"This is a funeral home." Veronica harshly repriminded, staring down her nose at the squirming trainee before her. "Not some absurd Gothic fantasy." She opened a drawer to her heavy mahogany desk and pulled out a huge stack of laminated papers, loosely binded together. She dropped it down on the desk. The loud bang made the trainee flinch. She looked near tears. "So this is what you're going to do. You're going to go take down all of those decorations. No one needs to be looking at demons and devils in the viewing room, Halloween or not. And then, you're going to read this, back to front." she tapped a manicured, delicate finger on the book. "You have half an hour. Get to it, girl." the trainee leapt up and walked up, face burning red. Veronica watched her leave. A small sigh escaped her.

She shut the door to her office and sat down, about to sign a release form for a coffin to be rented, when the phone began to ring. She answered. "Hello?"

"Veronica? There is a police officer here to see you." The secretary Vanessa said lowly on the other line. "Shall I send him in?"

"Of course." Vera hung up the phone, filled in numbers and affirmations and was signing her name when a knock came at the door. "Come in." She looked up as the door opened, and a cop walked through the door, his hat in his hand. He shut the door behind him.

"Ms Loewen?" he said. "I am officer Raegen of the Maine police department. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions."

"About what?" she asked, putting her pen down neatly. She had been expecting this. She crossed her skirted legs and offered him to sit. He sat down, balancing his hat on his knee. He looked at her square in the face. A serious, cynical face, she found him also quietly charming. A special man, most likely.

"You've probably read in the paper about the punks that have been digging up graves?" he asked. She nodded, vaguely recalling some of those incidents. "There was three last week. This time the coffin was cracked open and a finger was missing from the corpse."

"Lovely." she said, without humour. "What are you trying to say? One of my employees have been stealing limbs from the dead?"

"Depends on what you say." he said smoothly. "There was a discarded shovel found a few hundred yards away, one of yours. I presume only grave-diggers have keys to workshed?"

"I do, and some of the other staff." I held up my key ring from the desk. Ten or eleven keys were jumbled on it. "It could be anyone. Or any young hooligan that decides to bust open the shed door. Sir."

"Okay. All the coffins were from your company however... I understand that you have a joint partnership with the ownage of the cemetary?" I nodded.

"Yeah. Klausen Memorial Services. Bad name, everyone thinks it's a war museum." A ghost of a smile graced Raegan's lips. "He owns half the cemetary, and I own the other. The entire property is two acres wide; originally he owned the whole plot because Klausen is a family business."

"And Misty Lake Funeral Home is also a family business?" he asked. Raegan was taking short notes on a legal pad. I shook my head.

"No. I own it independently. It used to be a joint, tax-supported funeral home, and when the manager quit I became manager of the place, and eventually I bought it off the owner. I made a few adjustments, hired my professional crew and no one runs it but me."

"Interesting. So there is no tension between you and Klausen?" I shrugged.

"Not really. Are you saying... that Klausen has been creeping around my side of the graveyard at night, digging up my graves and mutilating them? For the sake of competition? I'm not responsible for any sort of mutilation of the deceased. Once it's under the ground it's out of my hands. Sir."

"So there's never been any competition? To see who sells more plots and coffins?"

"No. Not really. Usually we get along well when we cross each other. Which isn't often."

"I see. So, you have absolutely no idea who has been desecrating grave sites?"

"No. Nothing I can remember, anyways." Raegan stood up, putting his hat on his head. She rose up with him. They shook hands and his grip was powerful and calloused.

"Well, if you suddenly seem to remember anything," he reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. He gave it to her. "You can reach me here. That's my office." I nodded, and threw the card down onto the table. "You don't mind if I go and question some of your diggers?" I shook my head.

"No. I doubt it is one of them, but if it is, then they should definitely be stopped. Right? Sir." Another ghost of a grin.

"Of course. Is there a number where I can reach you at?"

"My office." I held up a card that was egg-shell white with my name printed in neat letters, with the office number. Raegan took it.

"If I can't reach you here?"

"Well... then my home number, then."

"Mind if I have that as well?" his eyes twinkled momentarily and I smiled a little. I wrote it down and passed it to him. He tipped his hat and let himself out.

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I worked, and I didn't stop until Vanessa poked her head in. "Don't forget, you have a social function at seven..." I glanced up, pen posed in mid writing. I nodded.

"I haven't forgotten, Vanessa." I looked at the clock above the door. It was five thirty. I sighed, removing my reading glasses and placing them on the desk, rubbing my eyes. "God, I am dreading it." Vanessa grinned from the doorway.

"So what did that hottie cop want?" she asked. I looked up at her, eyebrow raised.

"He's my age, Nessa." I said, wrinkling my nose at the young intern. She giggled.

"He's still pretty good-looking!" I waved her off.

"Tell Ernie he's shutting down for the night. I have to get ready." I walked over to my small closet and Vanessa left, shutting the door behind her. I opened my closet. Within a sealed bag was my pressed and fresh dress I was to wear-- it was one of those things you do in small towns, I had found after moving here several years ago. Everyone-- the town doctor, the mayor, the dentist, funeral directors-- everyone met a few times a year and had a social function. A high-class party for small-town people. I was a New York native myself. I hated this tradition but I had learned early on it was risky to miss it.

