Lord of the Wings (8 page)

We pulled into the “official business only” parking spot near the front door of the Haunted House and braved the resentful or merely curious stares of the costumed tourists. Most of their costumes were toward the scary end of the spectrum—vampires, zombies, werewolves, and other even more menacing monsters far outnumbered brides, nuns, pirates, furry animals, and characters from
Star Wars
or
Star Trek
.

Luckily for Dr. Smoot's peace of mind, the Haunted House was separated from the road by the eight-foot fence. Along the sides and the back of the yard the wrought iron was replaced by the same chain-link fence that surrounded the Fun Fair. Dr. Smoot had done his best to maintain the spooky atmosphere by painting the chain-link black and weaving black string through it in patterns that made it look as if a sinister creeping vine was gradually overtaking the fence. He'd hung flowers and fruit from the strings—also painted black, of course—to increase the illusion of a vine. All along the fence costumed tourists were peering through and taking selfies of themselves with the house in the background.

Michael and I pushed our way through the crowds and let ourselves in the gate with the spare key that Dr. Smoot had given me when I'd taken over as head of the volunteer security force. The loiterers began inching closer.

“Stand back,” I snapped out. “Goblin Patrol!”

I put my hand on my sword hilt, and Michael followed suit with his. They were only hilts, of course, since the festival rules discouraged wearing real weapons. But the tourists would have no way of knowing our weapons weren't real.

They made way, and we were able to shut the gate behind us without any trespassers sneaking in. Though I noted that neither the wrought iron nor the chain-link looked particularly difficult to climb. I'd have gone for the chain-link myself, because the wrought iron was topped with wicked six-inch spikes, but I suspected that, all things being equal, some of the costumed crew would have tackled the wrought iron section simply because they'd look more picturesque flinging themselves over it in their flowing capes.

As we made our way up the front walk to the porch, I found myself wondering what Dr. Smoot's family would think if they could see their family house now. But there were no other Smoots in town to protest—the aunt from whom Dr. Smoot had inherited the house a few years ago had been his last living relative.

Looking up at the huge black-and-gray hulk looming above us, I suddenly realized what bothered me so much about it. It wasn't just the fact that he had inherited a house very similar to ours, and then spent good money to make it look like an abandoned and haunted house. No, what bothered me was that I realized for the first time that his house wasn't just similar to ours. They were almost identical—or had been before Dr. Smoot began his present quest. Watching him convert his family house into the Caerphilly Haunted House was like watching everything we'd done to our house unravel.

And maybe I was also a little bothered by the fact that poor Smoot lived here alone. Our house was usually overflowing with various friends and family members who either lived with or were visiting us, and yet most of the time it didn't feel crowded, and sometimes, when I was the only one home, I would find myself wishing, temporarily, for a smaller, snugger place. Dr. Smoot was always alone. Didn't that get a little lonely? And possibly, given the house's current condition, a little creepy?

Of course, Dr. Smoot probably enjoyed the creepy part. Ah, well. To each his own.

Though I suspected the late Miss Venicia Smoot would not have been nearly so philosophical if she saw what her nephew was up to. Perhaps I should ask the Reverend Robyn Smith, rector of Trinity Episcopal, if there had been any strange rumblings in the cemetery behind the church—rumblings that might be Miss Venicia spinning in her grave.

The porch was empty except for a few jack-o'-lanterns. In fact, the last time I'd seen it, the whole house was pretty empty. Anyone else might have been dismayed to find he'd inherited a three-story house with less furniture in it than most people would have in an efficiency apartment. But apparently Dr. Smoot was just as happy to be rid of the relatively conventional antiques Miss Venecia had sold off during her lean years. An empty house was easier to decorate to his liking.

I rapped the gargoyle-shaped door knocker firmly. The door opened almost immediately to reveal the black-cloaked figure of Dr. Smoot.

 

Chapter 8

“Good evening,” Dr. Smoot intoned, in his best B-movie vampire fashion.

Out beyond the fence, the tourists murmured restlessly and several camera flashes went off.

Then Dr. Smoot's eyes lit up as he recognized us.

