Demon Hunting In the Deep South (27 page)

“Evie, is that you?”

A low whir of titillated excitement buzzed through the people milling about the room as Trey Peterson made his way toward her. Heads turned so hard and so fast you could practically hear the neck bones crack. Murder, scandal, the delicious possibility of a forbidden, torrid affair—heady stuff in a little town.

“Oh, no,” Evie said. “Addy?”

“I’m here.” Addy took Evie by the hand. “I won’t leave.”

“What ails Miss Evie?” Nicole asked.

Muddy motioned Nicole closer. “See that man coming toward us?”

“You mean the tall, sandy-haired fellow in the suit looking at Miss Evie like she’s dessert?”

“That’s the one. He’s Meredith’s husband—the woman everybody thinks Evie killed. He’s got the hots for Evie.”

“Mothertrucker,” Nicole said.

“Exactly.”

The band launched into another number.

Mr. Collier slid his contrabulator up his sleeve and put on his panda head. “Edmuntina, would you like to dance?”

“I’d love to, Amasa.”

The giant panda and the elegant flapper swept back onto the dance floor.

“Look at ’em. They’re really in love, ain’t they?” Nicole sounded wistful.

“Yes, I do believe they are,” Evie said, eyeing Trey’s approaching figure with dread. She did
not
want to talk to him.

“Love.” Nicole heaved a deep sigh. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. Come on, Frodo. Let’s go flirt with the po-po.” She turned to leave and ran headlong into the bumblebee. “ ’Scuse me,” she said.

She left the ballroom, headed, Evie assumed, to find Dan Curtis. She considered going with her and hiding out in the lobby until Ansgar returned, but it was too late. Trey was already upon her.

“Evie, that dress,” he said in a tone of wonder. “Your hair . . .”

“Her boobs.” Addy’s tone was as dry as a lizard’s butt on hot sand. “Go on and say it. You’re a guy. We know what you’re looking at.”

“Addy, please,” Evie murmured, embarrassed.

Trey shot Addy a look of dislike. “You’re beautiful, Evie,” he said, gazing at her in that way that made her want to squirm.

Life was funny. A million years ago in high school, Evie had a secret crush on Trey, along with most of the other girls in town. He was a Big Deal when they were teenagers, the original Golden Boy, quarterback, good looking, popular, and rich. Of course, he never noticed her. Or, if he did, it was to make fun of her, same as Meredith and the other cool kids. Sometimes, she fantasized about what it would be like to date him. Deep down she knew she would hate it. All that attention. . . Meredith and the Twats would have made her life unbearable.

Trey was still a big deal in Hannah, but now she just wished he’d go away.

“Thank you,” she said.

Everyone was looking at them. Oh, this was beyond miserable.

Not ten feet away, Yum Yum Truman, who’d come to the dance as Princess Leia from
Star Wars,
was making like the Leaning Tower of Pisa in an effort to listen in on their conversation. If she listed much farther, she’d land on her cinnamon bun hairdo. Mamie Hall tottered closer to them on a pair of four-inch leopard-print platform shoes. She wore silvery thigh-high stockings, a slinky satin dress that was artfully ripped and torn, and a pale peach glamour wig. Evie couldn’t decide if Miss Mamie was supposed to be Gwen Stephani at eighty or that creepy, rotting woman from
The Shining.
Either way, she had Evie’s vote for scariest costume.

To her horror, Trey grabbed her hand—the one Addy wasn’t squeezing the life out of.

“I need to talk to you,” he said in throbbing tones. “Alone. It’s important.”

They were the center of attention, but Trey seemed oblivious. What was the matter with him? Was he totally missing an appropriate valve?

She had to get out of here.

Evie yanked her hands free and bolted for the door. Behind her, she heard Addy call her name, but she kept going. She needed space.

She darted into the hall, passing Nicole and her powder puff Chihuahua, and Officer Dan. Where the heck was the ladies’ room, Oklahoma? She’d hide out there until Trey left. Splash a little water on her face, regain her composure. There, at the end of the hall, two doors separated by a water fountain. One door had a sign on it that read BLOSSOMS; the other door’s sign read BARK. Good grief, which one was she? She
hated
cutesy names for restrooms.

Blip!
Brand appeared in front of her, blocking her way. “Where are you going? I promised Ansgar to keep you safe.”

