Prologue

Prologue

Mrs Cameron stood at the kitchen sink, considering the dishes created by her morning baking. She stared at the boarded-up kitchen window, the result of a strong dust devil that had hit the north side of the house and torn off a section of the roof a week ago. A sheet of plywood shielded the glass from the repair work above on the decaying one-hundred-and five-year-old wood-framed house.

With the light from the outside cut off, the windowpane became a dim mirror reflecting the activity and inhabitants of the kitchen. Mrs Cameron looked at her reflection and saw a woman with a jowly countenance and hair that had gone completely white. She hadn't turned full-on apple doll yet, but it was inevitable—unless, of course, death took her first.

When did you become so old?

Her thoughts were interrupted.

"What's this symbol called?" Henry asked, holding up a piece of paper and pointing to an indiscernible character. He was surrounded by the remains of his math homework spread all over the table.

"Well, you're gonna have to bring it here. My eyes aren't telescopes."

Henry scooted the chair back, brought her the paper and held it up to her milky blue eyes. She pulled her reading glasses out of the pocket of her apron and held them in front of her, like a jeweller would hold their loupe while examining a rare gem.

"It's a pi," she said.

"I like pie," he said with a smile.

She raised an eyebrow. "Now how long have you been waiting to tell that joke?"

"It's not so much a joke as witty wordplay," he said, heading back to his chair.

This from a thirteen-year-old, she thought, shaking her head. Henry often seemed wiser than a boy of his age. Although he was only her ward, she thought of him as the child she'd never had and due to their age difference, he had taken to calling her Gramma Carol.

She patted him on the shoulder. "Now, clear up your mess and set the table. Then you can go and tell Mr Tull breakfast is ready."

Henry quickly did as he was told.

Mrs Cameron smiled as she looked around. The kitchen was her domain and nobody in Hoodoo House would dare to question anything she did here or, frankly, anywhere else on the property. She was the housekeeper, cook, scullery maid and holder of just about every other staff position one could imagine. She was as permanent a fixture in the building as the ancient stove or the kitchen's large wooden prep table and she loved every scrap of wood and broken-down fixture in it…almost as much as she loved young Henry.

Writer Malcolm Tull, however…

An acrid smell hit her nostrils.

"Damn."

She ran towards the oven. A cloud of smoke filled the air as she pulled out the tray of burnt baking.

"You damned fool," she muttered to herself as she removed the biscuits and placed them on a cooling rack. She could scrape the char off the best ones and they'd be fine. The others she'd save for crumbling up for the chickens, or perhaps the centres could be used for stuffing. Either way, they would end up inside a chicken.

She checked the coffee perking in the pot and dabbed the fat off the freshly cooked bacon. She turned back towards the kitchen table and was startled to see Henry standing at the door, his eyes wide, his mouth open. It took him a moment to speak.

"There's something wrong with Mr Tull."

"Well, what's wrong?" she asked.

"He's asleep on his desk and he's lying in his own sick."

Mrs Cameron hurried to the writing room. Henry followed. She went to the desk and examined the prone man. She'd been around long enough to know when something wasn't alive, but to be certain, she checked for a pulse—nothing.

"Henry, leave the room and don't touch anything. And don't come back in here."

She scurried past the boy and headed back to the kitchen where she called the doctor…and the police.

* * * *

Sergeant Kaci Bowen from the Drumheller, Alberta RCMP detachment was in her late fifties and moved like she'd walked too many miles in cheap shoes. She trudged into the writing room. It was a large space with bookshelves on three walls and a sizeable casement window in the fourth which faced the roadway and the distant fields of prairie grass beyond. As had been reported, the body of writer Malcolm Tull, forty-five years old, was seated in a leather chair behind an expansive oak desk. His torso, head and arms lay across the desk. His face lay in a pool of vomit, which had formed a ring around a blue ceramic coffee mug just beyond reach of Tull's right hand. On the left side of the desk was a prescription bottle one-third full of round white tablets.

