Death of a Wolfman (A Lily Gayle Lambert Mystery Book 1)

Death of a Wolfman

A Lily Gayle Lambert Mystery

CHAPTER ONE

Last time I checked I wasn’t in the family way. So why was the local midwife coming up my front walk? It sure looked like LizBeth Mitchell. You couldn’t miss that white-blond hair of hers shining like a beacon in the morning sun. The kind of hair my mama used to call towhead.

I couldn't think of a single reason she would be here. Unless she was delivering somebody’s baby she didn’t go to other people’s houses. They might be dirty or have germs or something. When she was delivering a baby she looked like she had wandered out of a big-city operating room, she had so much protective gear on.

And, darn it, I had been just about to get dressed for my weekly dinner date with the county sheriff, who also happened to be my cousin. I sighed. It’d have to wait till I found out the reason for this visit. I just hoped it wouldn’t take long. Ben hated it when I was late.

The antique doorbell made its hideous grinding noise just as I pulled myself out of my favorite overstuffed club chair. My teeth clamped together in protest. That bell sounded worse than fingernails on a chalkboard and friends knew better than to use the old thing.

I’d taken half a dozen steps when the doorbell growled again, startling me so much I almost dropped my glass of sweet tea.
Crap, LizBeth. Give a body time to get to the door, why don’t you?

Peeking out the slightly frosted glass panel next to the door, I observed my visitor in secret. LizBeth had a frown on her face as she scanned the front porch. OK, so it needed to be sanded and a fresh coat of paint applied. In a fit of mild embarrassment, I decided I’d have to sweet-talk Ben into taking care of that. My fear of heights crippled me so bad I couldn’t even wear stiletto heels; getting on a stepladder to paint the ceiling of the big front porch didn’t even fall into the realm of possibility.

Running a quick hand through my hair, I looked down at my bare feet, cropped pants and stretched out T-shirt. Not the kind of outfit to wear for receiving company, but those who dropped by without calling first would have to take me the way I was.

Putting on my company smile, I eased the door open. It squealed just a tiny bit and LizBeth jumped.
Nervous little thing, wasn’t she?
I made a mental note to put some WD-40 on the hinges. WD-40 and duct tape, the single—or, in my case, widowed—woman’s best friends.

“Hey there, LizBeth. Come on in.” As she stepped in, I asked, “Can I get you a glass of sweet tea? I made some fresh just a little while ago.”

“That won’t be necessary, but thank you.”

“Uh. OK, then. Why don’t we take a seat in the front room here?”

LizBeth sat on the edge of a small couch by the dead fireplace, hands clasped in her lap, so I took the wingback chair next to it instead of my beloved cushy chair by the window.

Silence dragged on. I squashed the urge to fidget.
What on earth was LizBeth doing here?
I watched the other woman’s eyes roam the room and tried to see it as a stranger would myself.

The marble surround on the fireplace had a few nicks and scratches, as did the mantel my great-grandfather had carved out of oak more than a hundred years ago. But it gleamed with the beeswax polish of four generations of loving hands. The floors really needed to be refinished, but I kept putting that off. Besides, the antique Aubusson rugs hid the worst spots, even though the rugs were worn a little thin from foot traffic.              

And in the corner stood my antique dressmaker's dummy, sporting the half-finished Renaissance gown I was making for a customer. Snips of fabric and a scatter of threads surrounded the project. I hadn’t cleaned up last night after working on the dress.

Mentally, I gave myself a shake. Why was I letting this woman make me uncomfortable in my own home?

“Er. Is there something I can do for you?”

LizBeth jerked her eyes back. “Oh. I’m sorry. I guess my mind wandered for a minute there. You have a lovely home. So cozy.”

“Thank you.”
Even though your eyes are saying something different.

“Really. It seems like a real home. Where real people live. Not a big, cold showplace like our house.” LizBeth showed her teeth in what she must have thought was a friendly smile, but it didn’t quite make it there.

I thought about the Gothic-style granite monstrosity sitting on a hill above town. It did look kind of cold from the outside. But some truly breathtaking architecture all the same. Legend had it slaves had hauled the granite from an old quarry five miles away to build the house, and the owner at the time had hired the best architect in Philadelphia to design the house. At a time when this part of Mississippi had been considered the Wild West.

LizBeth broke into my thoughts. “I guess you’re wondering why I’m here.”

“No. Not at all. It’s nice of you to come by and visit.”
Even though if somebody had told me you’d ever step foot through the door I’d’ve called them a liar.

“Come on, Lily Gayle…I can call you Lily Gayle?”

I nodded.

“We both know this isn’t a social visit. I’ve come to ask you to do a genealogical research project on my family.”

I gulped.

“I’m willing to pay your going rate. Whatever it costs.”

Something didn’t feel right about this. The Mitchells were the most reclusive family around. But saliva gathered in my mouth at the thought of having the permission of a family member to dive into anything I wanted to concerning the oldest and most mysterious family in the town. Some of my thoughts must have shown on my face because the other woman’s hand touched mine.

“I hope you can take it on. You’re not too busy, are you?”

“It’s not that. I guess I just assumed your family already has all that information.” I smiled. “I mean, y’all go all the way back to when Mississippi first became a state. Didn’t somebody keep up with all that over the years? Your family started the town and gave it its name and everything.”