“Meg! And Michael! Thank goodness you're here!” Actually, it sounded more like “thank goodneth,” because Dr. Smoot was wearing a particularly prominent set of vampire fangs. Rumor was that the fangs were permanent—fang-shaped crowns created by a Goth-friendly dentist in New Orleans—but no one had had the nerve to ask, so everyone in town was obsessed with peering at Dr. Smoot's mouth to see if the rumors were true.

“Happy to help,” Michael said. I could tell he was peering, too.

“Why were all those police cars hurrying out to the zoo?” Dr. Smoot asked. “More burglaries?”

Michael and I glanced at each other. Well, the chief hadn't told us to keep our mouths shut.

“Yes,” I said. “And someone was found murdered in the bushes outside the zoo. A tourist, as far as we can tell.”

“Oh, my!” I wouldn't have thought it possible for Dr. Smoot to turn any paler, but he did, and he sat down quickly on one of the spindly little black chairs that formed the only seating in his living room. “I'm lucky to be alive!”

“The chief may already have the killer in custody,” Michael said. “And they're pretty busy down at the zoo with all the forensics, so Meg and I came to brief you.”

“And inspect your crime scene, of course,” I added. “Did they take anything from the Haunted House? Or leave anything behind.”

“Actually, it was the museum they broke into,” Dr. Smoot said. “Have you seen it yet?”

If I were wearing fangs, I'd have said “appear” instead of “seem.” And “intent on” instead of “interested in.” It would be possible to reduce the lisping, with a little ingenuity. But I was having a hard time thinking of a sibilant-free synonym for “museum.”

I focused back on the problem at hand. The thought of the museum seemed to have distracted Dr. Smoot from his anxiety. He was pointing to a sign printed in an ornate, almost unreadable medieval-style typeface. It took me a few seconds to puzzle out that it read C
AERPHILLY
M
USEUM OF
O
DDITIES AND
A
NTIQUITIES
. At the bottom of the sign, an arrow pointed downward. Beside the sign, through an open doorway, I could see the first few steps of a circular stairway.

“A lot of people in Caerphilly have been saying that it's time we had a museum,” Dr. Smoot said as he led the way down the steep steps. “The town and the county have so much interesting history! But since we're still recovering from the tough times, I can understand that there's not enough tax money to pay for it. So I decided to start it myself.”

He arrived at the bottom of the stairs and stepped aside, gesturing grandly to indicate the sights that lay before us.

I stepped out into the room and fought the impulse to stoop. The room wasn't really that low, but the black ceiling, floor, and woodwork and the blood-red walls seemed to close in on us. Just the sort of environment in which Dr. Smoot would thrive, but I wasn't sure how the rest of the town would feel about having our history displayed in a setting that seemed more appropriate for, say, a museum of medieval torture implements.

“Over there is the wax museum.” Dr. Smoot pointed to his left while reaching with the other hand to flip a light switch.

The lights came on, though since the lights were all flickering LED faux candles in medieval-style black metal wall sconces, we got only a slightly better view of the row of figures trailing off into the shadows.

But we could see the closest two, and they didn't look like any wax figures I'd ever seen. In fact—

“Of course I haven't got the budget for real wax figures yet,” he explained. “But I got a great deal on a large consignment of secondhand store mannequins, so I can get that feature going while I put together the funding for the real thing.”

“Very ingenious,” Michael said. Dr. Smoot probably didn't know that “ingenious” was Michael's tactful word, the one he used when he couldn't think of anything else positive to say. I choked back “interesting,” since everyone in town knew that was what Mother had taught my siblings and me to say under similar circumstances.

We strolled down the aisle between the two rows of figures. Dr. Smoot—or whoever he'd enlisted to help with the fake wax museum—had obviously worked very hard on the costumes, including hats or hoods with as many as possible so it wasn't really too disconcerting that Vlad the Impaler, Jack the Ripper, Frankenstein's monster, and the inhabitants of the Zombie Apocalypse tableau had precisely the same tall, slender figures and bland, Barbie-and-Ken faces. In fact, it had a certain wacky charm. But the charm wore thin when we arrived at the second half of the exhibit, depicting events from Caerphilly history, and saw friends and neighbors depicted with the same smooth, blank features. I particularly disliked the diorama depicting me and my father and the penguins he had briefly tried to keep in the basement of our house.