Sergeant Bowen walked behind the desk and craned her head over the rigid body, noting that the pill bottle's label identified the contents as primidone, prescribed to Malcolm Tull.

"Is he dead?" a voice asked from the doorway.

Sergeant Bowen looked up and saw a teen-aged boy with tousled mouse-brown hair. She guessed he was a hundred and fifty-six, maybe fifty-seven centimetres tall, and forty-five kilos, tops. She was good at guessing heights and weights. When she retired, maybe she'd join a sideshow.

"You shouldn't be in here," she said.

She walked the boy out into the hallway. No point in him spending any more time than necessary around the dead body. The officer looked more closely at the teen. He wore a long-sleeved plaid shirt, jeans and high-top runners. If it wasn't for the shoes, the kid could have been a farm hand. There were plenty just like him all across Wheatland County.

"Henry, isn't it?" she said.

"Yes, ma'am. Henry Quill," he answered, bowing his head and avoiding eye contact.

She wasn't sure if the boy was simple or just shy.

"Nice to meet you, Henry. My name is Sergeant Bowen, but you can call me Kaci if you like. I'm with the RCMP. I suppose you know why I'm here?"

"You came to look after Mr Tull," Henry said, shuffling his feet and peering around her trying to get a look inside the room.

"Yes. That's right," she replied.

Henry looked directly at her and asked again, "Is he really dead?"

"Yes. He's dead."

Henry nodded his head as he processed the information. He had a serious look on his face, but didn't seem upset. Sergeant Bowen wasn't overly surprised by this. Young people in farm country were raised knowing death was as natural as birth and were often able to handle it better than some adults she knew.

"Do you know what happened to him?" the boy asked.

"Not yet, but I'm sure we'll figure it out. And you might be able to help."

"How? I just found him, that's all," Henry said.

"Did you happen to hear or see anything unusual this morning?"

Henry considered her question for a moment.

She continued, "If I understand it right, you went to get him for breakfast."

Henry nodded again. "Gramma Carol asked me to let him know it was ready. That was one of my usual morning jobs."

"Do you have other jobs you do in the morning?" she asked.

"I do my math homework first thing before breakfast. Gramma Carol says my brain is sharpest then."

Sergeant Bowen pulled out her notepad and pencil. "Do you mind if I take a few notes?"

"No, ma'am. I mean, that would be fine," Henry answered.

"My mind isn't as good at remembering as it used to be," she joked. "When was the last time you saw Mr Tull, other than this morning?"

"Last night, before bed."

"And where did you see him?"

"In there," Henry said, pointing to the writing room. "I took him his evening tonic."

"Tonic?"

Henry smiled. "That's what Gramma Carol calls it. It's a gross thing he likes to drink before bed. I wouldn't drink it if you paid me."

"Do you know what's in this tonic?"

"I think there's brandy, but you have to ask Gramma Carol."

"And you usually bring it to Mr Tull before bed?" Sergeant Bowen asked.

"No. Gramma Carol does. I'm usually in bed before ten and that's when Mr Tull has it. At ten p.m. sharp, but I was up late looking at the stars, so I said I could take it to him."

Sergeant Bowen carefully noted the time.

"You said ten p.m. sharp. So, I gather Mr Tull is strict about schedules?"

"Yes ma'am. He's strict—I mean, he was strict—about a lot of things."

"What sorts of things?"

"When I didn't bring his afternoon coffee at two p.m., he would yell ‘Discipline is the only thing that stops us from sliding back to the stone age.'"

Sergeant Bowen smiled. Her inspector had said something similar that very morning.

"And last night when you brought him his tonic, were you on time?" she continued.

"Yes, ma'am."

"And you didn't wait to see if he drank his tonic?"

"No, ma'am, I didn't. Mr. Tull told me to leave him alone."

A low growl sounded from Henry's stomach.

Sergeant Bowen closed her notebook. "I won't keep you and your stomach much longer. Was there anything at all that you can think of that was…different this morning?"

