Poison Fruit (30 page)

Of course, what had seemed like a good idea in the warmth and comfort of my living room seemed decidedly less so in the dark woods with a cold wind blowing off Lake Michigan. I parked in the lot near the mess hall and left the beer on the hood of my Honda. Snow crunched underfoot as I made my way to the porch and knocked on the door.

“Hey, um . . . Skrrzzzt?” I called. “Are you in there?”

There was no answer. I tried the handle and found it unlocked, so I pushed the door open and jumped back, bracing myself in case Skrrzzzt was on the other side, waiting to pounce at me again.

Nope, no bogle.

I waited a moment for my eyes to fully adjust to the darkness before entering the mess hall. The folding chairs were stacked and the dining tables stood empty. No beer cans, no evidence that a bogle had been there. I took a quick peek in the deserted kitchen and found that was empty, too.

This had been a dumb idea. No way was I going to search the entire camp on my own for one elusive bogle. I backtracked to my car.

“Hey, Skrrzzzt!” I said aloud. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but it’s Daisy Johanssen. I just wanted to say thanks for helping me out with the Night Hag. I brought some beer. I’ll just, um, leave it on the porch for you.”

There was no response, unless you count tree branches creaking eerily in the cold darkness. Feeling more than a little foolish, I hoisted the case of beer and hauled it over to the porch of the mess hall.

“Boo!”
a familiar voice said inches from my ear.

I let out a shriek and dropped the beer, whirling around and tripping over the porch steps in the process.

Skrrzzzt doubled over laughing as I landed hard on my butt on the
steps. “Oh, man!” Orange flames of mirth danced in his eyes. He held up two immense, knobby hands in apology. “I’m sorry, mamacita. My bad. I couldn’t resist. Oh, but if you could have seen the look on your face!”

Gathering what was left of my dignity, I stood. “Yeah, well, I’m glad it amused you. I’ll see you around, okay?”

The bogle sobered. “Oh, hey! Don’t go away mad. I didn’t mean anything by it.” He grimaced. “Shit! Is this going on my record?”

“Let’s say we’re even and call it a day,” I said, reaching in my coat pocket for my car keys.

“Aw, man!” Skrrzzzt spread his long-fingered hands in a pleading gesture. “Come on, cut a brother some slack.” I hesitated. He contorted his grotesque features into a winning smile. “C’mon! You brought beer and everything. Join me for a cold one?”

Feeling somewhat mollified, I shrugged. “I guess it couldn’t hurt.”

“Great!” The bogle scooped up the fallen case of beer and perched it on one gnarled shoulder. “Let’s head over to the rec room,” he said. “After that spill you took, I bet your badonkadonk could use a comfy chair—am I right?”

My bruised tail twitched in agreement. “Don’t remind me.”

The rec room was a cabin with a handful of overstuffed chairs that smelled faintly of mildew. The walls were lined with bookshelves filled with battered paperbacks and stacks of board games. It would have been cozy in a dilapidated sort of way if there had been a fire in the fireplace, but at least it was warmer inside away from the wind than it was outdoors.

“How’s about a little mood lighting?” Skrrzzzt suggested, setting down the case of beer and reaching for a battery-operated camping lantern on a high shelf. “Let’s see if there’s any juice left in this bad boy.” He switched on the lantern, which emitted a dim glow. “Perfecto! Beer me?”

I opened the case and handed him a beer. “So is the camp just leaving all this stuff here?”

“Yeah.” He glanced around. “They’ve salvaged anything worth saving. Pity. Lot of love in these old walls.”

I fished out a beer for myself and took a seat on one of the big chairs. “I bet. I’ll be sorry to see it go.”

“You and me both, mamacita.” Skrrzzzt set the lantern on the floor
between us and sat in a chair opposite me, slinging one arm along the headrest. “So what’s on your mind?”

I shrugged. “Nothing special.”

“Now, now!” The bogle wagged a long, black-clawed finger at me. “You didn’t come all the way out here all by yourself just to say thanks. Is it man trouble?” His orange eyes glowed with avid curiosity. “A certain werewolf, perchance? You can tell old Skrrzzzt,” he said in a wheedling tone. “I’ve got the experience of listening to four generations’ worth of camp counselors under my belt.”

“Okay.” I cracked open my beer and took a gulp. “I killed a man yesterday.”

Skrrzzzt let out a low whistle and opened his own can. “You got me there, mamacita. Not what I expected.” He took a long pull on his beer, then wiped his leathery lips. “He deserve it?”

