Murder on Olympus Read online

  MURDER ON OLYMPUS

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this book are products of the imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2013 by Robert B. Warren

  All rights reserved

  Cover design by Georgina Gibson

  www.georginagibson.com

  Published by Dragonfairy Press, Atlanta

  www.dragonfairypress.com

  Dragonfairy Press and the Dragonfairy Press logo are trademarks of Dragonfairy Press LLC.

  First Publication, April 2013

  ePub Edition, April 2013

  ePub ISBN: 978-1-939452-06-1

  Published in the United States of America

  In memory of Alma Thompson.

  1

  “There’s someone here to see you.”

  Emilie, my secretary, stood in my office doorway. Her brown eyes widened to the size of dinner plates behind a pair of tortoiseshell bifocals.

  “Client?” I asked.

  “I believe so.”

  “Mortal?”

  She shrugged. “As far as I can tell.”

  “Hot?”

  “It’s a man, sir.”

  “Damn.”

  I put my submarine sandwich back in its wrapper and dusted stray food from the front of my shirt. Emilie cleared her throat, pointing to the corner of her mouth. I dabbed a napkin at the gob of spicy mustard on my face.

  “Send him in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Emilie left, and shortly after, a thin man with suntanned skin stepped into my office. He wore faded coveralls and an equally faded baseball cap. Something I hoped was dried mud splattered his leather boots, which looked like they’d been beaten to death.

  I stood up and shook his damp palm. “Good afternoon.”

  “Afternoon,” he said.

  I waved toward the chair in front of my desk. He sat down. His large eyes darted around the room, ricocheting off everything.

  “You’ll have to excuse the smell,” I said. “I was having lunch.”

  The man shook his head. “I don’t mind.”

  “Plato Jones, private investigator, at your service. And you are?”

  “Nicolas Parker.”

  “Nice to meet you, Nicky.” I offered him a sweet from the candy dish on my desk.

  “No thanks.” Nicolas continued to look around. His eyes never stayed in one place for more than a second.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” I asked.

  Nicolas gave a nervous grin. His teeth reminded me of candy corn—small and spaced out, with orange and yellow stains. “How’d you know?”

  I eyed his coveralls. “Lucky guess.”

  “I’m a rancher.”

  “Is this your first visit to New Olympia?”

  “No, sir. I come here three, maybe four times a year. Delivery trips.”

  “So Nicky, what brings you here today? What can I do for you?”

  Nicolas’s mouth tightened into a line. He laced his fingers in his lap. His foot tapped against the floor. “I have a problem.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “The other week, someone snuck onto my property.” He hesitated. I gestured for him to continue. After a moment he added, “They snuck onto my property and stole one of my best gorgons.”

  I blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “My gorgon,” Nicolas said. “She was stolen.”

  “You’re a gorgon rancher?”

  “Yes, sir.” He nodded.

  I crossed my arms to mask a shiver. Gorgons were some of the nastiest creatures around, but they were also big business. Their castoff skins were all the rage in the fashion industry. But raising the buggers was hazardous. They were strong and fast, almost impossible to tame, and had a natural aversion toward humans. Most gorgon farmers ended up getting killed by their own livestock.

  “Is that a problem?” Nicolas asked.

  “No,” I lied. Gorgons gave me the creeps with all their hissing, and slithering, and turning people into stone. But the fact that Nicolas raised them for a living meant he had lots of money. Lots of money he’d send my way if I helped him.

  Nicolas’s posture relaxed, and he leaned back into the chair. “That’s good to hear. I was worried. The last detective I spoke with said he didn’t deal with gorgons. Said he didn’t want to end up a statue.”

  “Imagine that.”

  “Do you think you can help?”

  “Maybe. First I’ll need some more information. Take me back to the day of the theft.”

  Nicolas nodded. “Well, I woke up and had breakfast, like I always do. Then I went outside to feed the gorgons . . . like I always do. When I got to their enclosure, I noticed the padlock on the gate was broken. I counted them, and one was missing. A female. A big one. I looked all over the property but couldn’t find her.”

  “And you think someone stole her?” I asked.

  “That’s the only explanation I could come up with.”

  “Is it possible she got out on her own?”

  “I guess, but it’s never happened before.”

  “Did you report the theft to the police?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’d they say?”

  “They’ll call me if anything comes up. That was a few weeks ago.”

  “Have you contacted them since?” I asked.

  “Yesterday. They’re still looking into it.”

  “Then why hire a PI?”

  “The police aren’t working fast enough.” Nicolas dropped his gaze to his lap. “What if my gorgon ends up hurting someone, or worse?”

  “It wouldn’t be your fault. You were robbed.”

  “I know. But still, I don’t want something like that on my conscience.”

  “I understand.”

  Nicolas looked up at me, his expression hopeful. “So you’ll help me?”