Henry smiled. "I got Gramma Carol real good with a math joke. I told her I like pi."

"Good one," Sergeant Bowen said, pretending she got the joke. "Okay, anything else you remember from last night or this morning?"

"No, ma'am. Not that I can think of right now."

"Thank you, Henry. You've been very helpful. Would you get your Gramma Carol for me?"

"Sure," Henry said, then disappeared out of sight.

Sergeant Bowen walked back into the writing room and looked out through the window to see if there was any sign of the coroner or forensics team. Behind her, someone cleared their throat and Sergeant Bowen turned and saw the woman who had let her into the house earlier…Mrs Cameron.

Sergeant Bowen studied her for a moment. Mrs Cameron was old, mid-eighties the sergeant guessed, around one-hundred-and-seventy centimetres with a weight of seventy kilograms. Mrs Cameron dressed the part of a housekeeper with a loose-fitting dress that came down to her ankles, a white apron and comfortable black running shoes. Her white hair was unevenly cut short and parted on the left side. She had probably cut it herself.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Mrs Cameron, do you know if Mr Tull had any medical issues?"

"All I know is he took pills every night with his tonic. I'm not sure what they were for since he bragged about how healthy he was. He went running every morning at dawn, at least in the summer months. In the winter he'd bundle up and head out for a brisk walk." She folded her arms. "He had the nerve to say that if Mr Pritchard had taken better care of himself, he wouldn't have dropped dead like he did."

"Mr Pritchard?" Sergeant Bowen asked

"That was the previous writer-in-residence at Hoodoo House," Mrs Cameron replied.

"And exactly what did Mr Pritchard die of?" Sergeant Bowen asked.

Mrs Cameron scowled. "Old age."

Sergeant Bowen looked down at her notes. "Henry said that you prepare Mr. Tull's evening tonic. What precisely does it contain?"

"It's kumis, a drink made from fermented mare's milk. He claimed it was the fountain of youth. He makes it himself. I just serve it up to him with a shot of brandy. I told him to forget the yogourty glop and stick to the brandy. It would probably do the same thing for him."

Sergeant Bowen made a note, then pushed ahead. "And how long have you known Mr Tull?"

Mrs Cameron paused. "A little over fifteen years, I guess. He started out as Mr Pritchard's editor before taking over the position of writer-in-residence."

"Is that normal? An editor becoming a writer?"

"Sometimes. And sometimes it happens the other way around."

Bowen turned the page on her notepad. "What exactly does a writer-in-residence do?"

"Here, the writer-in-residence is a fully supported position. They get a place to stay, meals, a monthly stipend and a place far away from distraction to create whatever they want."

"And who pays for all of this?"

"The Heart's Shadow Foundation," Mrs Cameron said, "and before you ask, they get their money from the proceeds of Marjorie Ellis' The Heart's Shadow book series."

Sergeant Bowen frowned. "The Heart's Shadow, huh? I've never heard of it. It must be a profitable book series to support all this."

"It is. You obviously aren't from around here, are you?" Mrs Cameron said.

"Brandon, Manitoba, actually. I transferred here two months ago."

Sergeant Bowen glanced around the writing room before continuing, "Running this place must cost a lot of money. These writers, they must be good." She hoped to placate her.

"Mr Pritchard was," Mrs Cameron sharply replied.

"And Mr Tull?"

"He was…competent."

Mrs Cameron started to fuss with something in her apron pocket. "May I?" she asked as she entered the room and walked towards the desk, pulling out a cleaning rag.

"Mrs Cameron, please don't touch anything," the sergeant said, stepping between her and the desk.

"Look, I've already been in here once today. I'll just clean up the vomit."

"Mrs Cameron, I'm afraid I can't let you touch it."

"But the desk is a valuable piece of furniture. The stomach acid could damage it!"

"It might also hold evidence as to what happened here."

"But…that's the very desk Marjorie Ellis wrote The Ragtag Crew at…"

Sergeant Bowen took her by the arm. "Mrs Cameron, what would help me most is if you would leave everything just as it is until forensics has been through."

