Mind Over Monsters Read online

  “People do deal with grief in different ways.”

  “I know, but … if a person doesn’t even talk about something like that to a friend, therapist, whatever, it festers and rots. It can even kill. They did a special on the Discovery Channel.”

  A small smile creeps across Will’s face. “You think she committed suicide by zombie?”

  “And then rose from the grave to kill a man she barely knew? That’s a bit of a stretch,” I say. At least I hope so.

  “I agree. So, what’s your point?”

  “That she had to have confided in someone.”

  “Her husband?”

  “Maybe, but he sounds more closed off than she was.”

  We reach the crosswalk and wait.

  “Perhaps … Davis Wynn?” Will asks.

  The little man lights up and we cross.

  “I’ve seen enough cop shows to know there has to be a connection between the two. They were killed for a reason.” We reach the other side of the street but instead of turning right toward the butcher’s shop, Will turns left.

  “Wait. Aren’t we going to interview Carrie Ellison?”

  “Not yet. No doubt she’s heard we’re in town by now. Let her worry.”

  He’s the boss. I follow Will up the side street that dead-ends at the sheriff’s station, past the buildings, and up the deserted street. Heels were definitely a bad idea. They are an invention of the Devil. My feet feel double their size and with each throb, they swell even more. Looking good shouldn’t be this painful.

  “Um, where are we going?” I ask.

  “I studied the maps last night. The school’s just up this road. We’re going to interview Stan Petrie.”

  “And driving wasn’t an option?”

  “A little exercise never hurt anyone.”

  “Said the man without two torture devices strapped to his feet,” I mutter.

  The school is not “just up the road.” It ends up being up the first road for a quarter mile, then up another tiny road for the same distance. My shoes come off during the second stretch. They go back on when we get inside the school.

  It’s like any other school in America, including my old one: one story with a flag flapping in the front, rows of classrooms on either side of a polished linoleum hallway (though we had an outdoor campus thanks to the mild California weather), pictures of various sports teams and class murals made from magazines and crayons hang on the walls here. Another pang of homesickness hits. I always loved watching the kids cut out flowers and pictures of celebrities while gossiping with their friends. With a sigh, I look away.

  The office is down the hall on the right. A middle-aged woman in a pink linen dress stands behind the counter next to a yellow sign that reads “Don’t forget to sign your children out.” She looks up from her files. Will flashes his badge and asks for Mr. Petrie. The woman hops to with the speed of a woman half her age. A second later, she comes out of the back office, waving us in. We pass by the other secretary, who averts her eyes quickly and goes back to her work as if looking at us is a crime and we might arrest her for it. The receptionist leaves us with Principal Stanley Petrie. He’s about the same age and height as his wife but with a severely receding hairline and ginger beard. He wears the same work attire my old principal wore: a too-small suit with a ghastly red and blue striped tie.

  We sit in the chairs across from him—the “naughty chairs” as my fellow teachers always called them. If you had to put your behind in one of these, the news would not be good. Never thought I’d be back in one of them this soon.

  Stan Petrie smiles at us. “I wasn’t expecting you so quickly.”

  “I apologize for that, we should have made an appointment,” Will says.

  “No, it’s okay. I want to help. Dave … he was a good friend. If someone did that to him … ” Petrie shakes his head. “I just can’t believe anyone would want to hurt him. Are you sure this wasn’t an animal?”

  “Fairly sure,” I answer. “How long have you known him?”

  “Ten years. We met when he moved here and opened up shop.”

  “He wasn’t born here, then?” Will asks.

  “No, he was from Denver.”

  “And you were close friends?” Will asks.

  “Yeah. We played poker. Sometimes he came over for dinner.”

  “Did he ever mention Valerie Wayland to you?” Will asks.

  “Not really. Just that he enjoyed talking to her that night.”

  “The dinner party?” Will asks.

