’s nobody nearby from what we can tell.” She sighed. “This is the last favor I put in for you, Reginald,” Marge muttered as she scribbled in her notebook. She cast an exasperated look in my neighbor’s direction.
She paused, staring down at something, then glanced up at me. “Weren’t you just investigated on charges of murder?”
“I was found innocent,” I said quickly.
A police officer hurried over and whispered into Marge’s ear. Even though he kept his voice low, I heard every word. “A body was just discovered behind the police station. Preliminary findings indicate that someone drained the body of blood.”
I swallowed. News sure traveled fast in this town.
Marge nodded. “Thank you for telling me.” She returned her suspicious gaze to me.
I gave her my most charming smile. “I love your sweater, Madam Detective. Perfect for the season. But then your sweaters always are.”
“I appreciate it, I do have fun picking them out,” she replied without cracking a grin. “You were leaving the festival, you say?”
Clearly, charm wouldn’t derail her. “Yes.”
“And you came straight home afterward?”
“Not straight home,” I hedged.
“Where did you go?”
“I dropped Lydia off at her home.”
“Your wife?” Her eyebrows climbed high enough to need oxygen. “You mean you dropped her off at the Bennets’ home? Isn’t this her home now that you’re married?”
I shoved my hands into my pockets and tried not to appear like the sort of man who hides things—like guilt. “She’s staying with the Bennets.”
“Any particular reason?” she pressed, leaning in as if the answer might be whispered from my pores. “Marital spat? Mysterious illness? Sudden hatred of your decor? I hear your wallpaper is quite… loud.”
“Personal reasons,” I said stiffly.
She scribbled something in her notebook. “Mm. Personal. That’s what my first boyfriend said right before he joined a meditation commune in Vermont. You sure she’s not in Vermont?”
“Pretty sure,” I muttered. “She hates maple syrup.”
Marge wrote again in her notebook. “Mm-hmm, okay. Would you like us to leave a police officer at your house for a few hours? Just in case?”
“No,” I blurted. I brushed my hands over my clothes, willing my nerves to calm. “That won’t be necessary. But thank you.”
She paused and squinted at me, then said, “If you spot anything questionable around, will you inform us?”
I nodded, just wanting them to leave so I might think for a moment. “I will.”
“Have a pleasant night, Mr. Wickham.”
She hurried over to Mr. Rothschild, who still waved his arms and spoke too loudly. “I told you something nefarious was taking place here. Those figures were up to no good.”
“And what do you want me to do about it? They clearly aren’t here now,” Marge replied.
“We live in a magical town. Can’t you use your witchy powers to find out what happened?”
“Go home, Reginald,” she stated.
I gave a final wave to the police and Mr. Rothschild as I entered my townhome and shut the door.
I leaned against the wood and let out a sigh of relief.
The light smell of pine accosted me from the scented sticks I’d put on my fake Christmas tree that still sat in the corner of the front room.
Those sticks certainly lasted a long time.
I ran a hand over my face to calm my nerves.
Moving the body seemed to have deflected suspicion from me for now. But who knew how long it would last?
And what did it all mean? Someone was trying to expose me.
Perhaps my sire wanted to punish me from a distance.
Maybe it was a threat of the potential consequences for those who were vulnerable around me if I exposed the vampire world to humans and fae.
I didn’t want to do that, but maybe the vampires I knew were unaware of that.
I needed to discover what was going on and who was behind this.
Or who knew what could happen next?
I checked my watch. Visiting hours for prisoners at the nearby prison started at 9:00 a.m., and I planned on being there as soon as it opened.
I walked up to the lady at the counter in the waiting area of the prison. Besides being locked up for being a vampire, my sire also faced murder charges, which reinforced the stigma against vampires.
“Can I help you?” the woman asked.
“Yes, I’m here to visit Dante Artois.”
“Your name and identification?”
“George Wickham.” I pulled out my driver’s license and laid it on the counter.
The woman didn’t glance at the ID as she typed something into her computer. “Okay, Mr. Wickham, have a seat. We will have someone escort you back.”
It was a rare occasion when my name didn’t elicit some sort of response out of people, what with me being a member of the Grey Doors. This woman must not be into alternative rock.
I sat down in the waiting room, smelling coffee and hot chocolate in the air.
I spotted the coffee machine over on the side.
That was a pleasant addition. Several people held a steaming cup in hand and sipped as they waited.
A slight chill permeated the space, so I pulled off my gloves and stuffed them in my pocket but left my heavy coat and scarf.
Little white cut-out snowflakes decorated with glitter hung from the ceiling.
The stenciled words on a wall above a door read: “Warmth begins with Welcome.” I wasn’t expecting a prison waiting room of all places to be so cozy.