Horsehair stuffing crackled as I kneeled gingerly on the cushions and lifted the first frame off its nail. The glass front needed cleaning; the back was dusty but unremarkable. Tiny brass tacks around the edges looked undisturbed, probably since the frame’s initial assembly. Plucking a tissue from a box covered in more needlepoint roses, I wiped the glass.
The image underneath revealed younger versions of Clifford and Abigail seated stiffly on the elegant settee with three young men arrayed behind them and everyone dressed in finer clothes than farming required. I found nothing unusual in their semi-blurred features before returning my attention to the frame.
Like others arrayed across the wall, this one was hand-carved. And old. Probably a family heirloom.
I squinted, holding it farther from my face. A repeated decorative element of curving lines turned into roots and branches, with tiny, carved apples and pears dotting the branches. On closer look, four faces emerged, one near each corner, each graced with an elongated nose, slightly pointed ears, and hair that intertwined with the tree.
I scanned the wall. All the frames in the grouping over the couch were carved in a similar fashion. Rehanging the one in my hands, I stepped into the middle of the room and listened.
High noon cloaked the house with a blanket of heat and kept the grasshoppers on mute. The creak of a floorboard as I made my way back to the hall startled me into joining the ambient stillness.
It’s an old house, Calliope.
Blowing out a short breath, I squeezed the duct-taped handle of my wand, wished it was a knife—and that I knew how to use it in self-defense—and entered the kitchen. This room had a much more lived-in air, with dishes in the rack by the sink and a table set for two, complete with a vase of drooping flowers. I hesitated in front of the refrigerator; I really should have put on gloves before touching the picture frames.
I pocketed my wand, extracted a pair of gloves from my bag, and tugged on the old appliance’s dented aluminum handle.
The interior was neat and organized. I poked at the assortment of deli meats and cheeses, checked the purchase dates, and sniffed the bottle of cereal cream. Nothing was close to spoiling. Closing the refrigerator, I shifted my attention to the small pantry. Decorative dishware took up most of the shelves behind glass-fronted doors, and the usual dry goods were stacked behind the others. A chest freezer occupied the back wall. Its heavy lid fought against being opened until the suction finally gave way with a whoosh.
A blast of cold air offered a welcome respite from the stale heat. Inside, two squarish wire baskets were half filled with paper-wrapped packages stamped with the local abattoir’s logo and labelled in black marker. Below the baskets, bagged in plastic, were larger packages containing pork and beef roasts. I went to close the lid.
Light coming over my shoulder highlighted a peculiar shadow in one of the clear bags. I separated the wire baskets, reached for the plastic, and gave a quick tug. I had to stifle a scream.
A nose.
I had grabbed a frozen nose, and it wasn’t a pig’s nose. Those were wrapped and clearly labeled in the basket at my elbow. I pressed the back of my free hand to my mouth and frantically scanned the shelf to my left for something to count. A full blown panic attack would not help me or the Pearmains.
Twelve. Twelve neatly stacked dessert plates.
When I was done counting and gagging, I reached forward, pinched the plastic, and turned the bag. A severed head, its pasty gray skin covered in a fine layer of frost, stared out, eyes unseeing.
“What the…?” I jiggled the wire baskets farther apart, took out my phone, and snapped a few photos. Needing better light, I removed the bagged head and placed the frozen bundle on the floor. Carefully.
Shit. I dropped the freezer lid and stepped into the kitchen, searching the countertops for something to cut the plastic. Poultry shears. Grabbing them by the handles, I kneeled on the faded black-and-white squares of linoleum and cut open the thick plastic bag. Flakes of ice tumbled over my knees. I brushed them away and pulled the crinkling material from the face.
The long nose and pointed ears mimicked the features carved on the picture frames in the sitting room. I was able to take another photograph before the bile rose again.
Stepping to the window at the far end of the narrow room, I opened the bottom sash and sucked in gulps of apple-scented air. Catatonic orchardists and a severed head were a couple steps above my pay grade. I was trained to investigate environmentally-based complaints and spats between organic and traditional farmers, not death.
Not murder.
I gripped the windowsill, sank into a crouch, and leaned my head against one arm. I ignored the buzzing from my phone. I’d have to get the Provincial authorities involved now, but—
“I see you found the heads,” a man’s voice said.
My heart damn near punched a hole in my chest. I pivoted on my knees and grabbed the shears I’d left on the floor. Angling my gaze upward, the sunshine slanting through the back door effectively blocked out the man’s facial features and endowed him with a temporary halo.
“I’m Tanner Marechal,” the voice continued. “Ministry of Forests, Lands and Natural Resources. And who are you?”
I palmed the shears and took a deep breath, standing quickly and pivoting so the sun wasn’t in my eyes. The better angle revealed a man clad in regulation-green pants and a light khaki shirt.
“Calliope Jones,” I answered. “I work