  “Yeah. I never would have put those two together. Both too quiet. I was surprised how well they got on. Her husband actually left early, not that he was talking to anyone. You could tell Walter didn’t want to be there even before his wife began ignoring him. He barely spoke to anyone and left for home the first chance he got. Val didn’t even notice. But after that night, Davis never mentioned her again.”

  “So you don’t think there was anything between them, romantic or otherwise?” I ask.

  “Anything’s possible, I guess, but he never said a word to me. And let me tell you, if they were together, they kept it a damn good secret.”

  “What about Carrie Ellison? Was he involved with her?” I ask.

  “Carrie Ellison,” Petrie chuckles. “Yeah, that one came as a shock. I mean, I’m not surprised she fell for him, but why he was with her was a total mystery.”

  “How come?” I ask.

  “I taught Carrie algebra ten years ago when I was still working at the high school. She was your typical little lost girl. Her father ran off when she was young, so she kept looking for his replacement.”

  “She came on to you?” I ask.

  “Oh, yeah,” he chuckles. “Always had a thing for older guys even then. Though she grew tired of them pretty quickly. Davis was the last in a long line.”

  “So she broke up with him?” I ask.

  “I just know what the rumor mill says. From what I heard, Carrie was in tears at the grocery store three months ago.”

  “Three months? Around the same time he stopped going to your poker game?” I ask.

  “I guess.”

  “And, according to the rumor mill, how long did they date?” Will asks.

  “I think about seven months. A record for Carrie.”

  “But Davis wasn’t serious about her?” I ask.

  Petrie sighs. “I don’t think Dave could have been serious about anyone. He lived here for ten years and only dated two women: Rosie, a former teacher here, and Carrie.”

  “Why do you think that was?” I ask.

  “His wife, of course.”

  I nearly drop my pen. “He’s married?”

  “No, widowed.”

  “How did she die?” I ask.

  “Car accident eleven years ago.”

  Will graciously nods at Petrie and stands. Guess the interview’s over. “Principal Petrie, thank you for your time.” Will hands the man a card. “If you think of anything else that might be useful, please call.”

  “Sure.”

  We see ourselves to the door. Will ignores the staring office workers as we pass. What they must be thinking. Nothing like having the FBI come in and interview your boss to break the monotony. The few times the police came to my school, it kept the water cooler conversation going for weeks. When we reach the hallway, I open my mouth to speak, but Will holds up his hand to stop me. My mouth snaps shut. The second we’re outside, Will opens his. “So, what are you thinking?”

  “Why did you end the interview so quickly?”

  “He told us everything he knew.”

  “No, he didn’t. We know about as much as we did before.”

  “We have the connection. Carrie Ellison. She had reason to want them both dead.”

  “No, she had a reason to dislike both. Getting passed over for a promotion a year ago and being dumped are not good reasons to raise the dead and kill people.”

  “When I was on the job in DC, I had cases where guys killed each other
over a pair of shoes.”

  I shake my head. “I’m sorry, I just don’t buy it. If the breakup was her breaking point and she was consumed with rage, she’d kill Wynn first, the source. Valerie would be just an added bonus. There has to be more—”

  The passing police cruiser stops our speculation. As it pulls over to us, Will shoots me a grave look. I take this to mean my mouth shall not open for the next several minutes. Sheriff Graham rolls down the passenger side window. He pulls down his aviator sunglasses on his nose and grins. “Seems you lot had a busy morning. Can I give you a ride somewhere?”

  “The diner in town would be great,” Will answers matching Graham’s grin. “Thank you.”

  Graham’s smile doesn’t fade, but his eyes flicker a look of

  either anger or disappointment. Perhaps both, according to the vibes I’m getting off him. The feeling doesn’t last long. “Not a problem. Must have worked up quite an appetite. Get in.” Will opens the passenger side door. Guess that means I’m in the back. I’ve never been in the back of a police cruiser. It’s not as bad as Steven had made it sound. There are no door handles and there is the Plexiglas separating the front from the back, but there’s no blood or vomit, which he always complained about having to clean up. It smells pleasantly like Pine-Sol back here. Maybe Steven was just trying to impress me. Then again, this small town is no Chula Vista, California.

