The Stuffing of Nightmares (The Mysteries of Bell & Whitehouse Book 7) (6 page)

G
rover stared
down at the glass table where the proof of his wife’s unfaithfulness lay in all its starkness. The glossy pictures depicted Emilia in a state of undress and in provocative poses with a man who could easily be Grover’s son. The guy was buff and handsome and looked like a young stud in his prime. That was the risk when you married a woman half your age, Grover thought ruefully: she might go off and conduct affairs with men of her own age when she grew tired of you.

He sighed and shook his bulbous head, then raised a haggard face to his visitor. The detective who’d snapped the pictures looked like a rumpled bedspread, with his jowly face and worn-out overcoat, and was unruffled. He probably saw this stuff every day. His name was Gerry Finnegan, and he’d come highly recommended.

“How long—” Grover swallowed, then resumed speech. “How long has this been going on?”

“Well,” said the gruff detective, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his gray overcoat, “at least since college, and probably long before that.”

Grover hadn’t expected he could be surprised after watching his wife perform acrobatics with a stranger. “Before college? What do you mean?”

The PI shrugged. “As far as I can tell the guy was her high school sweetheart. Been an item since tenth grade or something.”

“Tenth grade?” Grover’s lower jaw dropped. He snatched up one of the pictures and studied it more closely. Then he saw it. This guy... was that guy. His wife’s lawyer. The one she called when she needed some legal advice.

“He’s her lawyer,” he said feebly.

Finnegan grinned. “Yeah, he’s upped his game from giving advice to delivering other services.” When he saw Grover’s dismay, he pulled his face into the requisite expression of commiseration. A good detective knows that he should never make fun of his client’s misfortune. At least not if he wants to get a retainer. “Yeah, he’s a lawyer, all right. Just made partner at Stephenson, Stephenson, Stephenson and Stephen & Son. His name is—”

“Hogston,” Grover said brokenly. “Romuald Hogston.” It was hard to forget a name like that. Especially since Emilia often referred to him as her best friend. She’d assured him that he was gay, though. Judging from these pictures he was anything but gay. “So this has been going on for years?”

“Years and years and…” He coughed when Grover gave him a level look.

Of course. His friends had all warned him against marrying Emilia. A classic gold digger, they’d called her, and now he had to admit they were right all along. He’d only started suspecting something a couple of weeks ago when he’d accidentally caught a message flashing on her phone. She’d left it in the bedroom when the phone had beeped. He’d been reluctant to check. Her phone was always beeping, but he just happened to see the display lighting up. Something about a meeting at the Ritz-Carlton. For some reason, it had drawn his attention, so he’d read it. Then had wondered why Emilia was meeting a friend at the Ritz when she could meet them at the condo.

He’d scrolled through her messages, and had found some more intimate ones that had aroused his suspicion. So he’d hired this rumpled detective on Chazz’s recommendation.

“I don’t know what to do,” he sighed, plunking down on a chair.

“Divorce her,” the guy said. “Hit her with this evidence and divorce her ass. She’ll never get alimony and then she and this dude can live happily ever after on his lawyer’s salary. Good luck with that.”

He shook his head. “It’s not that simple.” Then he realized he was discussing his private affairs with a detective, and gave the man a stern look.

Finnegan, who seemed to feel he’d overstepped his boundaries, gave him an apologetic grin. “So what do you want me to do? Keep following them around? Snap some more shots?” He seemed very eager, and Grover reflected that here was a man who loved his job, which was pretty rare.

“No, that’s all right. I’ll pay you whatever I owe you and let it go at that,” he said, half to himself and half to the guy. He needed to think. Needed to figure out what to do next. He disliked scandals. If word got out about this, it would reflect badly on both himself and his business, and he couldn’t afford that. No, he needed to think before he acted. So he gave the detective a feeble smile. “Thank you, Mr. Finnegan. I’ll show you out.”

“No worries, Mr. Calypso,” said the man. “I know the way.” Then, as he walked away, he turned. “Oh, just one more thing, sir.”

“Mh? What’s that?”

