2 Blood Trail (30 page)

“Pity,” Vicki agreed, and hid a totally inappropriate smile. The boy—young man—had been completely serious.

“I just can’t believe that someone’d be shooting at Colin’s family. I mean,” he sat up and began buttoning his shirt, fingers trembling with indignation, “they’re probably the nicest people I know.”

“It doesn’t bother you that these people turn into animals?” Celluci asked.

Barry stiffened. “They don’t turn into animals,” he snapped. “Just because they have a fur-form doesn’t make them animals. And anyway, most of the animals I’ve met lately have been on two legs! And besides, Colin’s a great cop. Once he picks up a suspect’s scent the perp’s had it. You couldn’t ask for a better guy to back you up in a tight situation, and what’s more, the wer practically invented the concept of the team-player.”

“I only wondered if it bothered you,” Celluci told him mildly.

“No.” Savagely shoving his shirttails into his pants, Barry turned faintly red. “Not anymore. I mean, once you get to know a guy, you can’t hate him just because he’s a werewolf.”

Words of wisdom for our time
, Vicki thought. “Back to the shooting . . .”

“Yeah, I think I know someone who might be able to help. Bertie Reid. She’s a real buff, you know, one of those people who can quote facts and figures at you from the last fifty years. If there’s someone in the area capable of making those shots, she’ll know it. Or she’ll be able to find it out.”

“Does she shoot?”

“Occasionally small arms but not the high caliber stuff anymore. She must be over seventy.”

“Do you know her address?”

“No, I don’t, and her phone number is unlisted—I heard her mention it one day at the range—but she’s not hard to find. She drops by the Grove Road Sportsman’s Club most afternoons, sits up in the clubroom, has a few cups of tea and criticizes everyone’s shooting.” He glanced up from the piece of paper he was writing the directions on. “She told me I kept my forward arm too tense.” Flexing the arm in question, he added, “She was right.”

“Why don’t you practice at the police range?” Celluci asked.

Barry looked a little sheepish as he handed over the address of the club. “I do occasionally. But I always end up with an audience and, well, the targets there all look like people. I don’t like that.”

“I never cared for it much myself,” Vicki told him, dropping the folded piece of paper in her purse. It might be realistic, certainly anything a cop would have to shoot would be people-shaped, but the yearly weapons qualifying always left her feeling slightly ashamed of her skill.

They accompanied Barry down to the parking lot, watched him shrug into a leather jacket—“I’d rather sweat than leave my elbows on the pavement.”—and a helmet with a day-glow orange strip down the back, carefully pack his cap under the seat of his motorcycle, and roar away.

Vicki sighed, carefully leaning back on the hot metal of Celluci’s car. “Please tell me I was never that gung ho.”

“You weren’t,” Celluci snorted. “You were worse.” He opened the car door and eased himself down onto the vinyl seat. There hadn’t been any shade to park in, not that he would have seen it given the conversation they’d been involved in when they arrived. Swearing under his breath as his elbow brushed the heated seatback, he unlocked Vicki’s door and was busying himself with the air conditioning when she got in.

The echoes of their fight hung in the car. Neither of them spoke, afraid it might begin again.

Celluci had no desire to do a monologue on the dangers of making moral judgments and he knew that as far as Vicki was concerned the topic was closed.
But if she thinks I’m leaving before this is over, she can think again.
He didn’t have to be back at work until Thursday and after that, if he had to, he’d use sick time. It was more than Henry Fitzroy now, Vicki needed saving from herself.

For the moment, they’d maintain the truce.

“It’s almost 2:30 and I’m starved. How about stopping for something to eat?”

Vicki glanced up from Barry’s scribbled directions and gratefully acknowledged the peace offering. “Only if we eat in the car on the way.”

“Fine.” He pulled out onto the street. “Only if it’s not chicken. In this heat the car’ll suck up the smell of the Colonel and I’ll never be free of it.”

They stopped at the first fast food place they came to. Sitting in the car, eating french fries and waiting for Vicki to get out of the washroom, Celluci’s attention kept wandering to a black and gold jeep parked across the street. He knew he’d seen it before but not where, only that the memory carried vaguely unpleasant connotations.

