Lilly glanced at her sister and I saw Gretta give a slight shake of her head. I wondered what they were silently communicating to each other. No doubt they were disturbed by Duane’s declaration.
Since this was Willescane Island, I assumed the murders happened here. I’m a vampire, not prone to being afraid, but like Margaret, I got the shivers, too.
“True crime? Ugh. Why would anyone write that drivel?” asked Julia, her voice filled with disgust.
“It made me a national bestseller,” said Duane looking down his nose at the witch. “And the book after that, Murder in the Jazz Land, put me on the New York Times bestseller list.”
Julia rolled her eyes, obviously unimpressed.
“I didn’t read that one, dear,” said Margaret. “What was it about?”
“The axeman of New Orleans.”
“I’m sensing a theme,” I told Duane. “Are all your books about ax killers?”
“One ax killer,” said Duane, lifting his index finger. “The Moore family in Villisca was killed in 1912. The murderer in New Orleans struck down victims in 1918 and 1919.”
“You think they were the same person?” I asked.
“I do.”
“What’s your supposition?” Lilly carefully put down the mugs and turned toward the rest of us, crossing her arms. “That the Willescanes were murdered by the axeman of New Orleans?”
“Yes. And he also murdered the Moore family in Iowa.”
“Ridiculous,” muttered Gretta. She joined her sister at the back table and put her arm around Lilly. Lilly leaned into her twin, obviously upset. If vampires had the ability to cry, I think Lilly would be shedding tears.
Duane either didn’t notice how upset the sisters were about the murder discussion, or he didn’t care. He continued, “This house was once owned by Gregory Willescane, a low level mobster in the Vinetta crime family. In 1924, for reasons still unknown, he moved his family from New York to this island.” He paused until every person in the room was looking at him in expectation. “In 1926, on a stormy night like this one, Gregory and his family were killed by an intruder wielding an ax.” He paused again and then said in a hushed voice, “In fact, the anniversary of their deaths is tomorrow night.”
Um, had my vacation officially turned into a Murder, She Wrote episode? It sure felt that way, and let me tell you, I wasn’t exactly cheered by the thought. It was one thing to watch Jessica Fletcher solve a murder in Cabot Cove in a comfortable forty-five minutes—and quite another to be thrust into the bloody past of the bed-and-breakfast and this island.
“Was he trying to escape the mob?” asked Margaret. She’d stopped crocheting altogether, fully immersed in Duane’s lurid tale.
The writer shrugged. “I haven’t found anything in my research that indicates he was running away from the Vinettas.”
“But wouldn’t that make more sense, dear? He angered his bosses and they sent someone to take out Gregory and his whole family.” Margaret shaped her hands into guns. She squinched her face as she mock-growled, “‘He pulls a knife, you pull a gun. He sends one of yours to the hospital, you send one of his to the morgue! That's the Chicago way.’” She straightened and put her hands down. “The Untouchables is one of my favorite movies.”
“They weren’t from Chicago,” said Duane, disdain in his voice. From Duane’s annoyed expression, I surmised he wasn’t willing to entertain Margaret’s supposition. I don’t think he liked his theory being questioned, and that kind of arrogance rankled me.
“The mob could’ve killed them,” I said, putting myself on Team Margaret.
“Mob hits were certainly brutal,” agreed Duane, “but usually involved guns.”
“Oh, those mobsters used all sorts of weapons,” said Margaret. “When they killed their own, it was to send a message. An ax would certainly do that.”
“The mob did not kill the Willescanes,” insisted Duane. “My research indicates Gregory moved here with the blessings of the Vinettas. In fact, I think he came here at the behest of his bosses.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Prohibition. A lot of alcohol was being smuggled in from Canada. This island is a prime spot for that kind of activity.”
“Do you have actual evidence that the same person who killed those people in Iowa and Louisiana also killed the Willescanes?” I asked.
“I have evidence enough.”
How vague and mysterious of Mr. True Crime. I didn’t buy it, and I didn’t think anyone else did, either—especially the twins. I imagine they had to have known about the Willescane tragedy when they bought the place. But I understood why they wouldn’t want guests to know that tale. Even paranormal vacationers would look askance at staying in place where people were hacked to death with an ax.
“So the island was named after the Willescanes?” asked Claire as she looked over her shoulder at the twins. “Was that before or after they died?”
“Before. Gregory Willescane bought this private island in 1924,” said Lilly. Neither she nor her sister seemed happy with the writer’s knowledge of the house’s past. But now that it was out in the open, the story had to be told. “Gregory moved his entire family here and they pretty much lived in isolation—until their deaths. I don’t believe the isle had a name prior to the Willescane ownership. When my sister and I bought the place a couple of years ago, we decided not to change the name.”
“The locals won’t call it anything else,” said Gretta. “Though I do wish it didn’t have such a grisly history.”
“You own the whole island?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Gretta. “We own the land, the house—everything.”
Amazed, I looked at my husband. Like I mentioned earlier, a vampire who was thousands of years old had plenty of time to get rich. Like, super rich. My husband had squirreled away all kinds of treasures over the millennia, and if he could buy a small country, he could also buy a tiny land mass in the ocean.