  I folded my hands on my desk. “I’m going to be perfectly honest with you, Nicky. I despise gorgons. Hate everything about them. How they’re always hissing and slithering around. How they smell like fish and stale woodchips. Everything. But I like you, so I’m going to look into this.”

  Nicolas beamed. “Thank you, Mr. Jones.”

  “Don’t thank me until I’ve solved the case.”

  “What do you need from me to get started?”

  “For now, just your address and phone number,” I said. “We’ll discuss my fee later.”

  “Of course.”

  Nicolas gave me the information, and I keyed it into my laptop.

  “Boreasville.” I grinned. “You are a country boy, aren’t you?”

  Nicolas laughed, his hands fidgeting in his lap. Excitement had replaced his nervous energy. “So, what’s the next step?”

  “Tomorrow morning I’ll take a look at the crime scene, see if I can find any clues.”

  “And then?”

  “And then the search begins.”

  “Do you think you’ll be able to find her?” Nicolas asked.

  “I’ll certainly try.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Jones, for looking into this.”

  “No problem.” I stood and moved around the desk. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Nicolas rose from his seat, and we shook hands.

  “On your way out,” I added, “make sure you talk with my secretary about payment options.”

  “Okay.”

  “Have a good one.”

  Nicolas closed the office d
oor behind him. I sat back down. Minutes later, Emilie reappeared in the doorway. In her ankle-length navy dress, with its white floral pattern, puffy sleeves, and frilly lace neckline, she resembled the schoolmarm from a Wild West serial I watched as a kid.

  “Problem?” I asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “Is the client still here?”

  Emilie shook her head. “No, sir.”

  “Then what’s up?”

  “You have a call.”

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “The caller refuses to give his name, and the number is classified.”

  I knew who it was. I leaned back, rested my hands behind my head, and propped my feet onto the desk. “Tell him I’m not in.”

  2

  Boreasville was fifty miles removed from New Olympia, an elderly hamlet of farmers and artisans. Humans made up most of the population, with a dash of satyr and cyclops. The town was once the quintessential coffee stain on the map, until the whole health food craze caught on. Now it was the region’s number one supplier of organic produce.

  I parked in front of Nicolas’s three-story ranch house. It sat in the middle of the plains, surrounded by miles of mud and tall grass. The house’s classic design, combined with the austere landscape, gave the impression I stood on the set of some low-budget slasher flick.

  As I stepped out of my car, the humid air enveloped me. It reeked of manure and rotting hay. Little white flies swarmed around me. I swatted bugs and skipped over mud puddles as I approached the house. That morning I had debated whether to wear a suit. I was glad I hadn’t. In a place like this, a T-shirt, jeans, and boots were more appropriate for stomping through muck.

  Nicolas waited for me on the porch, wearing the same clothing he’d worn to the consultation. He held a tranquilizer rifle in his hands. I would’ve preferred a shotgun, or a rocket launcher. But it was better than nothing.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Jones,” he said.

  “Nicky.” I gestured at the gun. “I hope that’s not for me.”

  Nicolas glanced at the gun and made an O-shape with his mouth. “Oh, no, no, it’s not. This is just . . .”

  “Relax, I’m kidding.”

  He smiled, looking relieved. “Thanks for coming out. I was afraid you wouldn’t show.”

  “You thought the city slicker was going to take your money and run.”

  His smile widened. “No, nothing like that.”

  “Glad to hear it. Now where are these gorgons of yours?” I asked.

  “About a half mile away, in an enclosure.” He gestured northeast with the rifle.

  “A half mile.” I whistled. “In that case we had better get moving.”

  “One second.” Nicolas reached into the big pocket on the front of his overalls and pulled out a large pair of sunglasses. They were reminiscent of the hideous UV shades companies used to sell on TV.

  “I had no idea ranchers were so fashion-forward,” I said with a smirk.

  Nicolas chuckled. “These are to protect me from the gorgons’ stares.”

  “Oh.”

  He reached back into his pocket and pulled out another pair, which he handed to me. “When we get to the enclosure, do not, under any circumstance, take off those glasses.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that.”

  We walked to an open-air barn on the northeast edge of the property. A chain-link enclosure housed seven gorgons, each one larger than the average man. From the waist up, they looked similar to humans, but not quite. Bald heads capped narrow faces, and their gold-green eyes were serpentlike, with slit pupils. Fangs filled their wide mouths. From the waist down, their bodies were those of snakes. Iridescent scales covered them from head to tail. The colors and patterns varied from one gorgon to another.

  As we approached the enclosure, the gorgons greeted us with a fanfare of hissing. Though I wore the protective glasses, I still made it a point to avoid eye contact. Better safe than petrified.

  “A lovely group of . . .” I paused. “Ladies?”

  “Six of them are female,” Nicolas informed me. “The other is a male.”

