Crane (2 page)

3

Ireland

Present time

“If this is some sort of sick Sleepy Hollow hazing ritual, it is
just
twisted enough for me to totally dig it.”

“No, ma’am. We make it a rule never to
be less than one hundred percent serious when questioning someone about a brutal homicide.” Curly black tufts of hair winged out from beneath the stern-faced officer’s hat as he adjusted the holster that hung below his thick paunch.

“No, of course you don’t. Because that would be wildly inappropriate
,” Ireland Crane tipped her head before murmuring to the cement porch beneath her feet, “not unlike what I just said.”

“
You claimed you last saw Mr. Van Tassel the day you signed your lease and he gave you the keys?” the still scowling officer asked.

Ireland
raked a hand through her newly sheered locks, her eyebrows practically disappearing into her hairline. “Yeah, that was the one and only time I ever even saw the guy. Which makes it all the more confusing why you boys are knocking on
my
door about this.”

“We’re just looking for answer
s, Miss Crane,” the slightly meatier officer—with a kind, easy smile and thick mustache—reassured her. “Do you mind if we come inside to discuss this matter further?”

Ireland
’s gaze flicked down to read their badges before she pushed herself off the door frame and wandered inside, leaving the door open in invitation. “By all means, Officers Potter and Granger, sit if you can find a place.” She waved an arm at the mountains of moving boxes that cluttered the living room, her face an open apology for the mess.

The
duo followed her inside, Officer Potter—who appeared about as happy as a thumb smashed by a hammer—shutting the door behind them. He stood ramrod straight at attention while Granger perched casually on the arm of Ireland’s hand-me-down couch.

“
I’m sure you can understand with a crime of this magnitude we really need to get to the bottom of it quickly.” Granger crinkled his nose, his head bobbing like they were buddies in this together.

Ireland cleared off a spot on the coffee table and plopped down.
With her elbows rested on her knees, she thumped her thumbs against each other as a means of distraction. What she really wanted to do was scratch the hell out of the new tattoo on her forearm that had reached that maddeningly itchy phase. Since that was a
huge
no-no, she thumped. “I completely understand that. It’s just a bit off-putting since I’ve been in Sleepy Hollow less than a week. It kinda sounds like the plot of a cheesy B movie.”

Officer
Potter tipped his head back and glared down his nose at her. “A man was decapitated outside a local motel. There is no script here, or director to yell cut. What we have is a twisted perp that needs to be brought to justice
immediately
.”

“Then you tell me
,” Ireland replied in a tone she hoped resembled sincerity, “what can I do to help this process along?”

Granger’
s quizzical gaze wandered to his partner. Even he seemed taken aback by his abrasiveness. “I’m sure you’re aware of the implications of the Crane name in Sleepy Hollow?” he asked, forcing his attentions back to Ireland.

“I’ve heard the stories
, read the book, and even seen the Johnny Depp movie,” Ireland answered with a tight-lipped smile.

“Hey!”
Potter jabbed a finger in Ireland’s direction, his face reddening in his snit. “In no way can a motion picture measure up to the mastery of storytelling in the book! No matter how ‘dreamy’ Mr. Depp might be!”

Grange
r and Ireland stared for an awkwardly, silent beat.

“Well …” Ireland flicked her tongue over her lips to wet t
hem. “There really is no comparison to the wonders of the written word, is there?”

Grange
r cocked his head in a clear ‘oh, you sweet girl’ expression. “
Anyway
,” he stated, attempting to steer around the odd conversational detour. “Your name sets off certain … red flags around here. I’m sure you understand that. Do you happen to know if you have any blood ties to the Hollow?”

Ireland
shook her head, her long bangs falling into her eyes. “Not even the foggiest idea. However, Crane is an
incredibly
common name. I bet I’m not even the only one with it in Tarrytown. That can’t be the only reason why you’re here? It seems like quite a stretch.”

Officer Granger rubbed the side of his index finger over his mustache, back and forth, search
ing for the right words. “Actually, ma’am, you
are
the only Crane within city lines. And it’s a crucial detail regarding that which brought us here. You see, the vic … Charles Van Tassel, had … uh—”

“He had
your
last name carved into his chest,” Officer Potter finished for him in a flat, emotionless tone.

Bile rose in Ireland’s throat
; the pizza she’d scarfed down earlier threatening a second coming. “Oh. That’s,” suddenly all of the adjectives in her vocabulary seemed inadequate, so she settled for a meager word that didn’t even begin to describe it, “awful.”

Potter nodded to the ground, shifting from one foot to the other.
“We think we’re dealing with a copycat that has decided to act out his fantasies inspired by the legends.” Meadow green eyes, ringed by deep emerald, suddenly locked on her with a drilling intensity. “Unless you know of another reason why your name would be carved into a man you claim you barely know?”

