Charlaine Harris - Crimes by Moonlight

And speaking of lights, I didn’t bother switching on the overhead light bar. I knew Fourteen Mast Road quite well, knew I’d be there in less than ten minutes, and so what was the point of switching on the strobes and getting all gung ho? But I did switch on the Motorola police radio, slung underneath the dash, and contacted the same polite woman I had talked to earlier.

“County, this is Salem Falls Unit One, responding to Fourteen Mast Road.”

And her brisk voice replied, “Salem Falls Unit One, ten-four.”

And I resumed driving, shivering in the coldness of the cruiser’s interior, wondering what in hell I was about to step into, and also wondering if the fine townspeople of Salem Falls would finally purchase me a new police cruiser at the next town meeting.

FOURTEEN Mast Road was on the left side of a narrow country road, at the top of a hill that offered great views of the Montcalm Valley and the Green Mountains of Vermont, over on the other side of the border. The house was an old Victorian, three stories tall, painted yellow with white and black trim. It had a nicely trimmed lawn and a wraparound porch, and I saw a Salem Falls police cruiser parked in the driveway behind a white Ford van, which, in turn, was parked behind a light blue Volvo. It looked like most of the lights were on inside, and I was happy to see that the cruiser-operated by Officer Melanie Harris-had its strobe lights off. Nothing like flashing lights to get attention, and even in a small town like Salem Falls, it would take just under an hour for most of the adult population to know something was amiss at the Logan place.

I pulled over on the side of the road-the driveway being full-and called off one more time to dispatch, “Salem Falls Unit One, off at the scene,” heard a quick reply, and then switched off the engine. I got out and walked up a flagstone path to the porch and checked out the Ford van. It had Massachusetts plates-which got my attention-and on the side of the van was one of those magnetic signs that said N.E.G.H. with a 1-800 phone number underneath, and some odd logo with a broomstick and sheet.

I went up the porch steps, past a couple more Halloween decorations, the door opened up, and Officer Melanie Harris came out, shaking her head, a slight smile on her chubby face. “Chief, you’re really not going to believe this one-”

“Tell me what you got,” I interrupted. “Let’s start with that. County dispatch said untimely death. The fire department been called out?”

“I called them right after I had dispatch call you. They should be here in a few minutes.”

“Okay, go on.”

It was chilly out on the porch, and I looked through some transparent white lace curtains. I saw what looked to be three people, sitting in a living room. I rubbed my hands, and Harris looked through her notepad and said, “What we have here is Ralph Toland and his wife, Carrie. They’ve lived here just under a year. Ralph runs some sort of online financial service company, and his wife helps with the books and billing.”

“Where they originally from?”

“ Vermont.”

“Oh,” I said and saw the twinkle in Melanie’s eyes with the way I pronounced the word. Years ago, during my grandparents’ time, Vermont was a state not unlike New Hampshire: solid Republican, flinty Yankee, self-sufficient, low taxes, that sort of thing. But now Vermont was just a suburb for rich New Yorkers, just like the southern part of our state was a suburb for rich Massachusetts types.

“Right, oh,” she said, referring back to her notes.

“And who’s the other guy in there with them?”

She flipped a page in the notebook. “This is where it gets… interesting, Chief. The other fellow in the living room, that’s Josh Lincoln. He was one half of a team from the N.E.G.H.”

“The N.E. what?”

She cocked her head. “You don’t watch much cable TV, do you, Chief?”

I said, “Mostly it’s Nickelodeon or the Food Network. Look, don’t keep me guessing.”

“Sorry,” she said. “N.E.G.H. New England Ghost Hunters. Josh and his buddy Peter Grolin, they belong to this outfit that hunts ghosts, spirits, paranormal phenomena, that sort of thing. They go to haunted houses or other buildings, stake them out for the night, film their results, and it gets shown on one of those weird cable channels in the high numbers. They were spending the night here, and something happened, and Peter… well, Peter, he’s dead.”

“Oh, Christ,” I said. “Ghost hunters. Here. Did you find out whose bright idea that was?”

“The male half of the Vermont immigrants,” Melanie said. “I guess… well, he claims that he and his wife, ever since they moved into the place, there’s been, quote, events, unquote. And the wife, she’s thinking of turning the place into a bed-and-breakfast-”

“Like this county needs another Victorian bed-and-breakfast.”

Another smile from my young officer, who’s the daughter of the selectmen chairman, and who works twice as hard to prove she doesn’t get any favors. She said, “But that’s the deal, Chief. This one, they could say it was haunted. That, plus the view of Vermont and the buttered scones for breakfast, I guess they thought that was a selling point.”

I tried to peer through the window, just saw the three shapes, sitting there silently. “What happened to Peter?”

Melanie’s smile faded a bit. “You can see for yourself. Kinda gross. Looks like he took a fall from the third floor stairs, went down to the second floor landing, and… well, the railing for the landing. There was this lovely sculpted ear of corn or something on the railing, very kitschy and decorative, but it had a sharp point and went right through his throat. Bled right out, up there on the landing.”

I took my uniform hat off, rubbed at my head. “All right. You got statements from all three of them?”

“Yep,” she said.

“You got pictures and preliminary measurements?”

“Yep, again.”

“What’s your gut telling you?”

She looked at me with a calm, clear expression, and said, “Untimely death. That’s all. Nothing suspicious.”

I stared right back at her. “Okay. Not bad… but you screwed one thing up.”

“Oh?”

I motioned to the living room. “You left the three of them alone in there, while you were out talking with me. Those are all witnesses. They should be separated so they don’t get a chance to chat and compare stories, and come up with a nice little narrative.”

Melanie said, “Good point, Chief. Won’t do it again. But still… guy took a tumble.”

“Sure,” I said, going to the door. “But if we find out later that somebody in here pushed him, the attorney general will be all over our ass. Look, stay out here and keep the eager beavers from the fire department from coming in. You’ve done well.”

She smiled. “Thanks, Chief.”

And so I opened the door and entered what was technically a crime scene, but which I thought was something else as well.

IF I was concerned about a crime being committed, I suppose I should have checked out the body of the recently deceased, but I was more interested in talking to the witnesses, aka residents, who were in the house at the time the young man died. Sitting on a couch that looked overstuffed and upholstered, like it belonged to some Manhattan designer’s idea of what constituted Victorian style, were Ralph and Carrie Toland. Ralph had on a pair of gray sweatpants and a T-shirt that said COLBY, while his wife had a light blue terry cloth robe on, her white-knuckled hands tight about the top. Her blonde hair was mussed and her eyes were red-rimmed, like she had been silently crying for the past hour. Ralph was about ten years my junior, black hair cut nice and short, but his face was just a bit flabby and shocked, like he could not believe that his entire life had led up to this, a pleasant home in a pleasant town with a dead body on the next floor.