Chapter Four
The sudden cessation of wind as I passed into the garage was a blessed relief, and I paused, taking in the curious mix of space and clutter, the edges stacked with old boxes from grocery stores and mail-order places. Close to the steps leading inside were several large toys, bright with primary-colored plastic. The toddler sled had been used from the looks of it, but the rest was summer stuff. It had been a good Christmas, apparently.
Tracks of flattened snow showed where a big-assed truck had been on the otherwise swept cement. There wasn't room for two vehicles, and I wondered if Mr. Tilson was overcompensating for something. 'Course, maybe it was Mrs. Tilson who had the truck fetish. I sniffed deeply for the scent of Inderlander, finding only the dry smell of old concrete and dust, and I shivered.
I eyed the storage boxes, remembering what my dad had once told me when I'd tried to get out of cleaning the garage. People put things in garages that they don't want but can't get rid of. Dangerous stuff, sometimes. Too dangerous to keep inside, and too dangerous to throw out and risk someone finding. Mr. and Mrs. Tilson had a very full garage.
"Come on, Rache!" Jenks complained, tugging on my hair. "I'm cold!"
Giving the boxes a last look, I went up the cement steps. The hum of a vacuum was a faint presence as I opened the cheerfully painted door and entered a seventies kitchen, nodding to the officer with a clipboard seated at the table. The window above the sink looked out over the front yard and the news van. A high chair done in pinks and yellows was pulled up beside the square table. A box of throw-away boot covers was on it, and I sighed, taking my gloves off and tucking them in my coat pockets.
Plush baby toys were in a large basket tucked neatly out of the way, and I could almost hear a contented, gurgling laughter. The sink held a bowl of cookie-dough-encrusted utensils. A dozen sugar cookies sat on the counter, cooling for the last eight hours. A tear-away tag was tied to the oven, the upper part signed and dated, with the time, stating that Officer Mark Butte had turned off the oven. The Tilsons had left in a hurry.
The kitchen was a curious mix of warmth and cold, the heater on to combat the in-and-out traffic, and I unzipped my coat. My first impression of the house was just as jumbled. Everything to make a home was here, but it felt...empty.
There was the chatter of work in the next room, and when I bent to put a blue bootie over my boot, Jenks shot out from under my hat. "Holy crap!" he swore, flitting over the entire kitchen in three seconds, giving the seated officer a coronary. "It smells like green baby paste in here. Hey, Edden!" he said louder. "Where you at?" And he darted out, his wings a gray blur.
From deeper in the house came an exclamation as Jenks probably startled another FIB officer. A set of heavy steps approached, and I straightened. I'd gotten my boots at Veronica's Crypt, and covering them in blue paper should be outlawed.
Edden's squat figure suddenly took up the archway to the rest of the house. Jenks was on his shoulder, and the FIB captain looked better now that he was doing something to help his son. He nodded to the seated officer and smiled briefly at me, but it didn't reach his eyes. He was still in his street clothes. In truth, he probably shouldn't be out here, but no one was going to tell him he couldn't oversee the investigation of his son's mauling.
"Rachel," he said in greeting, and I coyly waved a bootie-covered foot at him.
"Hi, Edden. Can I come in?" I asked, hardly sarcastic at all.
He frowned, but before he could start in on me about my lousy investigation techniques, I remembered Tom in the street. "Hey, can I ask a favor?" I said hesitantly.
"You mean more than letting you in here?" he said so dryly that I was sorely tempted to tell him about the sticky silk at Kisten's boat, which they'd missed, but I held my tongue, knowing he'd find out about it tomorrow after Ivy had had a chance to go out.
"I'm serious," I said as I undid my scarf. "Can someone check out my car?"
The squat man's eyebrows rose. "Having trouble with the transmission?"
I flushed, wondering if he knew I was the one who'd trashed it while learning how to drive a stick shift. "Uh, I saw Tom Bansen at my car. Maybe I'm being paranoid-"
"Bansen?" he blurted out, and Jenks nodded from his shoulder. "This is the same witch you tagged in his basement for summoning demons?"
"He was looking at my car," I said, thinking it sounded lame. "He said something about making a living, and seeing that there are lots of people who want to see me, uh, dead..." I let my thought trail off. I kept to myself that he'd been shunned and Jenks didn't say a word. It was a witch thing. When someone got shunned, it was an embarrassment to all of us. "I checked for lethal charms, but I wouldn't know a car bomb from an odometer cable."
The FIB captain's expression grew hard. "No problem. I'll have the dog unit come out. Actually..." He looked at the seated officer and smiled. "Alex, go wait by Ms. Morgan's car for the explosives team."