  “How can you tell which is which?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Have you ever been stoned?” I asked.

  “Four times. Luckily, the effect is only temporary—unless you get smashed to bits. No coming back after that.”

  “And why do you do this again?”

  Nicolas shrugged. “Money’s good. Real good. What about you, Mr. Jones? You ever been stoned?”

  “Once, back in college. But there were no gorgons there.”

  Nicolas led me around the side of the cage to the entrance gate. The gorgons slithered after us, their bodies rubbing against the fence.

  “You say this door was open on the morning after the robbery?” I asked.

  Nicolas nodded. “The lock was broken.”

  “What about the other gorgons? Were they still in the enclosure?”

  “Yes. Only one female was missing. The others were calm. You know, docile. They didn’t hiss or screech or nothing. It was the darndest thing.”

  “What was wrong with them?”

  “I don’t know. But after an hour or so, they went back to being aggressive.”

  “Did you notice anything else?” I asked.

  “Nope. Nothing else.”

  I searched the surrounding area for clues. In the pasture near the barn, I found a shallow furrow in the ground.

  “Is this a gorgon track?” I asked.

  “Looks to be.”

  “Let’s follow it, see where it takes us.”

  The gorgon track ended at a two-lane highway on the edge of the property. Beyond lay a stretch of forest. We crossed the road and combed the woods for the next few hours. Not one single track. I wiped the sweat from my brow. The heat I could handle, but the stench was getting to me. I wondered how Nicolas dealt with it on a daily basis. I guessed it was something you had to get used to.

  “Looks like our trail has officially gone cold,” I said.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means we have more work to do.”

  “What do you need from me?”

  “Patience.”

  “But—”

  “Let’s explore our options,” I said, cutting him off. “Have you considered contacting animal control?”

  “Why?” Nicolas asked.

  “Because I’m not convinced your gorgon was stolen.”

  “Then what happened to her?”

  “My guess is she escaped on her own,” I began, “and went slithering down the highway.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “For one thing, there were no signs of a struggle on the scene. I’m no expert on gorgon behavior, but I’m guessing it’d be tough to abduct a full-grown adult without getting a few cuts and bruises—at least.”

  Nicolas pointed toward the gorgon pen in the distance. “What about the broken lock?”

  “Isn’t it reasonable that a four-hundred-pound gorgon would be able to smash through a locked gate?”

  Nicolas didn’t respond.

  “And there’s still the matter of the track,” I continued. “From the looks of it, the gorgon came here of her own volition.”

  Nicolas sighed and looked away from me. Sometimes the hardest part of being a private investigator was addressing the inconsistencies in a person’s story. I wanted to give every client the benefit of the doubt, but that was impossible. Sometimes the client pointed in one direction, while logic and evidence pointed in another.

  In this case, there was plenty of evidence on the scene, but none suggested a robbery had taken place. It was possible someone stole the gorgon when she reached the edge of the highway. And it was possible someone stole her directly from the g
orgon pen, and nature had already erased the thief’s tracks. Gorgons weighed a lot more than the average person, so the gorgon tracks would last longer. But I had to operate on actual, existing evidence. The evidence told me the gorgon had wandered away on her own.

  Nicolas looked at me, his expression hopeful. “Maybe someone led her off the property.”

  “Is that likely?” I asked. “Again, I’m no expert on gorgons, but from what I know of them, they’re hardwired to attack anything that doesn’t look or smell like another gorgon. A rustler would’ve had a hard time not getting ripped to shreds.”

  Nicolas opened his mouth to speak, but caught himself. His furrowed brow told me he had stumbled upon the gaping hole in his logic.

  “She might have chased off the thief after he opened the gate,” Nicolas said after a time.

  The poor guy was grasping at straws. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. For the past hour, I had done nothing but disagree with him. It couldn’t be helped, though. Disagreeing with people was part of the job.

  “I doubt it,” I said. “Gorgons are as fast as they are ugly. The thief wouldn’t have been able to outrun it.”

  Concern and frustration warred across Nicolas’s face. “Is there anything you can do?”

  I shook my head. “Unfortunately not. There’s just not enough evidence to suggest a robbery.”

  He lowered his head. This was another part of the job I hated. The desire to please every single client was maddening. But I tried anyway.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help,” I said.

  Nicolas stared down at his boots. “That’s alright.”

  “I can keep an eye out for the gorgon if you’d like,” I offered. “No charge.”

  He nodded, still frowning. “Much obliged.”

  “What color is your missing gorgon?”

  “Green, with flecks of blue here and there.”

  I made a mental note. “I’ll contact you if I find anything out. In the meantime, you should probably call animal control. They’re more suited for this type of thing than I am.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  I patted Nicolas on the shoulder. “Again, I apologize.”

  “It’s alright, Mr. Jones.”

  3