“I’m going in the ladies’ room,” she said. “Where ladies go to do
lady
things, like powder our noses and freshen our lipstick and
twinkle
.”

“Twinkle?” Evie could almost see the Dalvahni translator kicking in. Realization dawned in Brand’s eyes, and he took a hasty step back. “I will wait for you here.”

“I thought you’d feel that way,” Evie said.

With a sense of triumph, she pushed open the door designated BLOSSOMS and stepped inside. Her victory was short-lived.

There was a dead cheerleader in the bathroom.

Chapter Twenty-seven

A
nsgar stalked toward the stage, studying his quarry. Though his hair was gray, Peterson carried himself like a much younger man. Much younger. Did the demonoids, like the Dalvahni, escape the ravages of time that cursed the mortals of this frame, living on long after their human friends and family had died? If so, Peterson might have added silver to his hair to disguise the fact that he did not age.

More questions with no answers, Ansgar thought, seething with frustration. Little was known about demonoids. That fact would have to be remedied.

Peterson came off the stage and said something to his wife, who waited near the foot of the steps. Even from a distance, Peterson fairly crackled with pent-up energy, charisma, and something more.

Inhuman power.

Not so the thin woman in the black dress. She seemed ordinary, a dry, brittle husk in comparison to her husband’s wicked vitality. Her posture was rigid, her expression as fixed and unbending as her body.

Clarice, Ansgar remembered. Her name was Clarice.

Giving Blake a tight-lipped smile, she turned and made her way ahead of him through the crowd. Their progress was hampered by the many people who stopped to speak to them. Curious to hear their conversation, Ansgar opened his senses.

“—so very sorry about Meredith,” a dark-haired woman in a cat costume said to Clarice. “Guess Greer Whittaker will move up as president of the La Las . . .”

“. . . in a better place with Jesus now.” A caped man squeezed Blake’s shoulder. “If there’s anything you need, anything at all—”

“This Monday? My goodness, so soon?” An overweight woman in a butterfly costume shook her head, making her antennas wobble. “I declare, Clarice, I don’t know how you’re vertical. And to think that Evie Douglass had the
nerve
to come here tonight! She’s some kind of tacky. My cousin Tracy works at the courthouse.” The woman leaned closer, her large brown eyes widening. “She says Trey put up Evie’s bail money. Is it true?”

“Of course it isn’t true.” Blake took his wife by the arm and gave the fat butterfly a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Enjoy the dance, Babs. I need to get Clarice home. It’s time for her medicine.”

Ansgar cloaked himself in invisibility and followed the Petersons out of the ballroom. The closer he got to Peterson, the more his instincts jangled in warning. The stench of evil emanating from Blake Peterson was strongly reminiscent of the djegrali and, yet, different.

“Don’t touch me,” Clarice Peterson said, jerking away from her husband as soon as they reached the hallway.

Peterson looked around, as though checking to see if anyone had overheard. Dan Curtis and Nicole stood at the other end of the passageway near the entrance to the lobby, engrossed in conversation, but no one else was around.

Except me, and Peterson cannot see me, Ansgar thought with grim satisfaction.

“Don’t make a scene.” Blake’s low voice was flat and cold. “You’re a Peterson. There are appearances to consider.”

“Appearances can be deceiving, as you ought to know.” Mrs. Peterson backed away from her husband, her narrow chest heaving. “I wonder what people would say if they knew the truth about you?”

Ah, Ansgar thought, his hunter’s instincts sharpening.
Was the female referring to the fact her husband was a demonoid, or something else?

“Really, Clarice, you grow more tiresome every day.” Closing the gap between them, Peterson reached for her. “We both know you aren’t going to say anything.”

“Don’t be so sure of that,” Clarice said.

Turning, she scurried down the hall, her heels rapping against the tile floor in a staccato rhythm. She reminded Ansgar of a frightened rabbit in her haste to get away from her husband.

Blake swore savagely and went after her.

Remaining invisible, Ansgar crept into the lobby behind them. He paused when he saw the man in the uniform leaning against the wall near the front doors. So did the Petersons.

“Mr. Peterson,” Sheriff Whitsun said, straightening. “I’d like to have a word with you, if I may.”

“Not tonight, Sheriff.” Blake’s lean face, harsh with impatience and disdain not a moment before, assumed an expression of weary sadness. “It’s been a long day and my wife is tired.”