  We ride in silence for ten uncomfortable seconds before Graham works up the nerve to speak. “So, how’s the case going? You have a suspect who can command bears to attack yet?” Will just stares out the window. Graham looks at me through the rearview, but I follow Will’s example. What wonderful trees. “I hear you’ve been asking questions about Carrie Ellison,” he tries again.

  Once again, neither Will nor I answer. I feel another surge of emotion and the word frustration pops into my mind. I’m getting a handle of this clairempath thing. Next stop, human lie detector. My hunch proves true because Graham suddenly stops the car. Will still doesn’t look at the man. “There is such a thing as professional courtesy, Agent Price,” Graham says. “You people cannot just come into my town, boss my deputies around, take over my investigation, and cut me out of the loop. And you certainly cannot harass innocent citizens and tarnish the name of a good woman!”

  “We will do whatever it takes to stop the deaths of more of your citizens. If you don’t like where the investigation leads, that’s not my problem. Perhaps if you had done your job, we wouldn’t be here doing it for you.”

  “I will not be insulted in my own cruiser,” Graham snarls. “Get out. Both of you.”

  What did I do? Will jumps out, slamming the door so hard the whole car shakes. I think Graham was too preoccupied with his own anger to notice. He’s seething, breathing twice the normal rate. Before the man explodes all over me, Will opens my door and I leap out. The millisecond the door closes, the cruiser speeds down the road. So much for our ride. I think I can hear my feet sobbing.

  “You couldn’t have insulted him closer to the diner?”

  Will doesn’t answer. He starts down the road and I of course follow, after the heels come off. He obviously has no desire to say anything to me, so I follow a few paces behind. Lord, he’s as moody as a teenager. I am so avoiding him during full moons.

  The town is busy now with the lunch rush. SUVs line the street waiting for the light to turn. One or two compact cars sit between the SUVs looking like children’s toys. Four-wheel drive must be a necessity here. The sidewalks are congested as well, as the number of people on the streets has easily doubled. People go in and out of the stores as if they have revolving doors. The strange thing is all of them seem to have a smile on their faces. They smile when they see a neighbor, they smile as they walk out of the stores, they smile as they turn a corner … it’s unnerving. Maybe the whole town is under a gypsy curse or something. An entire town cannot be this happy. The Stone Diner is the first building on the other side of the street, and by the looks of the line outside on the sidewalk, it’s the most popular place in town. We’re going to be here forever.

  Will joins the line behind a man in overalls covered in what I hope is dirt. I feel totally out of place in my black suit and white dress shirt. People here probably think Ralph Lauren was a character on The Honeymooners. Overalls glances at us then turns fully around. “You’re two of the FBI guys in town, right?”

  News sure does travel fast. “Yeah, we are,” I say.

  “Heck, you shouldn’t have to wait for your lunch. Hey, Sam!”

  The man in the front of the line turns. “Hiya, Dean.”

  “Do you mind if the FBI cuts in front of you?”

  He shrugs. “Not really.”

  I look at Will, but he’s already jumping the line. We reach Sam, who opens the diner door. “Hey, Ruby!” A woman my age with olive skin and brown hair standing next to the Wait to Be Seated sign turns. “Can my FBI friends cut?”

  She looks at Will and subtly sticks her chest out. “Sure, Sam.”

  When we get to the front, Will gives a killer smile to the woman, who blushes. I’m surprised she doesn’t lick him. Within two minutes, we’re shown to a booth in the back. The diner is so loud it reminds me of the cafeteria at school, a few hundred voices chattering away. The waitress disappears with our drink orders, two coffees. I take off my jacket, hanging it on the coat hook above our booth. A few people turn and glance at us.

  “Why do I feel like we’re under a microscope?” I ask in a low voice, which means I still have to shout to be heard.

  “Because we are.”

  The waitress comes back with our much-needed elixir of life. My sleepless night is catching up with me. “What can I get you?”