Ireland’s spine straightened, drove up by a hot indignant flare from his unspoken accusation
. “I didn’t
claim
anything. I found this house online, exchanged a few emails with the guy, and met him once to get the keys. End of story. Don’t believe me? I can show you the emails.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Granger let slip an involuntary groan as he eased himself off the couch arm. Ireland couldn’t help but notice he’d positioned himself between her and his partner
, and wondered whose benefit that was for. “But you keep a firm look out, you hear? Your name being what it is, you could wind up a target. If it
is
a copycat, they’ll want to act it out with the most realism possible. What better way than with an actual Crane?”

Ireland couldn’t have
stifled that nervous gulp if she wanted to. “As far as welcome wagon greetings go, this one is lousy.”

Officer
Granger clapped a sweaty hand on to her shoulder, a blend of apology and regret etched in the lines of his face. “Sorry to drop all of this on you. Truly we are. This really is a great town. I have no doubt you’ll do well here.” His icy blue eyes brightened with a fresh idea. “Hey! Have you checked out the tour of the Old Dutch Church and cemetery? You can see the actual route of the Horseman! That’s sure to be a treat for a town newbie!”

“Perhaps
you
should exercise
your
right to remain silent,” Potter muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “You just informed the girl that someone posing as the Headless Horseman may want to kill her, then suggested she explore the cemetery he was rumored to frequent. Should I draw you a diagram of why that’s a bad idea?”

Granger chewed on the inside of his cheek, mulling that over.
“Yeah, probably shouldn’t go to the cemetery.”

Potter tipped his h
at, then yanked open the front door. “We appreciate your time, miss. I’m sure there’s no cause for concern, just be sure to keep your doors locked and stay in after dark if you can manage it.”

“I’ll cancel any raves on my schedule
,” Ireland deadpanned. “Can’t find my hot pink fishnet top anyway.”

“If you have any problems at all, just give u
s a call,” Officer Granger said, kindly ignoring her sorry attempt at a joke.

“Mm-hmm,” she automatically answered
, following him to the door. For a moment she stared outside, lost in the looming darkness. An undeniable sense of dread bloomed in her chest, goose bumps sprouting up and down her arms. What if they were right? What if out there, right then, someone was watching her … waiting for their moment to strike? Ireland ran her hands over her arms, trying to shake off her self-inflicted chill.

Midway down the sidewalk
, Granger paused, casting one final glance back. Plucking his hat from his head, he held it loosely in front of him, what resembled hope building in his gaze and earnest smile. “Sleepy Hollow welcomes you, Miss Crane.”

Replacing his hat, he strode to the waiting cruiser
without another look back.

Ireland sucked in her cheeks, turning her head one way then the other. According to the bathroom mirror and the 1970’s retro-chic light fixture, her new ‘do had an unforeseen benefit. The spikey, chin-length bob, colored a deep cherry cola red, gave her a confident—slightly punk—air. Combine that with a little eyeliner and a coat of lipstick, and even
she
had to look hard to find the quaking ball of nerves that lay beneath the effective costuming.

Puffing
her cheeks, she blew air out through slightly pursed lips. She
couldn’t
mess this up. There had been too many life-altering, ground-shaking screw-ups over the last year. This was her new start, and more than anything she needed it to pan out so she could finally shake off the stagnate funk of bad decisions that haunted her.

Fearing the doubts plagu
ing her would seep in and taint the self-assured doppelganger reflected back at her, she forced herself to click off the light and step away from the tell-tale mirror. Her low-heeled ankle boots clicked across the wood floors as Ireland hurried out of the bathroom, through the living room, and around the corner to the quaint kitchen/dining room combo. She yanked the rolled sleeve of her blouse down while she walked, buttoning it around her wrist. Sure, the principal at Sleepy Hollow High, who had hired her as the new guidance counselor,
claimed
the new sugar skull tattoo on her forearm was completely okay. She’d even complimented her on the beautifully colored flowers and delicate scrolls that added a touch of femininity to an otherwise harsh image. Ireland covered it for herself. Because this particular piece of artwork wasn’t to show off. It was a self-reminder of the pledge she’d made to reinvent herself into someone she was proud to be.

Grabbing an untoasted bagel from the counter, she crammed it between her teeth
, freeing her hands up to pour the last of the coffee into one of the few travel mugs she’d unpacked. Coffee in tow, she snatched her supple new briefcase from its resting place on the floor and hurried to the door. With the bagel lodged between her teeth, she fumbled in her pants pocket for the keys, all the while saying a silent prayer not to drop everything else.

“Need a hand?”
a deep, gravelly voice murmured from the sidewalk in front of her.

Having been born and raised in
Manhattan, Ireland was used to a stream of people surging around her in a relentless flow. However, this was not Manhattan. Here, quiet reigned and human interaction, in the week she’d been here, had been shockingly sparse. Therefore, she handled the surprise with all the cool reserve she could muster. Spitting out the bagel in a rain of crumbs, she screamed and threw her coffee at the intruder. Thick-treaded work boots jumped back as the scalding java sloshed across the front stoop, narrowly missing him.