“It’s all right, dear.” Clarice’s tone was sweet as honey. “I’ll wait in the car. Take your time.”

Giving Blake a smile that was a thin blade of triumph, she walked out the door.

“Well,” Blake said. His expression was bland, but Ansgar sensed the anger boiling just beneath the surface. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

Ansgar eased closer, moving without sound. To his surprise, the sheriff’s nostrils flared and he glanced around, as though sensing Ansgar’s presence. Ansgar went still. How could he have forgotten? Whitsun was something more than human, too.

“There’s been a slight complication, I’m afraid,” Whitsun said. His sharp gray gaze moved back to Peterson. “The murder weapon has disappeared from the lab in Mobile.”

“What?”
Peterson’s outraged voice rang through the lobby. “This is inexcusable, sheer incompetence. When I find out who is responsible, heads will roll.”

“The lab people insist the knife was properly secured. Whoever took that knife broke into the Department of Forensic Sciences and removed it from the evidence locker. And they did it without a key.”

Peterson’s brows drew together. “Someone forced their way in?”

“No. The locker was undamaged and unopened. Nothing else was missing. Just the knife.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“I know, and things that don’t make sense bother me, Mr. Peterson. A lot.”

Blake took a deep breath, as though struggling to compose himself. “This is most upsetting, Sheriff, but I suppose in the long run it doesn’t matter. The blood on the knife matched Meredith’s?”

“Don’t know yet. The forensics guys took swabs from the knife before it was stolen, but their analysis isn’t complete. That’s another odd thing. The Department of Forensic Sciences is backlogged with cases, and yet this one was given top priority.”

Peterson gave the sheriff a pitying smile. “Not odd at all. I know the director. He moved things along for me.”

“Same way the preliminary hearing was pushed to the head of the docket? I hear it’s next week. That’s mighty fast. You make a few calls to Paulsberg, too?”

“My wife’s health is delicate, Sheriff Whitsun, and my grandson is distraught. Did you know Evie Douglass came here tonight, bold as brass, with everybody knowing she’s the killer? Why aren’t you questioning her? The woman is obviously unhinged. I want this thing resolved quickly and that woman put away, for my family’s sake.”

“I guess I can understand that. What I can’t figure out is the motive. Why would Evie Douglass kill your granddaughter-in-law?”

“The oldest motive in the world—jealousy. Evie Douglass wanted my grandson for herself. She killed Meredith to get her out of the way, poor deluded thing. Trey might screw a girl like that, but he would never marry her. She’s nobody. Her father was a drunk who worked in a feed store, for God’s sake. Not our kind of people.”

A girl like that . . .
Some of Ansgar’s icy detachment faded. So Evangeline was not good enough. He suppressed the sudden urge to strangle Blake Peterson. Slowly.

“I see,” Whitsun said. “So, Miss Douglass killed the victim in a jealous rage and left the bloody knife in her car. Clumsy, to say the least.”

“You’re the one who found the knife, Sheriff.”

“Yes, I did, and that’s another thing that sticks in my craw. I searched that car myself first thing yesterday morning, and it was clean. It was like that knife appeared by magic. Or somebody planted it in Miss Douglass’s car.”

“Good God, Sheriff, you’ve been watching too much television.”

“Something else. I photographed that knife and sent a buddy of mine a picture of it. He says the knife is a Scagel, a real collector’s piece with a stacked antler and leather handle and Bakelite spacers. Didn’t mean a thing to me, but my friend was mighty excited. He claims that knife is worth twenty thousand dollars.” Whitsun rubbed his jaw, looking thoughtful. “So that got me to thinking. Where in the world would Evie Douglass get a twenty-thousand-dollar knife?”

Peterson’s gaze shifted. “Maybe it was her father’s.”

“The drunk who worked in a feed store?” The sheriff shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think that knife belongs to somebody with money, lots of money. Someone who collects knives.”

“What are you implying?”

“Nothing, just trying to figure things out. You collect knives?”

“I have a knife collection, yes. My father collected many things. He left everything to me.”

“He was involved in some kind of unpleasantness back in the sixties, wasn’t he?”

Peterson’s jaw tightened. There was blackness at the heart of this man. The sheriff had better be careful.

“A woman named June Hammond was murdered. My father was tried and acquitted,” Blake said. “Look it up.”