I drove to the police station, said good morning to Mary, and then sat in the waiting room until Sheriff Hardy came out. I followed him back to his office.
I sat down on a squeaking brown leather chair and Sheriff Hardy looked at me from across mounds of paperwork. His desk was piled high with folders and stacks of paper. I saw at least four inboxes stuffed to the gills. There were two desks against one wall, and they were piled up with assorted files that threatened to topple at any moment. He saw me looking around.
“As you can see, everything is very neat and well organized,” he said, gesturing at the controlled chaos.
“It looks like my office. Any empty spot automatically attracts a piece of paper or a coffee mug or a loose pen.”
“This isn’t even the half of it. There’s an entire warehouse of police records downtown. They’re all in paper and we simply don’t have the time or the money to digitize them. The only way to find anything is by using an ancient card catalog system. It’s a nightmare when you’re trying to look up similar crimes from the past.”
“Speaking of similar crimes from the past . . .”
I told him what I’d discovered about Preston Jacobs and Fusion Swan. The deaths of all the various artists that Fusion had represented, the various crimes and murders that had occurred that centered around competitions Preston had been sponsoring, and my suspicion that somehow one of them had been involved in the murder, possibly for some sort of gain. I finished off by telling him about the red-haired weasel man and how I was fairly sure he was a drug dealer. I really wasn’t sure about discussing that piece of information—having seen Jack talk to the same man just a few days ago—but I decided I couldn’t keep it to myself. If he really was a drug dealer and Jack had in fact been buying drugs, then it didn’t matter how handsome he was. He was trouble and not the good sort of trouble. I decided to tell Sheriff Hardy and let the chips fall where they may.
“So you say you’ve written an article about this? Have you published it yet?”
“No, it’s still sitting on my computer. I was hoping to gather a bit more evidence. I really don’t want to get sued—not that I have anything to lose, but at the moment all I’m doing is reporting on deaths and crime centered around butter carving. I can’t really say anything of substance about Fusion or Preston at all.”
“So what do your . . . sources . . . say about this?”
“They think it’s likely that Fusion or Preston is involved in some way.”
That was all I could say—I certainly couldn’t tell him about soul suckers that sucked the blood and life energy out of people.
“Well, it’s certainly an intriguing idea. I’ve already questioned Mr. Swan about his client. I have spoken briefly with Preston Jacobs at the festival. Unfortunately, unless more evidence arises, I don’t really have any reason to question them again. I certainly got the feeling that Mr. Swan was pushing for me to direct my attention toward one of the Butter Festival competitors. I’ve questioned most of them, though, and on the whole, they have solid alibis. Some of them didn’t even arrive in town until the morning when you found Mr. Everand.”
“Be careful if you question them. You probably don’t want to be alone.”
Sheriff Hardy looked at me and then gently nodded. He had been a police officer for decades and was generally fearless, but he had enough sense to know that if a Torrent told you to be careful, you should be careful.
“I assume you’re still going to be investigating Mr. Swan and Mr. Jacobs and the rest of the competitors?”
“I’m a journalist. My online newspaper doesn’t run without news.”
“Spoken like a true Torrent. Not a yes, not a no, and you’re going to go and do something crazy anyway.”
I couldn’t resist.
“Do you know the Torrents well?”
“Of course. I’ve been a police officer for many years.”
It was like playing a chess game against a solid brick wall. Sheriff Hardy stood up and I followed before realizing he had done it once again. He’d ended the meeting simply by standing up.
“Thanks for coming in. We don’t have any other information on Holt Everand at the moment. They still haven’t figured out that liquid in his body, and I think they’re about to give up trying to find out. It’s going to end up as ‘unidentified biological matter’ on the report. I really don’t like having an unsolved murder on the books, so if you come up with any more evidence, please let me know. If you see that redheaded weasel man, stay away. I’m aware of him already. He came to town a couple of months ago and we’ve already had reports from his neighbors.”