What was I
saying
? This assignment had me all but drooling and here I sat, acting like I didn’t want to do it.

The corners of Lizbeth's mouth curved just a little. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

Well, of course I thought so. Didn’t all families with a history like the Mitchells’ take pride in doing just that very thing? Heck, my own family was nothing in comparison, yet every little detail had been recorded in various family Bibles and journals over the years.

“So. You’ll do it for me?”

I pulled my thoughts back to the present. “I’d love it. I can’t tell you how much fun this is going to be.”

With another of those strange little smiles, LizBeth said, “I’m sure you’ll find out all kinds of interesting things.” She stood up suddenly and I scrambled to stand too.

“I’m told the family arrived here from Ireland via Virginia in the seventeen hundreds." She rummaged in her purse, coming up with a folded sheet of paper and handed it to me. "Here's a list with some names and dates to get you going. I have full faith in your abilities. You've done work for friends of mine and they tell me you can ferret out all kinds of information. Whenever you have any questions, just call me on my cell.”

Well color me dumbfounded.
Which of my previous clients had been friends of hers? But I knew better than to ask. The Mitchells were pretty closed mouth about their lives. I didn't want to borrow trouble by asking questions that weren't any of my business. Even though my curiosity bug was working overtime wondering.
I accepted a business card from her outstretched hand. In raised gold lettering were LizBeth’s name, address and phone number, right next to an exact miniature replica of her house. How ritzy could you get? Who on earth did she hand these cards out to? Certainly not anyone in town. Maybe she used them when she went to visit in other places. Places much bigger than Mercy, Mississippi. Town history claimed that the Mitchells had named the town Mercy because they needed it themselves. Maybe I'd find out the answer to that old quesiton in my search of the family.

As we stepped out onto the porch my cat, Elliot, shot between our legs and leaped onto a small table, then scampered off the side of the porch, tail puffed to three times its normal size. In the middle of LizBeth’s scream I lunged to the table, managing to keep my prize begonias from crashing to the ground.

“What on earth was that? A rabid raccoon?”

I laughed. “No. That was my cat. He’s a Maine Coon and they get pretty big.” I rubbed at a scratch on my leg, adding, “But he doesn’t usually move that fast. Are you OK?”

She gazed at her lower legs. “I don’t see any scratches. Remember to get in touch whenever you have a question,” she called back over her shoulder as she walked to her car.

Well. That strange little visit had been worth being late for dinner. Now I had an excuse to go digging into the Mitchell family history. A bona-fide request from a family member. Of course I could have done it at any time without permission, but living in such a small town, someone would have caught on to what I was up to and the news would have made the rounds. Eventually to the Mitchells themselves. I had never relished the thought of a confrontation with the patriarch of that family.

With visions of a fascinating search whirling through my brain, I headed upstairs to get ready for my dinner date.

****

“That’s a
werewolf
.”

Ben shot me a scornful look. “Get a grip on yourself, Lily Gayle. There’s no such thing. Besides, it’s Halloween. It’s gotta be a costume.”

I looked at the body lying on the damp autumn ground lit only by Ben’s flashlight. Sure looked like real fur to me. Of course I didn’t have any experience with werewolves, but I’d read a lot about them over the years and this one looked like the real deal.

Shivering despite my warm jacket, I let my eyes wander around the clearing. It didn’t help. Way out here in the middle of the woods, darkness cloaked the area. Ben’s flashlight looked like a tiny spotlight on a huge stage, but the star performer lay dead in its glare.

We’d been arguing in a companionable way about what to have for dessert when Ben’s dispatcher called to let him know someone had made an anonymous 911 call. Maybe it’d been a bad idea to come out here. But I’d thought this would be a lark. Something to laugh about with my girlfriends. And I knew Ben thought it had been a prank call or he’d never have let me come along.

I glanced again at the body. Nope. No prank here. An eerie little shiver tried to work its way up my back. Tensing my muscles, I held it off.

“Not scared, are you?”

“Of course not!” No way would I admit to a possible big case of the willies trying to sneak up on me. The hair at the nape of my neck started to do that creepy-crawly thing that happens when someone’s watching me.
Don’t be silly. There’s no cover this time of the year. You’re just letting your imagination run wild
. Nevertheless, I shivered.

“You cold?” Ben shrugged out of his jacket, handed it to me.

I handed it back. “I’m not cold. It’s just a little eerie out here with a dead body in the middle of nowhere.”

Ben shifted his weight, his light doing a disco through the trees as he slipped on dead leaves underfoot. “Why don’t you go on back to the car? It’ll be warmer there and I won’t have to worry about you messing in the crime scene.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I never
mess
in your crime scenes.”

Even though the light was dim, I could still see Ben roll his eyes. “Don’t get your dander up. You know what I’m talking about. Seems like every time a case comes up, there you are, sticking your nose in. I don’t need a middle-aged Nancy Drew wannabe messing in a murder case. This isn’t like a burglary or some kids getting up to mischief with some spray paint. I don’t want you involved in this one.”

OK. Now my dander was
really
up. “Damn you, Benjie Carter. Where do you get off calling me a middle-aged Nancy Drew wannabe? I’m here and I’m staying here. Like it or not.” Arms crossed, I glared, daring him to make me leave.