The man stiffened, and I winced apologetically. "Don't let anyone get within ten feet," Edden continued. "It might turn you into a toad if you touch it."
"It will not," I complained, thinking being a toad might be pleasant compared to what Tom could probably do.
Edden shook his head. "There is a news van in the street. I'm not taking any chances."
Jenks snickered, and I warmed. Chances were good nothing was wrong with my car, and I felt like a baby, but Edden's hand on my shoulder made me feel better. All the way up until he turned me back to the kitchen's door and Alex's retreating back. "Maybe Alex should take you home right now," he said, "so he can check out your church. For your own safety."
Oh for God's sake, he's trying to get rid of me. "That's why we've got a gargoyle in the eaves," I said sharply, and slipping out from under him, I resolutely paced deeper into the house. Take me home for my own safety, my ass. He was letting Ivy stay. Why couldn't I?
"Rachel," Edden protested, his compact bulk spinning to follow.
Jenks laughed, taking to the air and saying, "Give it up, FIB man. It'll take more than you to get her out. Remember what Ivy and I did to your finest last spring? Add Rachel to that, and you can say your prayers."
From behind me came Edden's dry "You think Ivy wants another stint as a candy striper?" But I was here and he was going to let me in on the evidence-gathering part of things. The FIB was confident that Mr. Tilson had attacked Glenn, seeing that it was his house, but his lawyer might try to pass it off on a burglar or something else. Not cool.
"Nice house," I said, eyes roving over the bright walls, low ceilings, and clean but worn carpet. We passed a short hallway, then stepped down into a large living room. Immediately I stopped. "Oh my God," I said, taking it in. "They have shag carpet." Green shag carpet. This might be why Mr. Tilson was nuts. It would make me nuts.
There were only a few FIB personnel still here doing their FIB thing. One of them flagged Edden over, and he left me with a stern look that said not to touch anything. The faint tickle of fingerprint dust caught in my nose. Ivy was in the corner with a tall woman who, by the twin cameras draped over her, had to be the photographer. They were both looking at her laptop and the shots she had taken earlier.
It was bright and overly warm, and Jenks left Edden to park it on the top of the curtains. Warmer up there, probably. The FIB had been here most of the day before letting us in here, not wanting to chance my messing up their precious virgin site, but it still looked raw to me.
The green-tiled coffee table between the olive-and-orange-striped couch and the brick fireplace-painted to match the floor, incidentally-was on its side and shoved into the raised hearth. The curtains over the wide windows were open to the backyard. God help me but the curtains matched the putrid color combination. Looking at everything, I started to feel nauseous, as if the seventies had taken refuge here against extinction and were preparing to take over the world.
There was no blood except a small splatter against the couch and wall, an ugly brown against the yellowish green paint. From Glenn's broken nose, perhaps? An armchair had been shoved into an upright piano, and loose-leaf sheets of music were stacked on the bench. Leaning up against the wall by the large window overlooking the snow-covered swing set was a picture. It had fallen turned against the wall, and I wanted to see what it was in the worst way.
A Christmas tree was propped up in the corner, disheveled and clearly having fallen at some point if the dark spot on the rug where the water had drained out wasn't enough of a clue. There were a lot of decorations for one room, and they were a curious mix of style. Most were the inexpensive, mass-produced variety, but there was what was probably a two-hundred-dollar snow globe and an antique Tiffany-style mistletoe display. Weird.
Three stockings hung from the mantel, and these, too, looked expensive-too classy for most of the decorations. Only the smallest had a name. HOLLY. The baby's probably. The mantel was empty of pictures, which I thought was odd seeing as there was a new baby in the house. The top of the piano was bare as well.
Jenks had dropped down to talk with the guy at the piano. Ivy had her head next to the photographer's. Edden wasn't paying me any attention. Everyone looked busy, so I wandered to the fireplace and ran a finger over the smooth wood for evidence that the mantel had once held pictures. No dust.
"Hey!" the man with Edden exclaimed. "What do you think you're doing?" His face red, he glanced at Edden, clearly ticked off because he wanted to kick me out but couldn't.
Faces turned, and embarrassed, I backed up. "Sorry."
Ivy glanced up from the laptop in the sudden quiet. Both she and the photographer wore questioning expressions as they stared at me, looking like yin and yang with Ivy's short black hair and the photographer's long blond tresses. I remembered seeing the photographer at Trent's stables, taking pictures, but Ivy hadn't been there, and I wondered how she had gotten chummy enough in fifteen minutes to have their heads together discussing the niceties of angles and shadows.
Almost smiling, Edden harrumphed. Head bowed and stubby-fingered hand in the air to say he was taking care of it, he rocked into motion. Ivy gave the photographer one of our cards, then crossed the room to join me. Jenks landed on her shoulder halfway there, and I saw her lips move in a soft comment that made the pixy laugh.