“I overheard Mrs. Calypso and this guy talking about a pregnancy? So now I’m wondering if this is your baby she was talking about or…” He didn’t complete the sentence, for Grover had uttered a startled cry.

God, no. Was Emilia pregnant? That did it. It sure as heck wasn’t his baby. He quickly changed his mind. “Keep on following her,” he instructed, “and gather all the evidence you can about this baby.”

“Will do, sir,” said the detective, well pleased.

Five minutes later, Grover was talking to Chazz Falcone, his best friend and fellow billionaire, requesting an urgent meeting. If there was anyone in the world who would understand his plight, it was Chazz. And another five minutes later, he was walking briskly, on his way to The Parton, the club he and Chazz shared on the corner of 69th Street. Emilia had taken things too far. He could forgive her this dalliance, for the sake of his business and his family. But he couldn’t forgive her saddling him with a child that wasn’t his.

I
t didn’t take
Reece long before he realized he’d been knocked out again. Now he was strapped to a table, ankles and wrists tied, and a weird guy stood bent over him, studying him carefully through horn-rimmed glasses. He was rangy, and his face looked like skin stretched over angular bone.

The moment the guy noticed his subject was awake, he grinned sheepishly. “Sorry about that,” he said with a chuckle. “Big guy like you might put up some resistance, so my daughter decided not to take chances.”

“What’s going on?” Reece asked groggily.

It just went to show that he wasn’t Chuck MacLachlan but an actor playing a part. If he was Chuck, he’d have managed to get rid of these restraints and would have kicked this guy to kingdom come already. As it was, he simply lay there, wondering why he felt like a bug being dissected.

If this were a Crunch Time movie, the guy would be a crazy scientist, subjecting him to some medical experiment, possibly injecting some experimental substance into his bloodstream that would turn him into a mindless robot doing the bidding of the next Adolf Hitler. But this was real life, which was why he decided to ask the question. “Who are you?”

“I’m Dr. Cieslok,” said the man with a proud smile, “Dr. Anselm Cieslok. And I’m a taxidermist.”

Taxidermist. The word sounded familiar, but since he didn’t bring his dictionary—and they’d taken his phone—he decided to probe further. “So you’re one of those Uber guys, huh?” he ventured. “Taxi driver?”

The man seemed unsurprised that Reece was unaware of the meaning to the word. “A taxidermist is an artist, my friend. An artist whose work often goes unnoticed and unappreciated. My specialty is the stuffing of humans. I used to do animals, of course, but I found stuffing humans a more rewarding pastime, so that has become my specialty. Most fascinating work indeed.”

Reece frowned. “Lemme see if I get this straight. You stuff humans—as in, you take a human being and you… stuff him?”

The man smiled. “That’s right. I see you’re very clever, Mr. Hudson.”

“Thanks, buddy.” He thought about this some more. It was ironic, he felt, that just that morning he’d received a stuffed pony as a gift, and now he was meeting a stuffer. Then a thought occurred to him. “Say, you didn’t happen to stuff a pony recently, did you? A pony named Tony?”

“No, I didn’t,” said the man. “Like I said, I specialize in humans.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.” The man’s eyes glittered. “And my, oh my, Mr. Hudson, aren’t you a wonderful specimen.”

Only now did Reece notice that a full array of medical instruments was laid out on a tray. “Um, what am I doing here exactly?” he asked, craning his neck to take in the room. It looked like a medical facility, set up in some underground lair, judging from the concrete walls and lack of windows.

“Don’t worry about a thing, Mr. Hudson. The moment the procedure is over with, we’ll dress you up in your favorite outfit, and you’ll look superb.”

“Procedure? What procedure?”

The man clucked his tongue. “Come, come, Mr. Hudson. A smart man like you?”

He thought about this for a moment. “Okay,” he said. “So I’m strapped to a table, in some medical room, with a taxidermist specializing in stuffing humans hovering over me, a bunch of surgical instruments nearby…”

The man nodded patiently. “So…”

Suddenly he got it, and his eyes went wide. “You’re going to stuff me!”

The man clapped his hands slowly. “Excellent, Mr. Hudson! Ten points!”