The driver had parked in front of an ancient shoe repair shop. A faded sign in the half of the window Celluci could see proclaimed,
You don’t look neat if your shoes are beat.
He puzzled over the fragment of memory until the answer walked out of the shop.

“Mark Williams. No wonder I had a bad feeling about it.” Williams had the kind of attitude Celluci hated. He’d take out-and-out obnoxiousness over superficial charm any day. He grinned around a mouthful of burger.
Which certainty explains my relationship with Vicki.

Whistling cheerfully, Williams came around to the driver’s side of the jeep, opened the door, and tossed a bulky brown paper package onto the passenger seat before climbing in himself.

Had he been in his own jurisdiction, Celluci might have gone over for a chat, just on principle; let the man know he was being watched, try to find out what was in the package. He strongly believed in staying on top of the kind of potential situations Mark Williams represented. As it was, he sat and watched him drive away.

With the jeep gone, a second sign became visible in the shoe shop window.

 

“Bertie Reid?” The middle-aged man sitting behind the desk frowned. “I don’t think she’s come in yet but . . .” The phone rang and he rolled his eyes as he answered. “Grove Road Sportsman’s Club. That’s correct, tomorrow night in the pistol range. No, ma’am, there’ll be no shooting while the function is going on. Thank you. Hope to see you there. Damn phones,” he continued as he hung up. “Alexander Graham Bell should’ve been given a pair of cement overshoes and dropped off the continental shelf. Now then, where were we?”

“Bertie Reid,” Vicki prompted.

“Right.” He glanced up at the wall clock. “It’s only just turned three, Bertie’s not likely to be here for another hour. If you don’t mind my askin’, what’s a couple of Toronto PI’s want with Bertie anyway?”

More than a little amused by his assumption that her ID covered Celluci as well, Vicki gave him her best professional smile, designed to install confidence in the general public. “We’re looking for some information on competition shooting and Barry Wu told us that Ms. Reid was our best bet.”

“You know Barry?”

“We make it our business to work closely with the police.” Celluci had no problem with being perceived as Vicki’s partner. Better that than flashing his badge all over London—behavior guaranteed to be unpopular with his superiors in Toronto.

“And so do we.” His voice grew defensive. “Gun club members take responsibility for their weapons. Every piece of equipment that comes into this place is registered with both the OPP and local police and we keep no ammunition on the premises. It’s the assholes who think a gun is a high-powered pecker extension—begging your pardon—who start blasting away in restaurants and school yards or who accidentally blow away Uncle Ralph while showing off their new .30 caliber toy, not our people.”

“Not that it’s better to be shot on purpose than by accident,” Vicki pointed out acerbically. Still, she acknowledged his point. If the entire concept of firearms couldn’t be stuffed back into Pandora’s box, better the glamour be removed and they become just another tool or hobby. Personally, however, she’d prefer worldwide gun control legislation so tight that everyone from manufacturers to consumers would give up rather than face the paperwork, and the punishment for the use of a gun while committing a crime would fit the crime . . . and they could use the bastard’s own weapon then bury it with the body. She’d developed this philosophy when she saw what a twelve gauge shotgun at close range could do to the body of a seven-year-old boy.

“Do you mind if we wait for Ms. Reid to arrive?” Celluci asked, before the man at the desk could decide if Vicki’s words had been agreement or attack. He figured he’d already gone through his allotment of impassioned diatribes for the day.

Frowning slightly, the man shrugged. “I guess it won’t hurt if Barry sent you. He’s the club’s pride and joy, you know; nobody around here comes close to being in his league. He’ll be going to the next Olympics and, if there’s any justice in the world, coming back with gold. Damn!” As he reached for the phone, he motioned toward the stairs. “Clubroom’s on the second floor, you can wait for Bertie up there.”

The clubroom had been furnished with a number of brown or gold institutional sofas and chairs, a couple of good sized tables, and a trophy case. A small kitchen in one corner held a large coffee urn, a few jars of instant coffee, an electric kettle and four teapots in varying sizes. The room’s only inhabitant at 3:00 on a Monday afternoon was a small gray cat curled up on a copy of the
Shooter’s Bible
who looked up as Vicki and Celluci came in then pointedly ignored them.