By the time they all reached me, I had cocked my hip and crossed my arms over my chest. "I'm not going to touch anything else!" I exclaimed, wondering if the harsh expressions on the FIB officers' faces were for me breaking protocol or a lingering doubt about my involvement in Kisten's death. I knew Edden had done his best to squelch it, but that meant little to a lifetime of prejudice.
Rolling his eyes at Ivy, Edden took my elbow to lead me into the hallway. Ivy, too, was smiling, but as soon as the privacy of the hall took us, she became serious. "Rachel's here now, so how about showing us where Glenn was beat up?" she asked, surprising me.
"That's it," Edden said, glancing past me and into the living room. "Everything else looks untouched."
I jerked my elbow from Edden and leaned against the wall. Jenks's wings clattered as he flew to snuggle in my scarf, and Ivy shook her head. "There isn't enough emotion in the room for someone having been mauled," she said. "You say it happened this morning? No way."
Edden's face scrunched up, and I looked at Ivy. A vampire could read the pheromones left in a room, giving a qualitative, though not terribly quantitative, impression of the emotions that had been given free rein. By the way Edden looked, I guessed he knew about the ability but didn't trust it. Neither did the courts, disallowing a vampire's testimony unless they were trained, registered, and attended quarterly calibration seminars. Ivy didn't, but if she said there wasn't a sign of a struggle here, then I'd believe her over a blood-splattered wall.
"The rest of the house is undisturbed," he said, and Ivy frowned. "Do you want me to tell you what we do know while we tour the house for signs of...emotion?" he finished, and I smirked. Wait until they heard what I found out. But Ivy shot me a look to shut up, and my breath slipped from me. Okay...I'll wait.
"I'm listening," she said to Edden as she went down the short hall. Her stride was long and confident, and the man toting the FIB evidence vacuum pressed into the wall to let her pass. She went first into a tidy, opulent bedroom with pillows, rich drapes, rugs, and beautiful things arranged on what looked like an antique carved bedroom set. Drawers were open and the closet clearly had hangers missing. The rich femininity didn't match the rest of the house. Not at all. Well, except for the snow globe, stockings, and mistletoe display.
"The mortgage is in Mr. and Mrs. Tilson's names," Edden said, his hands in his pockets as he rocked back on his heels, clearly not interested in the incongruity of decorating styles. "They're human," he added, and I almost blurted, No they aren't, biting my tongue instead.
"He and his wife bought the house about a year and a half ago," Edden continued, and Jenks snorted, silent to all but me. "She's a stay-at-home mom caring for their daughter, but we've found that Holly is registered at three day cares. Mr. Tilson works as a janitor, retired from being a science teacher in Kentucky. Took early retirement, I guess, and wanted something to do and to supplement his pension."
Like clean crap from the walls of the boys' bathroom? Yeah, that sounded right.
"We have a tap on the phone and we're watching the credit cards," Edden was saying as Ivy skulked around the room. "There's no extended family that we know of yet on either side, but everyone is out for the holidays and it's taking a long time to get anything."
His words broke off suddenly, and he stared at me. "Why are you smiling?"
Immediately I forced my expression to go innocent. "No reason. What else have you got?"
"Very little." He eyed me. "We'll find them."
Ivy eased around the carved furniture like a shadow, using a pen to shift the curtains and nodding at the security-system sticker on the window. Her sleek leather made her look like a well-paid assassin against the elegant surroundings hidden inside the depths of the house. Someone had excellent tastes and I didn't think it was Mr. Tilson the janitor. Mr. Tilson the hit man, maybe.
"Here's a recent picture," Edden said, handing me a piece of paper with a copy of Tilson's school ID. Jenks startled me when he vaulted from the folds of soft yarn to hover over the nine-by-eleven paper. The face not smiling back at me was blurry, but according to the tag he was blond and blue eyed. There were some wrinkles, but not a lot, and he had a receding hairline.
"Pretty harmless looking for someone who can beat up an FIB detective," Jenks said.
"It's the quiet ones you have to watch out for," I murmured, silently asking Jenks if he was done before handing the paper back to Edden. Ivy hadn't come over to look, so she'd probably seen it already.
"We don't have anything yet on Mrs. Tilson," Edden said, starting when Ivy jerked into a fast pace and left the room. "But we're working on it."
His last words were rather distant, and I could guess why. Ivy was edging into the eerie vamp quickness she took pains to hide from me. Her unnerving speed aside, I enjoyed seeing her like this, wrapped up in thinking. Work was the only time she let herself forget the misery of her wants and needs and found a feeling of self-worth.