“But—but—but why?!”

“Hasn’t my daughter gone into all of that?”

“Your daughter? You mean the hot blonde with the mental issues?”

The man’s face clouded. “There’s no need to become vulgar, Mr. Hudson.”

“She told me some cockamamie story about collecting professionals.”

“Exactly. That’s what we do around here. And you’ll be happy to know that you’ll be the star of the show, the pride of our collection. A genuine Hollywood movie star, no less.”

“You’re nuts!” cried Reece. “You’re all nuts!”

“Now, now, Mr. Hudson. Name-calling simply won’t do. Every genius ahead of the curve has been called a nutcase at some point. So I’ll just take it as a compliment.”

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment!”

“Nonetheless, I’ll accept it as such.” He waved a scalpel. “You see, other people collect stamps or butterflies or Star Wars figurines. My family collects human beings. And since it’s very hard to keep them while they’re alive—you have to feed them, clothe them, take care of their personal hygiene needs—it’s much, much easier to simply stuff them and put them on display. No fuss and no drama, you see?” He laughed. “Do you agree this is a brilliant setup?”

“I agree that you’re a complete fruitcake!” Reece cried.

The man wagged the scalpel in Reece’s face. “Name-calling again.”

“Just let me go, you nutbag!” Reece cried, tugging at the restraints. “I swear you’re going to regret this!”

“Not a chance,” said Dr. Cieslok. “Quite the contrary. I’m going to enjoy this immensely. Now if you’ll simply relax, this will be over with in no time.” He bent closer, studying Reece’s sculpted chest muscles. “Very nice. You’re a prize animal, Reece. The best specimen I’ve had the pleasure working on.”

“Get away from me, you freak!”

“I’m not going to lie to you. This might sting a little,” warned the doctor. “You see,” he added with a grin, “I like to stuff my subjects alive. That way I can preserve the natural expression of their eyes.”

“What the heck!” Reece yelled as he watched the doctor draw nearer.

“That’s it!” exclaimed Dr. Cieslok happily. “That’s the expression we need. Now could you do me one favor, and say ‘Hot potato’ into the camera?”

He pointed to a camera mounted on the operating light over Reece’s head. “That’s right. You’ll be thrilled to know that we’re filming this entire procedure. Your final performance, Mr. Hudson! Your swan song!”

Reece closed his eyes. This was a nightmare, he thought. This was simply a nightmare. Any second now he’d wake up and find himself in bed with Alice, knowing it had all been a terrible dream. But then the doctor prodded a finger into his ribs, and he opened his eyes, yelling, “Watch it! Tender!”

“Hot potato. Into the camera, if you please. It’s for my daughter, you see.”

Reece gave the man his sternest look. The one Chuck MacLachlan always gave his enemies before he wiped the floor with them. “You can kiss my potato,” he growled defiantly.

The doctor shrugged. “Suit yourself. Open wide. We’re going in.”

“Where are we going?” Reece asked, but before he could clench his jaws together, the doctor had shoved a bite block between his teeth and was inserting a device into his mouth that looked like a fishing hook. “Hey!” Reece managed to cry out. “At’s the ig idea?!”

“First those pesky organs have to come out, Mr. Hudson,” said the doctor through gritted teeth. “And like I said, this might sting a little.”

Then, just when he was about to shove the device home, a voice rang out through the lab. “Dad! We’ve got company!”

“Oh, hell,” the doctor grumbled, and threw down the hook. Then he patted Reece’s cheeks. “Don’t go anywhere, Mr. Hudson. This ain’t over yet.”

“
I
say
we try to find Reece on our own,” Rick said, pacing the living room floor. They were waiting for the police to arrive, and the longer they waited, the more restless Rick was becoming. “We’ve never depended on the cops before—why should we depend on them now that Reece’s life is in danger?”

It was true, Felicity thought. They’d never been able to count on Chief Whitehouse or the rest of the Happy Bays police corps.

“We simply can’t afford to wait any longer,” Rick insisted. They turned to Alice, who was still wavering. Her father was chief of police, after all, so in her mind he was probably best placed to find Reece.

