Guild Of Immortal Women Read online

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  Guild

  Of

  Immortal

  Women

  David Alan Morrison and H. L. Melvin

  Book Publishers Network

  P.O. Box 2256

  Bothell • WA • 98041 Ph • 425-483-3040 www.bookpublishersnetwork.com

  Copyright © 2014 David Alan Morrison and H. L. Melvin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed in the United States of America

  LCCN 2014947374

  ISBN 978-1-940598-44-4

  Editor: Barbara Kindness

  Cover Designer: Laura Zugzda

  Book Designer: Melissa Vail Coffman

  “When one is immortal, one should keep a low profile.”

  —Quote embroidered across the top of each of the fifty wall-size tapestries inside the historic mansion in Montpelier, Vermont, dubbed ‘The Bastille’ A single family has occupied The Bastille since its construction in 1771

  .

  1

  In the woods of Montpelier, Vermont, a loud crack cut through the early morning silence, a flash lit up the dell, and a foot appeared out of the early morning mist. A muscular, dark-haired Frenchman uncoiled from the nothingness, stretched for a moment, and then offered his hand to the empty air. A fleshy, tattoo-covered arm emerged from the void, reaching out to the handsome Frenchman. He pulled a plump twenty-four-year-old woman with long, oily red hair and acne scarred skin onto the soft grass.

  “Oh. My God!” the young girl gasped, looking around at the glade. “It. Worked!”

  The man grunted as he wiped his leather boots on the turf and inspected his sole for animal droppings.

  The young redhead squealed, leapt like a child into his arms and wrapped herself around his neck.

  He pulled her body against his and ran his palms down her back, holding them onto her copious cheeks as she ground her hips against his. Just as his tongue found her lips, her squirming stopped and she pulled away. “Oh…I don’t…I feel…really. Really icky,” she muttered.

  Then he felt the young woman wither. Her flaming red hair faded to gray. Her pimply forehead dried and cracked with age. Her pink cheeks turned pale and hollow. Her plump body wilted, leaving her clothes hanging from her flesh-covered skeleton. Her many tattoos converted to small splotches of black ink on gossamer skin.

  With a grunt of disgust he pushed the old woman away. She stumbled backwards, stared at her hands, looked to him in horror and mumbled, “Like. What. Went wrong? What…” The last of her words were lost in a violent gasp as she clutched her chest and fell to the ground with a dull thud.

  He bent over and lifted the eyelid of this once-nubile young woman. The green of her emerald eyes stared up at him—dead and empty.

  “Damn. That was extremely unfortunate.” He pulled out a pack of Gauloises, lit up and kicked at the corpse as he sucked on the cigarette. He flipped open his cell phone, pushed the speed dial button, and waited for the Doctor to answer.

  2

  Anthony Gordon ‘Matt’ Mathers, Junior, took one last picture of the dead woman’s ankle tattoo, then rocked on his heels while surveying the crime scene. This was definitely a shame. Of all the things that could be associated with the Ladies, why did it have to be a murder? A dead body showing up on their grounds was a hell of a way to pay them back for their generosity. While not quite ‘celebrity’ status, Eleanor and the Other Women of the Bastille were regional icons. He had seen them countless times at fundraisers, charity events and, of course, the yearly Medieval Faire they hosted on the grounds of their immense estate. Their mass acreage, vast amounts of old family money, and public generosity were renowned throughout New England. He had yet to meet anyone who disliked a single member of the Emerson family for the past hundred years. The joke around town was that they were Vermont’s guardian angels, taking on human form at will. Well, with any luck, and Janet Gage’s help, he could keep this one off the media radar. He’d be damned to see unnecessary negative publicity reflected on these people.

  He sighed and jiggled his keys. The afternoon breeze tickled his thick hair and he caught a whiff of tangy sweetness. Lavender? Honeysuckle? The gardens surrounding the main building were thick with scented flowers. Matt couldn’t pinpoint the specific fragrance. Not such a great detective, was he? He should have taken horticulture as one of his electives in college rather than European history.

  He stopped rocking and closed his fist around his keys. This corpse didn’t make sense: Caucasian, roughly eighty years old, dressed in traditional medieval clothing: light green bodice, long chintz dress, and simple leather shoes. No snaps, no Velcro, and ties in lieu of zippers. The belt around the woman’s waist was roughly cut from a larger piece of leather and the holes for the simple buckle were slits of a knife instead of the clean, circular holes punched by a machine. Mathers was not an expert in costumes, but it sure looked authentically medieval.

  The scene was full of inconsistencies: a tongue piercing, several earrings adorning the ears, and a brightly colored Mickey Mouse tattoo. He made a note to research the history of Disney—the year Steamboat Willie morphed into Mickey Mouse may be an important fact. While it was unusual for women to get tattoos in the 1950’s and 1960’s, it did happen. But in 1960, this woman would have been forty years old. What forty-year-old woman in the year 1960 would get a colorful Mickey Mouse tattoo and a tongue piercing? He knew tongue piercing was popular with the younger crowd, but older folks? The waitress from Denny’s he dated last year had a pierced tongue. He thought it disgusting at first, but three dates later, he decided tongue piercings were a good thing. He s
hook his head to erase the images of her. It wasn’t his fault she stopped returning his phone calls. Was it? What was it women wanted, anyway?