“That doesn't look a thing like me,” I couldn't help muttering.

“Well, the face doesn't, no,” Dr. Smoot said. “But I think we've got the hair and clothes perfect. And aren't the penguins realistic! I found a Web site that sells fiberglass penguins for stores to use as part of their holiday decorations.”

The clothes weren't too bad, since I very well might have been wearing a pair of jeans and a Caerphilly College t-shirt that day. But the hair—no. Right dark-brown color, right length, but I couldn't imagine my hair ever looking that frizzy and disheveled, even if I'd failed to comb it on a day when the humidity was near a hundred percent. Did Dr. Smoot really think I modeled my hairstyle on the Bride of Frankenstein?

Michael didn't look all that thrilled with his image, either. Dr. Smoot had chosen to present Michael in a replica of his Mephisto the wizard costume from the TV show and leading a shaggy object that vaguely resembled a mutant llama. Or what a llama would look like if sculpted by someone who had never actually seen one. Clearly Dr. Smoot had yet to find a Web site where realistic llamas could be cheaply purchased.

I wasn't sure who many of the other mannequins were supposed to represent—local in-jokes that I wasn't in on, no doubt. But I suspected other people would find their likenesses as disturbing as I did mine. And maybe it was a good thing the mannequins were so obviously fake. Visiting a realistic wax museum might have given me a serious case of the creeps so soon after inspecting a dead body.

“I've got a couple of requests out to foundations and wealthy families for funds to beef up the wax museum,” he said. “But so far I haven't heard back from any of them. Not even the Brimfields, and I had such hopes of them.”

“Who are the Brimfields?” I asked.

“An old Caerphilly family,” he said. “They used to run a bank here, but they lost all their money when the stock market crashed.”

“Then maybe they're not the best people to ask for money,” Michael pointed out.

“Oh, but then they moved out to California in the 1930s and made millions in real estate,” Dr. Smoot explained. “Josiah Brimfield, the current head of the family, pops up sometimes on the lower reaches of that
Forbes
list of the wealthiest people in the country. He can definitely afford it. He just doesn't seem interested.”

Considering that Josiah's family had left Caerphilly some eighty years ago and probably remembered it as the scene of a less-than-joyous phase of their family history, I could understand his lack of interest.

“And he was downright rude when I asked if he'd be willing to donate or at least lend any family artifacts,” Dr. Smoot went on. “In fact, he tried to bully me into taking some of the artifacts I have off display. The nerve!”

“Was this where you had the burglar?” Michael asked, gently distracting Dr. Smoot from his diatribe against the Brimfields.

“No,” Dr. Smoot said. “He—or they—were at the other end. In fact, most of the suspicious circumstances have occurred down there.”

I'd more or less gotten used to Dr. Smoot's faint lisp by now, but I noted, in case I should ever find occasion to dress up as a vampire, that no one wearing fangs should ever attempt to utter the phrase “suspicious circumstances.”

Dr. Smoot led the way back out of the non-wax museum into the main exhibit area. Michael and I followed slowly, examining some of the exhibits along the way.

Along one wall was a familiar-looking trunk. On the wall above it was a framed front page from the
Caerphilly Clarion,
with the headline “Body Found in Antique Trunk at First Annual Countywide Yard Sale.” A small glass case held a small heap of black-and-white feathers, with a sign proclaiming that they were authentic feathers from the actual bantam Russian Orloff chickens stolen in the course of the “Grisly Midway Murder Case.” In fact, I could spot half a dozen bizarre exhibits commemorating events I had played a part in. And odds were a black-clad murderer waving an assortment of fake body parts was in the museum's future.

I was relieved to see that as we progressed down the room we moved away from recent history. One stretch of wall contained a series of photographs of soldiers and sailors in uniforms ranging from the Civil War to the Gulf War. The signs beside the photographs revealed that most of these were from the archives of the
Caerphilly Clarion,
our local weekly newspaper.