But then a look of resolve stole over her face. “You’re right. We can’t wait for Dad. By the time he gets here, it might be too late.”

And they were heading out the door when the sound of happy yapping alerted them to the presence of Spot. It seemed that the ghost Pomeranian was eager to join them.

“Let’s bring him along,” Rick said, scooping up the little bundle of fur.

“And let’s bring Tony too,” Felicity said. “He knows where Reece is.”

It was a little odd that a dead pony would feel such a strong connection to the actor, but there wasn’t time to question this now. Like a gift from heaven, Tony had come into their lives at exactly the right time. They stepped from the house and headed for the bakery van which was parked right in front, the ghost dog and ghost pony right behind them. They all filed into the van, Tony making himself comfortable among the stacks of boxes and bags with old loaves of bread and other remnants from that morning’s bread run.

“Just say the word and I’ll be your virtual GPS,” the pony said.

Felicity pushed down the accelerator and within moments the engine huffed and coughed and they were on their way. The old vehicle might be ready for the junkyard, but Pete Bell believed in frugality. So when he wasn’t baking up a storm at the bakery, he could be found with his head under the hood of the old van, trying to extend its life with another few hundred miles.

And it looked like he was succeeding, for the engine prattled gaily, and the van hurtled along the deserted streets of Happy Bays at a healthy clip. The small town was enjoying a great summer, with tourists soaking up the rays and having fun in the surf, townies at work, and kids off to summer camp.

Happy Bays was not a town prominent on the tourist radar, and the locals liked to keep it that way. Even though Eve MacDonald, the mayor’s wife, had done some work to attract the lucrative summer crowds, Happy Baysians preferred their town to remain largely a well-kept secret. The few tourists that did show up were regulars, who’d discovered the town a long time ago, and kept coming back year after year.

Felicity steered the van expertly along the roads leading out of town. She vaguely knew where the Hartford Manor was, but it had been such a long time that she might as well ask Tony. “So where is this place?”

“Just keep going,” said the pony, scratching its nose with its front hoof.

Felicity’s heart went out to Reece. If it was true that he was about to be stuffed, they had no time to waste. Then Alice’s phone chimed.

“Yes, Dad? No, we’re on our way to find Reece. We didn’t feel like waiting around for the cavalry to show up. How do we know where to find him? Um, a hunch, that’s how. Oh, and the help of Reece’s ghost pony.”

Felicity grinned. She deduced that Chief Whitehouse was having trouble registering that last factoid. Even though the police chief believed in ghosts—he’d seen them with his own eyes—it was still something he grappled with.

“Yes, I’ll keep you posted,” Alice said, before clicking off her phone. “That was my dad. He was surprised to find us gone.”

“Maybe you should cut him some slack,” Felicity suggested. “He’s probably as worried about Reece as we are.”

“That’s true,” agreed Alice.

“And your dad loves Reece,” Rick chimed in, “so he probably won’t like it when he finds out he’s been stuffed and therefore unable to marry you.”

“Rick!” Alice cried, appalled.

“What?” Rick asked. “Just saying.”

“Let’s focus on finding Reece,” Felicity suggested, staring through the windshield. She didn’t like all this talk about stuffed people. They were going to find Reece, and they were going to find him in one piece. Unstuffed.

“Keep going,” Tony’s voice called out from the back, and Spot’s yapping told them that the pup was doing his part to find their missing housemate.

“I wonder why they took Reece,” murmured Alice.

She wasn’t looking too hot, Felicity saw. Even though she and Reece had had their share of problems since they’d hooked up, she loved the Hollywood hunk, and he loved her. It was an unlikely story, and one the press had lapped up. But not as unlikely as a gang of human stuffers kidnapping the actor.

Tony picked up on that thought, for he said, “It’s true. People get stuffed too. It’s not just us animals who have to suffer this humiliating procedure.” He resumed a dignified silence, indicating he still wasn’t over the fact that his owner had had him stuffed and given away as a present.