“You tell me.” Despite the fact that I’d had no intention of doing so, I found myself giving the bogle an abbreviated account of what had happened yesterday. What can I say? He really was easy to talk to.

“Sounds to me like you did the man a kindness,” Skrrzzzt said when I’d finished. “You losing sleep over it?”

“You could say so,” I said.

“Figures.” He drained his beer. “You mortals have soft hearts to go along with your soft little bodies. Beer me?”

I tossed him a fresh one. “So what advice do four generations’ worth of camp counselors have for me?”

“Are you kidding?” The bogle chuckled, a sound like dry branches snapping underfoot. “This is way out of their league. I was hoping you were here to talk about your love life. You want
my
advice?”

“Sure.”

“Get over it,” Skrrzzzt said simply. “Like it or not, it’s part of your job.”

“That’s it?” I asked him. “That’s your sage advice?”

The bogle shrugged. “It is what it is, mamacita. Did you think it was
all gonna be beer and skittles when you accepted that nasty-ass magic dagger you’ve got hidden under your coat from a goddess of the freakin’ dead?”

“No, but . . .” I couldn’t think of a way to finish my protest. “No.”

“Well, there you go, then.” Skrrzzzt hoisted his beer in my direction. “Feel better?”

Oddly, I did. Skrrzzzt’s advice notwithstanding, I wasn’t about to “get over it” now or ever—I don’t think killing someone, even if for the best possible reasons, is something anyone should “get over”—but I felt calmer.

“Yeah,” I said. “Actually, I do. Thanks.”

“No problemo,” the bogle said. “Sometimes it just helps to talk things out, and sometimes it’s easier with someone you’ve only just met. Fresh perspective, no emotional baggage, yadda, yadda, yadda.” He swigged his beer. “And that, little lady,
is
wisdom gleaned from eavesdropping on four generations of camp counselors.”

“Well, I appreciate it.” I set down my empty beer can. “Consider yourself off the hook for scaring me. You’re still up a favor in my ledger.”

“Cool.” Skrrzzzt looked relieved, then dismayed as I rummaged for my keys. “Hey, you’re not taking off already, are you?”

“I don’t mean to confess and run, but it’s getting late,” I said. “And I have to work tomorrow.”

“Pffft!” He waved a dismissive hand. “It gets dark so early this time of year. It’s barely past six o’clock. C’mon, keep me company for a while longer. We can play a board game.” Rising, he padded on backward-bending legs over to the bookshelves and perused them. “What have we got here?
Risk
,
Monopoly
 . . . eh, not really my bag . . .
Scrabble
 . . . you like
Scrabble
?”

“It’s okay,” I said. “Do you?”

Skrrzzzt scratched his lank, mossy hair. “You know, I can’t say I’ve actually played any of these—I’ve just watched humans do it. Seems like a decent way to pass the time.”

“Well, maybe we should pick an easy one.” I got up to look. “One where I can remember the rules.”

We settled on
Battleship
and played three rounds. I won the first two and Skrrzzzt won the last, after which I left over his protests, promising I’d come back some other time.

“You’d best mean what you say, mamacita,” the bogle said to me. “Because I’m gonna hold you to it.”

“I know.” I smiled at him. “Don’t worry. I know better than to make false promises in the eldritch community.”

“Right on.” Skrrzzzt nodded and held out one fist. “Respect.”

I bumped his fist with my own. “Respect.”

It’s funny, but Skrrzzzt was right. I did feel better after talking to him, and part of it was because he wasn’t involved in any of my drama. Feeling generous, I drove home, fed Mogwai, and logged in to the Pemkowet Ledger to record an additional favor owed in the bogle’s record. I figured lending a sympathetic listening ear to Hel’s liaison counted. If and when the old campsite sold and was developed as residential housing, I’d definitely put in a word with the homeowners’ association on Skrrzzzt’s behalf.

After all, if the bogle had managed to maintain a good working relationship with the Presbyterian camp for four generations, there was no reason to think he couldn’t do the same with new owners.

If I had dreams that night, I didn’t remember them. I awoke feeling well rested—and, as a bonus, in an immaculately clean apartment, thanks to yesterday’s flurry of housekeeping. I celebrated by making a big breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon before heading down to the police station on foot.

About twenty yards before I reached the station, an inexplicable tingle ran the length of my spine.

