Skull Creek Stakeout (Caden Chronicles, The) by Jones Eddie

Author:Jones, Eddie [Jones, Eddie]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780310723912
Publisher: Zonderkidz
Published: 2013-08-05T14:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINE

PORTRAIT OF A KILLER

Lucy Forester lived in a bungalow tucked behind a hedge shaped like a dragon. The placard stuck into the ground informed me the bush was wintergreen boxwood. In fact, each plant, bush, and tree carried an identifying placard, all hand painted and tipped with calligraphy. The dragon’s open mouth and fangs formed one half of an archway, its spiked tail the other.

I followed the pebble walkway through a flower garden decorated with brightly colored ceramic gnomes peeping out from behind ferns. Pinwheels whirled with the breeze; flute music played through a speaker near a fountain. It occurred to me that Lucy might be the inspiration behind the garden design at Dead Lines Books and, if so, may also be connected to the vampire slayer game.

As I started up the front steps, I heard yelling coming from around the side of the house. Moments later a man came backing toward me with his hands up. Chasing him across the yard was a woman wielding a garden hoe and wearing a yellow T-shirt under bib overalls.

“I’ll burn Randolph Manor down before selling to you!” she yelled at the man.

“Crazy broad, have you lost your mind?”

She swung the hoe, almost taking off his head. He stumbled backward, tripped over lawn ornaments, and went hurrying toward a black Escalade parked on the street.

“You’d better run!” she called after him.

Pausing by the driver’s door he yelled back, “Lady, you need help!”

The SUV sped away, and I wheeled back around and lifted my hands in a defensive posture.

“If you’re selling magazine subscriptions or with a church, keep walking.”

I moved sideways to put the water fountain between us. “Mind if I ask you a few questions about your husband’s death?”

“Oh geez. Not another one. Why won’t you people leave me alone?” She lowered the hoe, resting it on her shoulder. Cocking her head, she asked, “Aren’t you a little young to be a reporter?”

I told her about the Cool Ghoul Gazette and the sort of stories we ran.

“If you want to talk, we’ll have to do it while I work. I’m in the middle of a project.”

I followed Lucy Forester into the backyard and inside a cedar-plank work shed sitting in the corner of the lot. Empty portrait frames hung on faded gray walls; the smell of paint and cleaning solvents filled the air. Lucy Forester pushed a tabby cat off a three-legged stool and sat, hooking her toes over the bottom rung. Sprigs of blonde hair sprouted from beneath a pink ball cap. Her dimpled cheeks were tanned and smooth and flecked with paint speckles.

At a certain age boys start noticing things. I found myself staring at Forester’s widow and thinking: She’s really, really pretty.

I leaned against the windowsill and hooked one foot over the other. “Who’s the man who just left?”

“Victor Hamilton. If you’re a reporter, I would think you’ve already interviewed him.”

“Hamilton owns the golf resort, right?”

“Not outright. He’s more like the managing partner with a substantial interest.”

She selected a brush and began moving slender fingers across the canvas of a partially painted landscape.

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