The housekeeper took one more glance at the desk and shook her head. "Fine," she said then marched out of the room.

* * * *

Forensics arrived and inspected the body. They removed the hard evidence, including the kumis mug, the pill bottle and a large sample of the vomit from the desk. The coroner examined Tull's body then took it away for further inspection. The room almost looked like nothing had happened, except for the yellow police tape which blocked the entrance to the writing room.

Sergeant Bowen went outside onto the veranda, took out a pack of cigarettes and extracted a smoke. As she lit it up, she looked out at the prairie before her. It was harvest-time. There was a combination of yellows, golds, clay browns and endless blue sky. The world was filled with the sound of buzzing insects. It had life and colour, unlike the house which was in desperate need of repairs and a fresh coat of paint. A twenty-foot-tall narrow stack of fake reddish-brown rocks with a stone plate on top stood on guard near the entrance of the house. It looked like it was made of coloured concrete and chicken wire. To the side of it was a sign that read "The Spirit of the Hoodoo".

An insult to the hoodoos, if you ask me.

This place gave her the creeps. It would give the Bates house from Psycho a run for its money.

Bowen took a final drag on her cigarette, flicked the stub onto the ground then crushed it with her heel.

If I had to live in this house, I might consider taking my own life, she mused, then walked back to her car and drove away.

* * * *

For a long time after the police had left, Henry sat on the swinging bench on the south porch. There was a freedom in swinging. The gentle motion helped to calm him. And there was always a gentle breeze blowing over the hill to the west. Whenever he needed peace and quiet when the weather was pleasant, this was where he went.

He rifled through the comic books that he'd brought with him and pulled out one from the series Momrath and The Slithe. The Slithe was his favourite superhero. He was powerful, even if he was a slim guy in a shiny skin-tight black costume. Few dared to bother him, but if they did, The Slithe could deal with them. And The Slithe believed in justice.

Henry was reading the current issue for the fourth time when he heard the deep rumble of a motorcycle engine. A familiar bike made its way up the long drive from the concession road. It moved slowly towards the house, then the driver killed the engine so the only noise was the crunching of rubber tires on gravel. As the bike came to a halt, the rider dropped the kickstand and dismounted. He took off his helmet and hung it from the handlebars. Henry recognized the man. He was one of Mr Tull's visitors. The man looked fit and not that old, not like Mr Tull. Not even as old as Mr Yamada, the editor.

"Hey kid."

"Hey."

The biker started to walk towards the house.

"Mr Tull's not there," Henry said. "He's dead."

For the first time, Henry noticed how much the rider looked like The Slithe. He wore heavy leather clothes, but he doubted the biker's motorcycle was made of pure diamond like The Slithe's was.

There was a long silence before the rider asked, "You okay?"

"I guess," Henry said. "I'd never seen a dead body before."

"Sorry you had to see that."

The rider looked at the window at the front of the house—the window which belonged to the writer's office. He stared at it for a long time, while he chewed on his lower lip.

"Look, kid, I left something here with Mr Tull. I was hoping to pick it up today. I think it's in his office. Mind if I go in and check?"

Henry was about to answer when the front door of the house swung open. Gramma Carol came striding out onto the porch. She had her rolling pin in her hand.

"I don't know what you're doing, but you've got no business here. Now get off this property before I call the cops."

Henry smiled. Gramma Carol was a lot like a superhero. She always used reason before she resorted to using a weapon, in this case her rolling pin.

The man shrugged and headed back to his bike. He got on slowly. Henry grinned.

He doesn't want Gramma Carol to see that she won.

But Henry also suspected that he didn't want to be on the receiving end of that piece of smooth rounded maple. The man started up his bike and motored back down the drive.

"What did he want?" she asked Henry.

"He said he forgot something here."

"His decency, I'll bet."

She shook her head and returned into the house.

Henry thought that Gramma Carol deserved to have her own comic book. The villains wouldn't have a chance.