Something felt
wrong
.

I glanced around, my tail twitching. Nothing seemed amiss. There
were a few cars parked along the street, but most of the shops weren’t open for business yet. On the opposite side, a couple of women carrying yoga mats were chatting in an animated fashion on their way to the studio at the end of a picturesque little alley.

Shrugging, I continued onward.

Inside the station, it was pandemonium. Chief Bryant, Bart Mallick,
Ken Levitt, and Patty Rogan were all crowded in the foyer around the reception desk, all of them talking at once, trying to talk over one another.

My bad feeling intensified.

“Hey!” I called. “What’s up? What’s going on?”

Glancing over at me, the chief held up one hand for silence and the conversation came to a halt. “Daisy.” The expression on his heavy face was grim. “We’re being sued.”

Twenty-nine

I
stared at Chief Bryant. “What do you mean we’re being sued? All of us? The Pemkowet PD?”

He shook his head. “Not the department.”

“It’s the PVB.” Behind the desk, Patty was unable to contain the news. “
And
the city
and
East Pemkowet
and
the township. They’re all named as codefendants.”

I shifted my blank gaze to her. “Who? How? Why?”

“It’s a class-action lawsuit to the tune of forty-five million dollars.” The chief’s mouth twisted in distaste. “The plaintiffs are suing for damages for physical, emotional, and psychological injuries sustained during the events of last October.”

I blinked. “Can they even
do
that?”

“Apparently so,” he said. “As far as I know, there’s no precedent, but a judge has certified the claim. That means that one way or another, it’s moving forward.” He drummed his thick fingers on the desk, scowling at me. “Guess which particular attorney filed the suit and has been appointed representative counsel for the plaintiffs?”

I drew in a sharp breath. “Son of a bitch!” It hit me then. One of the
cars parked on the street where I’d felt the first tingle of wrongness had been a sleek silver Jaguar, a car I’d last seen hell-spawn lawyer Daniel Dufreyne getting into and driving away in, leaving me with unanswered questions.

“Excuse me,” I said, turning on my heel and heading for the door.

Outside, Daniel Dufreyne had emerged from his car in anticipation of my return. It looked like he was posing for a photo shoot for
GQ
. He wore a long, expensive-looking charcoal wool coat with a burgundy
cashmere scarf around his neck, and he was leaning back against the hood of the Jaguar, feet propped on the curb clad in highly polished black oxfords, hands laced before him in black leather gloves that fit like, well, really expensive gloves.

He was smiling, his unnaturally white teeth gleaming. I struggled with the urge to punch him in those white, white teeth.

“Daisy Johanssen.” His voice turned my name into an unwelcome caress. “I was hoping to see you this morning.”

I gritted my teeth. “Why?”

Dufreyne’s smile widened like a shark’s. “Schadenfreude,” he said. “It means—”

“I know what it means!” I shouted. “It means you came here to gloat. What the hell do you have against Pemkowet? What the hell do you have against
me
?”

His smile vanished. “Why, I’ve got nothing whatsoever in the world against Pemkowet,” he said in a disingenuous tone. “It’s a charming little community. It’s not
your
fault that the conjoined local governments and the visitors bureau made bad decisions that led to a lot of innocent tourists suffering harm. All I want to do is ensure that redress is made, so it never happens again.”

“Bullshit,” I said bluntly. “You were here trying to buy property on behalf of some developer—Amanda Brooks’s property in particular. You can’t tell me that’s not a conflict of interest.”

“A point of correction.” Dufreyne held up one gloved finger. “I
did
facilitate the purchase of several parcels of land on behalf of Elysian Fields. Naturally, that party is concerned about property values declining based
on governmental malfeasance.” He shrugged. “However, they have no stake in the outcome of this lawsuit beyond the general well-being of the community.”

“And bankrupting Amanda Brooks in the process, forcing her to sell her property, too?” I said.

A gleam of unholy amusement lit his black eyes. “The lawsuit doesn’t target Ms. Brooks as an individual. The fact that she happens to own a parcel of interest is entirely coincidental.”

Something about Dufreyne’s barely suppressed glee made me
believe he was telling the truth. I remembered the map that Lee had shown me—God, it felt like months ago—with the red blotch of lots that Elysian Fields had purchased encroaching on Hel’s territory. The old Cavannaugh property that belonged to Amanda Brooks had been a decent-size wedge of unsold green, but it was dwarfed by Hel’s territory.