Do you want to buy an island, Jess?
Does he know me, or what? I glanced at him and then thought-projected: I can’t believe we can buy islands. And name them whatever we want. Hey! I know what we can get the kids for Christmas.
He chuckled in my mind. I think Jenny would like to own one—so she can populate it with zombies.
That’s exactly what she’d do.
We shared a smile.
In our paranormal hometown of Broken Heart, the walking dead popped out of their graves on a regular basis. Jenny had brought them home with the same regularity other kids brought home stray animals.
“They never caught the killer?” asked Hannah.
Lilly opened her mouth to answer, but Duane was quicker. “No,” he said, “Just like the ax killings in Villisca and New Orleans, the Willescane murders were never solved.”
Margaret shook her head sorrowfully. “How tragic.”
I’d seen some awful things in my time as a vampire, but even to a bloodsucker like me, the idea of a family being hacked to death in their own home seemed particularly heinous. Considering how difficult it was to get to this island, the murderer must’ve really wanted the Willescanes dead.
“What kind of psychopath kills an entire family with an ax?” I asked. Duane’s tale of homicide reminded me that this world was dangerous and filled with creatures and people who enjoyed cruelty and death. It reminded me, too, that while they’d once been fairly safe in Broken Heart’s borders, my children currently lived outside that protection and were subject to the vagaries and whims of those with ill intentions.
“Entire family is not accurate,” said Gretta. “Williscane’s two oldest daughters escaped.”
“That’s right,” said Duane. “They disappeared. People think the killer kidnapped them and killed them elsewhere later.”
“Why would he do that?” I asked.
All eyes turned to me.
“It’s not easy to get here. So the killer had to really want to murder these people. Then he—or she—kidnaps two kids and drags them off the island?”
“They were teenagers,” repeated Duane. He shrugged. “Others have posited that they were killers and left the island on their own.”
"Wouldn't that make your ax-killer theory irrelevant?" I asked.
"I didn't say I agreed with it."
Claire snapped her book shut. “Maybe they escaped the house, but the murderer tracked them down in the woods and finished the job.”
“We had the land surveyed,” said Lilly. “Other than the usual wildlife, nothing else was found. Certainly not any evidence of bodies out in the woods.”
“What about the graveyard?” asked Duane.
I saw Margaret and Serena visibly shudder. Heck, I wasn’t freaked out by graveyards. I used to go with Jenny and my friend Patsy, who can control the dead (long story), to the Broken Heart cemetery. Some zombies needed to be de-animated and re-buried for their own good. You know, not enough working limbs to get around properly or too decomposed to have any kind of zombie unlife. And a few were still recognizable to our citizens and upset those who’d known the persons. Zombie or not, if your dead grandma is wearing her Sunday best and shuffling toward you, you tend to freak out.
Lilly sent Duane a look of censure, but he ignored it. “The Willescanes were buried on the island,” he insisted. “There’s supposed to be a cemetery.”
Gretta reluctantly said, “There is. About a mile down the road.”
“How many people died?” asked Serena, her voice filled with horrified curiosity.
“There were five victims.” Duane held up a hand and counted off his fingers. “Gregory, his wife Betty, their two youngest daughters, and Betty’s six-year-old niece who was staying with them for a couple of weeks.”
“Were they killed in here?” Hannah’s voice shook and she appeared genuinely upset. Her gaze skittered around the room like the ax murderer was about to jump out at us. I found her reaction weird for a werewolf. Shifters didn’t have squeamish stomachs—and they weren’t afraid of much. After all, they were usually the biggest, baddest things in the room.
“Betty and the girls were asleep—so they were killed in the bedrooms. But to answer your question, Hannah … yes.” Duane paused dramatically again, his gaze sweeping across the room. “Gregory was killed right here.” He patted the mantle. “In front of the fireplace.”
Hannah looked at Caleb. “Why did you bring me here?”
"I didn't know about the history.” Caleb stroked his wife’s hair as if petting her would calm her down. Then I realized they were werewolves so maybe petting her actually helped.
“Ms. Thompson,” Hannah asked Gretta, “are we staying in one of the bedrooms where people were murdered?”
Gretta’s expression indicated she did not want to answer that question. Then she nodded. “You’re in what was the younger girls bedroom,” she admitted. “But I can assure you that we had the house blessed and smudged before opening for business. The Willescane ghosts aren’t here.”
“Ghosts aren’t real,” scoffed Duane, reminding us all that he was human and therefore, not privy to what we supernaturals knew to be true.
“Shows what you know.” Hannah pulled on her husband’s arm. “There’s no way I’m sleeping in the same room where the daughters died."
"Okay, babe." Calabe looked at Gretta. "Are there any other rooms available?"
"I'm sorry," said Gretta. "We're fully booked this weekend."
Hannah crossed her arms. "We'll sleep on the couches."
"Quit being so dramatic, child," said Julia in a cold voice. "You need to face the realities of this world. Murder is one of them."
"No shit, lady. My younger sister was murdered." Hannah turned to glare at Julia. "By a witch."