Kitty's House of Horrors
Page 33

I looked, searching all the shelves, the tables, behind equipment, under cameras, in drawers. Then I searched the living room, under cushions, behind chairs and sofas. I opened every drawer and cupboard in the kitchen. Grant joined me in the middle of the search.
“I can’t find the phone,” I said.
“That’s not good,” he said, his expression unchanging.
“Should we check on the generator? Maybe we can get the power back, then figure out where Provost and company went.” Maybe they were off on a nature hike.
“I think it’s in the shed,” he said.
Grant and I went out the front door, on our way to the shed at the side of the lodge. I stopped on the porch, hardly noticing the magician crowding behind me. I’d frozen, because I was staring at Dorian’s body, lying on the ground by the porch.
Chapter 11
Part of the railing around the porch had broken. It looked like the nails or the joints had come loose from the posts and the whole thing toppled to the ground. And it looked like Dorian had been leaning on it when it happened. Stepping out on the porch, I looked over the edge and saw him, lying still and crumpled on the ground. Dark blood pooled by his head. I could smell his body cooling, and his heart was silent.
Of all the stupid, ugly accidents. “He came out here sometimes,” I said weakly. “To watch the sunrise.”
I went down the steps, approached Dorian, looked back at the porch, trying to figure out what had happened. He’d been leaning on the railing. Maybe it had just given way. He fell wrong, hit his head, maybe even hurt his neck. A stupid accident.
“Kitty?” Grant said. He came down the steps to join me, making the same quick examination I did.
“It doesn’t make sense,” I said. “I leaned on that railing. We all did. That thing was stable. What the hell happened?”
“He’s heavier. Maybe he just hit a bad spot.”
“A fall like that shouldn’t have killed him. It was only a few feet.” I started crying. I turned away to hide the silent tears running down my cheeks. I’d just gotten to know him. Just gotten to like him. It wasn’t fair.
Grant said, “Provost might have footage from the remote cameras that might explain this.”
But were the cameras still running without power? “Except Provost is gone, along with the phones. We can’t call for help.”
Grant looked around as if he expected some kind of attack, as if searching the treetops for a hidden enemy. “There’s a radio in the airplane.” He marched out, heading toward the path that led from the lodge to the airstrip.
I hurried after him, taking a last look at Dorian. I hated leaving him alone—but I hated leaving Grant alone, too.
Within sight of the airplane parked at the edge of the meadow, I stopped. A breath of air touched my face, and with it came the smell of carrion.
“What is it?” Grant asked. He studied me; I turned my nose to the air to track the scent. It was making me queasy, making me want to howl.
“Bodies,” I whispered. This didn’t smell like meat, like the deer Jerome had dropped in front of the house the other day. This smelled like bodies. “It’s coming from the plane.”
I ran forward, Grant on my heels. The smell grew stronger. I reached the cabin door and rattled the handle, struggling with it a moment before finally wrenching it open.
The three production assistants lay on the floor of the cabin, dead. Side by side, curled up and crammed in, Gordon first, then Skip, then Amy. Purple bruises ringed their necks, as if they’d been garroted. I gripped the door, my heart racing, my breaths stumbling. I wanted to run, and my wolfish instincts howled.
Provost, Valenti, and Cabe were still missing.
“What’s it mean?” I said, catching my breath, struggling to stay calm.
Grant moved to the cockpit and opened the door. “Look at this. It’s the radio,” he said, gesturing to a box that had been gutted, wires hanging out. So much for making contact with the outside world that way.
“What’s going on? Who did this?” And where were they now? I turned, looking out over the meadow and surrounding woods. I walked around the airplane, searching, smelling, trying to find a trail. I smelled people, moving back and forth. The whole path smelled like people, and the airstrip smelled like fuel and tire skids overlaying the natural smell of the valley. Nothing stood out, nothing gave me a clue about who had done this or where they’d gone.
Grant was sitting in the pilot seat, flipping switches—that he’d know anything about flying a plane didn’t surprise me. The engine coughed, sputtered, and died. “Out of fuel,” he said. “Someone’s drained the fuel tank.”
Leaving us good and stuck. I tried to be shocked but felt resigned.
Grant hopped out of the cockpit and closed the door. I returned to staring at the bodies in the cabin. They didn’t deserve this. This had been just another job, and now—
Grant closed the cabin door, blocking my view. I shook myself clear of the image.
“What should we do with them?” I said.
“Leave them for now. We need to wake the others.”
As it turned out, we didn’t have to wake up the others. We heard a loud, shocked scream as we approached the lodge. This one was different than when Tina discovered Jerome’s deer carcass. This one was all about volume and fear. Not another murder came my first thought, and I ran. I’d find the murderer, catch him and tear him apart—
Ariel had discovered Dorian’s body. She was standing on the front porch, hands over her mouth, looking down. Tina, Jerome, and Jeffrey were with her.
How were we going to tell them that this wasn’t the worst of it? Slowly, I climbed the steps. The group on the porch followed me with shocked, questioning gazes, expecting me to say something. I didn’t know where to start.
“The power’s out,” I said. “The phone’s gone, and the radio in the airplane is busted. We can’t find Provost anywhere.”
“What are you saying?” Jerome demanded, angry. Like being fierce could solve this, could make everything right again. “What the hell’s going on?”
Grant stepped up beside me, his lip curled into a thin smile. “I think we’ve been had.”
The others went inside to wake up Lee and Conrad and gather everyone in the living room. Grant and I examined the area where Dorian had been standing and where he’d fallen. Looking for footprints, odd smells, hints of foul play. Like some kind of detective novel. Didn’t Agatha Christie do this one already?