  “Can I have a hamburger, medium rare, salad with ranch dressing, and fries?” I ask.

  “I’ll have a hamburger, two steaks—all very rare—and pork chops.” Will says.

  The waitress stares at him, dumbfounded for a second. I feel the same way. Will just smiles at the woman. “Atkins,” he says. The waitress walks away shaking her head.

  “Like meat, huh?”

  He places the napkin on his lap. “I haven’t eaten since last night. My metabolism is much faster than yours.”

  “Do you eat that much all the time?”

  Will shrugs. Geez, and here I felt bad about ordering that side of fries. “So … ” I say, and then draw a blank. I really should have gone to more parties. My small talk stinks.

  “So?” he asks.

  Okay, think. “You think Carrie did it?” Will scowls and eyes the man obviously listening to us. It doesn’t take ten seconds to take a sip of coffee. “On … General Hospital? She did hate Colette for that drunk driving accident.”

  “I don’t know,” Will grumbles into his cup. Neither of us says anything until the eavesdropper downs his coffee and jumps off his stool. Good.

  When the man’s far enough away, I ask, “Are we off to the butcher shop after this?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, do you think she did it?”

  “She’s definitely a suspect, but I don’t want to jump to conclusions yet. If you focus too much on one suspect, other possibilities aren’t weighed equally. But she did have motive and opportunity, and as far as I can tell, nobody else did.”

  “That we know of,” I point out. “We so do not have the full picture yet.”

  “What makes you say that?” Will asks.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Well, what happened three months ago? It’s too much of a coincidence that he broke up with Carrie and stopped a ten-year tradition at the same time. I could understand if he stopped while he was seeing her, but why after?”

  “What’s your theory?” he asks with a smile. I do believe I am impressing him.

  “Oldest one in the book. He dumped Carrie for Valerie.”

  Now he raises an eyebrow. “There’s been no hint of that. You think they could keep something like that a secret in this town? Where’s your proof?”

 
“Just female intuition. But you can see it, right? After her daughter died, she was seriously depressed. I mean, how could she not be? She might not be emotional in public, but it was there. She knew about Wynn’s wife and wanted to share with someone who knew her pain. Her husband, who was cold and withdrawn like a typical hurting male, refused to discuss their loss, so he was no help. She and Wynn shared their stories, made each other feel better, and next thing they know they were sleeping together. Carrie found out she was passed over for Valerie again and snapped. Zombie rampage time. Don’t tell me it hasn’t crossed your mind. That’s why you ended the Petrie interview early. You got some validation of your theory.”

  “Very good, Agent Alexander. But again, do we have proof?”

  “No, but it’s early yet.”

  The waitress returns with our orders. Will’s comes on two plates, both with small pools of blood on them. Yuck. Will practically devours a whole steak in a minute. I half expect him to rip it apart with his hands and teeth, licking the blood off his fingers. I just pick at my salad.

  “I agree it’s the most logical theory,” Will says with a mouth full of meat, “but with no proof, we can’t move on her. What about the other suspect? We haven’t even begun looking at the husband.”

  “He’s been in California, as far as we know. It’s a small town, someone would have seen him around if he was back.”

  “We’re checking that out, but I’m not sold on the affair angle. It calls for a lot of conjecture. Valerie Wayland seemed like a private person; I can’t see her opening up to anybody, let alone a relative stranger like Wynn.”

  “She knew his history. He’d been through the whole grief thing. He’d know how it feels to lose the most important person in your life. Her husband was too lost in his own grief to be any help; chances are she went somewhere to vent. Damaged people seek out damaged people. I can personally attest to that. I mean, when your wife died, didn’t you—”

  I shut my mouth immediately. Will’s gone all dark and broody again. His jaw is so tight I can see all the veins in his neck bulging. He stares down at his plate like the pork chops just slapped his mother and he’s deciding what form of torture to use. I need a crib sheet of things that are off limits to speak about to certain people. Dead wife, number one on Will’s list.