I said my goodbyes and drove back to the office to construct a plan. Today was already looking like another busy day. There was another butter-carving final where I could possibly take a photo of Preston Jacobs or Fusion Swan again. I’d probably have lunch with my cousins, and then in the afternoon I had a therapy session with John Smith. In between that, I had to decide whether to publish my article, gather more evidence, or possibly take a trip out to Zero Bend’s house to see if I could talk with him. I decided to hit the Butter Festival. I could investigate, and it doubled as actual work that might earn me income.
I drove back to the town hall and went inside. It was noticeably warmer than yesterday. I could immediately see why: now that they were down to eight competitors, they’d set up refrigerated glass boxes for the competitors to work in. The hall was packed with spectators who were wandering from place to place, watching the carvers at work. On a large board in the back of the hall, I saw that Zero Bend had taken first place yesterday. Only the top eight competitors had gone through, and the bottom eight had been eliminated. I looked around for Fusion or Preston, but I couldn’t see them anywhere. I started wandering, checking out the butter carvers. One Asian girl, called Harmonious Twang, was carving an enormous scowling head out of butter. She was using a steel toothpick to sculpt fine lines through its hair. She was dressed sort of like Zero Bend—black and lots of punk, with ripped jeans and multiple piercings. Remembering that I was a reporter and not just snooping for some sort of spiritual leech entity, I took a photo of her. When it appeared on the viewfinder, I remembered the aura would be appearing too. Hers was purple and perfectly smooth like the butter she was sculpting. It had a clearly delineated edge like a barrier. So much for getting photographs for my website. If this strange new power didn’t go away soon, I’d have to get someone to do my photography for me.
I wandered down the hall past the various other competitors. One had sculpted two kittens playing that looked so lifelike it appeared they were about to pounce at any moment. Another was sculpting a shark with bits of meat hanging from its jaws. It wasn’t very good, and I wondered if they would be in the bottom four. I saw a few Ice Queens up in the stands watching over Zero Bend. The rest were gathered near his refrigerated box. They were all watching avidly, although this was a two-hour competition. I know they loved him, but seriously, could they keep up that sort of attention for that long?
Finally, I found myself outside Zero Bend’s box. He had piled up all of his butter into a tall spire and was carving it away with precision strokes from the top. It was Harlot Bay’s lighthouse, and it was perfect. He’d sculpted two people standing on the balcony, looking out into the distance. They couldn’t have been bigger than my little finger, but each of them was rendered in exquisite detail. It was a man and a woman; he was looking out to the distance, his face distraught as though he was witnessing some great tragedy. She was half smiling; what she was seeing was a little bit funny. As I watched, he carved lines on the surface of the lighthouse. At first they looked to be nothing, but then one line touched another and he gave a swipe with a tiny metal tool in his hand, and suddenly the lines turned into cracks in the exact pattern of the ones on the real lighthouse. I stood there watching him work, marveling at his skill and precision for a while, and then I eventually remembered to take a photograph.
I lined myself up, noted the no flash photography sign stuck to each room, and took a photo. Today, Zero Bend’s aura wasn’t looking so great. Instead of being the glowing yellow it was yesterday, it was murky, with tendrils of pale green lodged in it that had made his aura go dark. I watched Zero Bend for a little longer, wondering if that was the effect drugs had on an aura. I took another photo from a different angle. In this one his aura was looking fainter, almost see-through. Was my power fading? Or was that Zero Bend?
If this new power was fading, I’d better use it quickly. Was there anyone else I wanted to photograph? I decided Aunt Cass was out of the question—it simply wasn’t worth the risk. I very much preferred not having zits all over my face and enjoyed being able to walk in a straight line. Maybe I could photograph Jack Bishop, but I wasn’t really sure how I’d arrange that. Every time I got near him I seemed to lose my grip on my senses. Yesterday I’d somehow agreed to a date with him. If I got stuck in a conversation with him again, who knew what would happen?
I took another few laps of the main hall, but I didn’t come across Fusion Swan or Preston Jacobs. There were tourist spectators, the Ice Queens, and that was it.
It was getting close to lunch, so I put my camera away and decided to head to Traveler.