  Mathers toyed with his keys again. Regardless of the oddity of the circumstances, at least tracking the identity of an eighty-year-old woman with a Mickey Mouse tattoo and tongue piercing would be easy. How many could there be?

  Meanwhile, Janet finished her stroll around the area and stood making notes on some important-looking forms. He wasn’t sure what she did for the Department of Forests and Parks, but she sure looked professional doing it. The two met a few years ago when Mathers replaced Detective Williams on a murder investigation. Several months later, during a manhunt for a suspected terrorist who had fled into the mountains between Vermont and New Hampshire, he made friends with her husband, Sal, and the three of them had become quite close. She proved herself a great guide as well as an all-around smart gal.

  Mathers returned his gaze to the body when he heard Gage call out to him. “I’ve got to call this in, Detective.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Sure thing, Anthony Gordon.” Janet’s voice carried the tinge of sarcasm that Mathers found as annoying as endearing.

  “If you ever call me that name in public…”

  “I don’t know why you hate ‘Anthony’. It’s a great name,” Janet said, motioning to the radio.

  He nodded for her to call it in. “I’m done here. Anthony was my father’s name.”

  “So?”

  “I don’t even know who he is.”

  “And ‘Mathers’?”

  “Mom’s surname.”

  Janet pointed to the corpse. With a huge sigh, she added, “Why do these things always happen the day AFTER vacation?”

  “Luck?”

  Janet chuckled and grabbed the handpiece to the radio. Anthony Gordon, aka “Matt” Mathers, was a pleasant chap: tall—about six one, six two maybe—with jet-black hair, closely trimmed beard, and piercing eyes. ‘Dashing’ was the word she used to describe him to Sal. Janet liked Detective Mathers because not only did he resemble her college professor in the Forestry program, but because Sal and he were such good friends. It struck her odd that her anti-social husband insisted the detective drop by for dinner whenever he was in town. Not that she minded. Sandwiched between two handsome men drinking beers made her feel somehow…wicked.

  “Yeah, what?” Alice’s gruff voice shot back through the Jeep’s speaker. Mathers smiled. He could imagine Alice sitting at her ancient desk, hunched over a pile of folders, thumbing her nose at the NO SMOKING sign with a cigarette dangling from her lips, gray hair a frantic mess upon her head. Did he like her because of that, or because Alice reminded him of his grandmother? Either way, the woman was a bitch-on-wheels and nothing caught his attention more than a strong willed woman.

  “We have a situation, Alice.” Janet said into the mic.

  “Situation?” the woman mimicked in an all-too-familiar tone.

  “What kind of situation?”

  “We’re going to need the Sheriff’s office down here.”

  “Where’re you again?” Alice asked. Janet could almost hear the papers on Alice’s desk flying as she searched for her work order. “Out at

  Eleanor’s place?”

  “Ten-Four,” Janet sighed. “The Bastille.”

  “Jesus F Christ, Janet!” Alice spat, “you’re only out there to check the god-damned drainage on their back forty! Pace out the flags, sign the authorization forms for the damned Faire, and get your ass back here. Cooper called in sick this morning and I’ve got those New York developers on my ass about the building permit. I need some god-damn help here!”

  Janet winced. Alice’s bark was worse than her bite, but her bark was damn painful. “Alice. I found a body.” Silence.

  “Alice?”

  “Say again?” The fury had evaporated from her voice and Alice sounded almost stunned.

  “Caucasian female. Approximately eighty. Medieval dress.”

  “If this is your idea of a joke… ”

  “It’s not!” Janet shot back with equal gruffness. Mathers chuckled and Janet silenced him.

  “What the hell is an eighty-year-old woman doing in those clothes?” Alice asked.

  “Halloween? It’s fucking June,” Alice snapped. “I’ll get the Sheriff’s office. You hang on there.”

  “I hope you won’t get reprimanded for this,” Mathers said, leaning against the Jeep.

  Gage shook her head. “We’ll just tell ‘em Sal invited you to dinner and we swung by the Bastille on our way so I could issue the permit.

  Then, oops! A dead body. No problem.”

  “How’s Sal doing?”

  “He’s fine,” Janet smiled broadly, “he’s got a new hobby. He’s building model cars.” Mathers laughed. “Seriously. Like he’s ten or something. Well, keeps him out of trouble.” She rolled her eyes and continued. “He’s on his yearly ‘we-have-to-use-the-grill’ kick. I think he’s torching some chicken for dinner.”

  “Great. Love barbecue,” Mathers said, looking back toward the body. “I’m afraid this incident will be a terrible topic for dinner conversation.”