After about ten minutes, Tony directed them off the main road, and soon they were in the countryside, fields of green stretching out on all sides. A short drive later, they reached the manor, and she turned up the long driveway. Oh, yes, Felicity thought, this was Hartford Manor, all right. They’d heard tales as kids, and seen pictures, and once had even gone on a field trip here in third grade, before Virgil Scattering had led them astray, ending up in a different house altogether.

The lettering on the wrought-iron gate spelled out the name of the place, along with a smattering of gargoyles, and as they zoomed up the long gravel drive, the stone building sat like a squat boxlike structure in front of them.

It didn’t look as decrepit as she remembered, and as they approached she saw a Jaguar parked in front, next to a Range Rover Evoque.

“Looks like somebody finally bought the place and fixed it up,” Alice said.

“Looks like,” she agreed.

“Looks like a castle,” Rick groaned, and Felicity laughed.

They’d just returned from a haunted castle in England, where they’d been instrumental in solving the murder of the chatelaine. The experience had set the seal on Rick’s dislike for old castles, and now here was another one.

“So what do we do now?” she asked.

“Just pop round the back,” Alice suggested. “You’re a baker, aren’t you?”

“Good thinking.” She was indeed a baker, and what better way to introduce themselves than to pretend they were doing a delivery? After all, everybody likes a baker, even nasty stuffers of people.

She rounded the house and drove up to what looked like the back entrance. She parked the van, and the trio hopped out, followed by an excitedly tripping Spot and a leisurely cantering Tony. Felicity picked up a crate of bread and carried it to the back door. After a moment’s search, Alice found the bell and gave it a good push. Almost instantly, the door was yanked open, and a red-faced woman appeared, her eyes squinting nastily from between fleshy folds.

“What do you want?!” she growled.

“Bread delivery,” Alice sang cheerfully, and pointed to the van, with its distinct Bell’s Bakery & Tea Room decal.

The woman’s eyes narrowed into slits. “I didn’t order no bread!”

“You didn’t? That’s odd,” Felicity said, spiriting an appropriately confused expression on her features. “Are you quite sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” snapped the woman. She opened the door further, revealing her aproned round form. “I’m the cook so I should know. Besides, we don’t order from Bell’s. We shop at Marcel’s. Have shopped there for years.”

“Oh, then that must be it!” said Felicity. “There’s been an accident. Marcel’s, um, oven exploded. So he’s asked us to take over his bread run.”

The woman gave her a suspicious look, then stared at the crate of bread.

“I’ve got cake,” said Felicity. “And I’ll bet there’s even a pot pie in there.”

This was the clincher, and the woman relented. “Just put it on the table.”

Felicity headed on inside, followed by Rick and Alice.

“And who are these two?” the cook asked.

“They’re my assistants,” said Felicity innocently.

“Three people for a delivery,” muttered the woman darkly. “I don’t know what kind of business you people are running but you’ll never turn a profit.”

Her opinion of the profitability of Bell’s notwithstanding, she led them into the kitchen, and Felicity put the box with bread on the kitchen table. A swarthy thick-set man was seated there, and she gave him a friendly nod. He scowled, placing down the knife he’d been using to whittle a piece of wood.

“I didn’t know the Hartford Manor was occupied again,” Alice said conversationally.

“What’s it to you?” asked the woman.

“We learned all about this place in school,” Felicity explained, unperturbed. “It’s always fascinated us, hasn’t it, Alice?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve always wanted to take a look around.”

“Is it true that there’s a room filled with suits of armor?” Felicity asked.

“Just tell me how much I owe you and clear out,” said the cook, who was clearly not a great conversationalist.

Felicity settled the bill with the woman, but instead of clearing out, she asked, “Do you mind if I use the bathroom?” She squeezed her legs together and gave the cook a look of embarrassment. “I just finished a Big Gulp.”

The woman grumbled something, then said, “Oh, all right. You people sure are a nuisance. I hope Marcel gets his stuff worked out soon enough.” Reluctantly, she led Felicity out of the kitchen and into a long stone corridor. “Just keep going straight, then make a right at the end and a right again.”

“Thank you so much,” Fee said, and hurried off in the direction indicated.