From behind the large windows in the north wall came the sound of rifle fire.

Celluci glanced outside then picked up a pair of binoculars from one of the tables and pointed them downrange at the targets. “Unless they’re cleverly trying to throw us off the trail,” he said a moment later passing them to Vicki, “neither of these two are the marksman we’re looking for.”

Vicki set the binoculars back on the table without bothering to use them. “Look, Celluci, there’s no reason for both of us to be stuck here until four. Why don’t you swing around by Dr. Dixon’s, take the twins and their father home, and then come back and pick me up.”

“While you do what?”

“Ask a few questions around the club then talk to Bertie. Nothing you’d need to baby-sit me during.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” he asked, leaning back against the cinder block wall.

“I’m trying to be considerate.” She watched him fold his arms and stifled a sigh. “Look, I know how much you hate waiting for things and I doubt there’s enough going on around here to keep both of us busy for an hour.”

As much as he disliked admitting it, she had a point. “We could talk,” he suggested warily.

Vicki shook her head. Another
talk
with Michael Celluci was the last thing she needed right now. “When it’s over, we’ll talk.”

He reached out and pushed her glasses up her nose. “I’ll hold you to that.” It sounded more like a threat than a promise. “Call the farm when you want me to start back. No point in me arriving in the middle of things.”

“Thanks, Mike.”

“No problem.”

“Now why did I do that?” she wondered once she had the clubroom to herself. “I know exactly what he’s going to do.” The chairs were more comfortable than they looked and she sank gratefully into the gold velour. “He only agreed to go so he could pump the wer about Henry without me around to interfere.” Did she
want
him to find out about Henry?

“He’s already been searching into Henry’s background,” she told the cat. “Better he finds out under controlled conditions than by accident.”

It was a perfectly plausible reason and Vicki decided to believe it. She only hoped Henry would.

“I’m sorry, you just missed him. He’s gone back to bed.”

“Gone back to bed?” Celluci glanced down at his watch. “It’s ten to four in the afternoon. Is he sick?”

Nadine shook her head. “Not exactly, but his allergies were acting up, so he took some medicine and went upstairs to lie down.” She placed the folded sheet carefully in the laundry basket, reminding herself to inform Henry of his allergies when darkness finally awakened him.

“I’d hoped for a chance to talk to him.”

“He said he’d be up around dusk. The pollen count doesn’t seem to be as high after dark.” As she spoke, she reached out to take the next piece of clean laundry from the line and overbalanced. Instantly, Celluci’s strong grip on her elbow steadied her.
Almost a pity he isn’t a wer
, she thought, simultaneously thanking him and shaking off his hand.
And it’s a very good thing Stuart is out in the barn.
“If you stay for supper,” she continued, “you can talk to Henry later.”

Allergies. Henry Fitzroy did not look like the type of man to be laid low by allergies. As much as Celluci wanted to believe that a writer, and a romance writer yet, was an ineffectual weakling living in a fantasy world, he couldn’t deny the feeling of strength he got from the man. He was still more than half convinced the writing covered connections to organized crime. After all, how long could it take to write a book? There’d be plenty of time left over to get involved in a great many unsavory things.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t wait around indefinitely.

“Thank you for the invitation, but . . .”

“Detective?”

He turned toward the summons.

“It’s Ms. Nelson. On the phone for you.”

“If you’ll excuse me?”

Nadine nodded, barely visible under the folds of a slightly ragged fitted sheet. Nocturnal changes were hard on the linens.

Wondering what had gone wrong, Celluci went into the house and followed the redheaded teenager into a small office just off the kitchen. The office was obviously the remains of a larger room, left over when indoor plumbing and a bathroom had been put into the farmhouse.

“Thank you, uh . . .” He’d met the younger set of twins not fifteen minutes before, when they’d appeared to help Peter and Rose get Donald upstairs and into bed, but he had no idea which one this was.