  “Nah,” Gage laughed, “Sal’s a good guy. Anything to help the Ladies.”

  “No footprints,” he said.

  “What?”

  “No footprints indicating any sign of entry into the glade despite the wet ground. Just...what looks like boot prints...exiting the area. No overhanging limbs, either. Couldn’t have dropped down from above. How did she get there?”

  Gage scanned the area. Trees surrounded most of this part of the Bastille’s property, but the dead woman lay on the grassy patch in the middle of a small ring of trees.

  “Well, she had to have gotten there somehow. She didn’t just… materialize out of thin air.”

  “You there, Janet?” Alice’s gruff voice bellowed from the radio.

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “Sheriff’s boys are on their way.” Alice coughed a hard, long cough before continuing. “They’re putting in a call to Mathers.”

  The ranger shot a glance at Mathers. “Tell ‘em I got Mathers with me.”

  “What?”

  “We were on our way to dinner.” “Convenient,” Alice said.

  “Yeah.”

  “So I guess Sal knows you’re alone in the middle of the woods with a handsome bachelor man?”

  “He’s at home grilling us some chicken. I keep him on a tight leash.” “Just wait for the Sheriff,” Alice said. “Out.”

  Janet hung up and settled into the Jeep to await the arrival of the Sheriff. She watched as Mathers wandered towards the body again and stood staring. Damn, he is handsome. She sighed and fiddled with the dials on the radio.

  “This is private property,” Mathers’ voice took on that distant quality that told Janet he was analyzing clues. “Private drive. Fenced property. Gated grounds around the house.” He turned to her and asked, “Makes one wonder if it’s an inside job, doesn’t it?”

  Janet shook her head. “The Ladies?” She laughed. “They wouldn’t harm a fly.”

  “I heard that younger one…”

  “Abbey?”

  “Abbey. She’s a bit…off.” He tapped his temple for emphasis.

  Janet shook her head. She respected him; too bad he lived in a world of his own.

  3

  Abbey panicked, clawing towards the surface of the water as the weight around her leg pulled her farther into the deep.

  From beneath her, a dull, rhythmic THUD THUD THUD echoed up out of the darkness as she struggled towards air. THUD THUD THUD. She could see the sun above her, its rays sending rainbows shooting across the surface of the ocean as she felt herself sinking, her world becoming murkier, smaller and dimmer… THUD THUD THUD.

  Abbey snapped awake at the pounding on the door. She bolted upright in bed, gasping for breath. Her pajamas stuck like glue to her body.

  “Abbey? Edna?” called the voice on the
other side of the door. Normally, Abbey felt comforted by the familiarity of that cheery, nasal voice that only spoke in questions. Today it grated on her nerves. “Rise and shine? Are you two up and showered?”

  A weight sank onto the bed next to her and Abbey managed to force a smile at her roommate, Edna. The thin octogenarian clutched Abbey’s sweaty palm in her bony grip and smiled back, her pink gums standing out against her pale skin. “You dreamed again last night,” the feeble woman said, patting Abbey. “I heard you crying in your sleep.”

  Abbey turned to avoid Edna’s eyes. She inhaled deeply, letting Edna’s sweet cologne—a mixture of cinnamon and lavender—calm her.

  “Edna, you need your teeth.”

  “Bad teeth. They hurt,” Edna whispered.

  “Edna? You need to come get your meds? The nurse is dispensing them now?” The cheery voice continued its incessant questioning through the closed door.

  Abbey forced herself to breathe normally. She closed her eyes to chase the last remnant of the dream back into the recesses of her unconsciousness.

  “I’m fine, Edna.”

  “Abbey? Edna? Am I going to have to walk into your room?”

  Edna spun and screamed at the door, “WILL YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU STUPID WHORE!” Then, calmly, she winked at Abbey and whispered, “I stole some Tylenol from the nurse’s station if you need one. They’re under my pillow.”

  The voice behind the door tittered shrilly. Abbey sometimes pitied Heather, the woman behind the voice. Heather spoke in question marks and tossed her hair with such force Abbey feared the girl would give herself whiplash. Heather bragged about her daddy paying for the Certified Nursing Assistant training and her mother getting this job for her. Working at this loony bin wasn’t a job for Heather; it was a holding pattern.

  “Now, now, Edna? Is that bad language I hear?”

  “CLOSE YOUR DAMN RAT TRAP, YOU IGNORANT BITCH!” Edna ran her thin fingers through her sparse gray hair and stood up. “Are you hungry, dear? I could bring you coffee from the dining hall. I never drink mine.” Abbey shook her head.

  “We are fine, Heather. Thank you for your concern,” Abbey yelled to the closed door. “We will join everyone at breakfast in a moment.”

  “Sure?” Abbey could almost feel Heather tossing her hair back. “I’ll be waiting for you at the nurse’s station, okay? Want your belated birthday cupcake?”