I stepped into the employee washroom and slowly got changed, exchanging hush puppies for insanely fancy high heels, and a slim black dress with no back. I braided my hair near the side of my head, so it hung over my shoulder. I checked my watch. Six thirty. Time to get moving. I applied a little make up and then locked up my office, left the keys to the morgue with Nessa, and punched out and left.

It was mid-fall. Leaves pattered and danced on the pavement, the cool wind pushing them around my ankles. I got in my car and started it, looking up at the dark sunset. The sky had been streaked red and purple and the sun was a dying thing, fading back over the horizon, a moody orange and pink. As soon as my engine was heated up I got moving, and drove across town to the function.

------

"You sure she will be there?" Dean asked, standing defeated as Sam adjusted his tie.

"No, I'm not, but it's worth a shot. Remember the cover?"

"Yeah. Mr Daniel Macab and Mr George Gray. Morticians from New York. Tourists." Dean flashed a great big fake smile that had made hundreds of women fall in his bed.

"Right. Let's go." Sam and Dean looked immaculate, their neat black suits pressed and dry-cleaned, hair and skin clean as a thistle and the light scent of spices followed them out the motel door. They loaded into Dean's Impala, the engine roaring as they pulled out of the motel parking lot and travelled up the street towards Bucksport and Main street. The ocean seethed and bubbled a mile to the west, invisible by the close accumulation of houses. The streets were slowly emptying as night fell. It was quarter to seven.

"So, debrief me on Ms Veronica Loewen." Dean asked, turning up the AC/DC currently assaulting the radio. Sam flipped through John Winchester's journal.

"Well, it says here that Veronica's grandmother came into contact with something fifty or so years ago, something that passed through the bloodline. It looks like a witch's curse. Maybe a vampire." Sam explained. "There's something crossed out here." he touched the black, scrawled line. "Can't read it. Anyways, Loewen now owns Misty Lake Mortuary. There are two embalmers-- she's one of them-- several maintenence, janitorial and secretorial staff, none of them having any contact with anything paranormal, far as I can tell." Sam blew out some air between his teeth. "That's all it says."

"You think she's got something to do with the grave desecration?" Dean asked, turning towards the town hall. A light rain began to fall. "Damn Maine weather... Castle Rock blows." he huffed. "I'm gonna have to hit every casino in town after this. We won't have enough to get back to the mainland." he was still grumbling as he entered the packed parking lot. Sam adjusted his tie, slightly nervous.

"Man, I've got a bad feeling about this one." he said. Dean shut off the car and the two listened to the rain for a few seconds as it came down heavier and heavier, quite quickly. "What do you think it is?"

"Me? Well, if you want my professional opinion, I would say it's a bunch of punks looking for a rush just before Halloween. But the body mutilation, that's a different story. A vampire would just take the body. A ghost wouldn't bother the dead. A witch... well, I don't know what use it would have with a finger. There's no evidence of a demon. Maybe it's a desperate necrophiliac."

"Great." Sam huffed. "Excellent speculation. Let's get this over with."

"Yes sir!" They both got out and hurried to the accumulating crowd outside. Dean and Sam had obtained tickets from the council building. They cost fifty-four dollars each, quite a pinch to their savings. "So, how old is this Veronica?" Dean asked mischeviously as they waited in line.

"She's almost forty."

"Jesus! She's almost a corpse herself!" Sam elbowed him roughly.

"Shut up, Dean." he grumbled. They handed the tickets to the doorman, and then their hearts nearly stopped as the tall man looked through a list on a clipboard.

"Names?"

"We just gave you the tickets!" Dean retorted.

"I don't care. Names."

"Daniel Macab. This is my business partner, George Gray. We're from NYC." Dean flashed his million-dollar grin. The man found their names.

"Right. Have a good time, boys."

The two brothers entered the town hall. The chairs had been pushed to the back, folded up neatly. A buffet lined one side, filled with steaming food. An open bar lined the other. A live band was playing twangy acoustic music. There must have been a hundred and twenty people there, dressed formally and to the top. They huddled in groups, drinking champagne. The building was filled with talk, arguments, laughter and discussion. A beautiful woman was being courted by an elderly man in one corner, a heavy gold watch glinting off one hairy wrist. Dean and Sam stood awkwardly for a moment.

"How will we find her?" Dean asked urgently.

"Here." Sam reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small photograph. "Raegan gave it to me." It was a picture clipped from a newspaper, the article from which it came remaining a mystery. "It was taken last year." It was a full colour photo, rare thing. Must have been a front page thing. Dean looked at Veronica Loewen. The woman appeared tall and slender, with a pale, angular face with very stern, serious dark eyes. Her dark hair was down, curled artificially, and grey hair was beginning to streak through it. She was wearing a white blouse with a black, feminine dinner coat over it. A cigarette was jutting out of two long fingers and her razor-thin lips were staring down whoever was behind the camera. There were several police officers standing near her, and yellow tape. Behind the people was a building, and Dean could faintly make out Misty Lake Mortuary.

"Taken last year, eh?" Dean handed the flimsy picture back to Sam, who repocketed it. "Well, I'll hit the bar. She might come for a drink."

"I'll find Raegan. And don't get drunk!" Sam called after his brother, who didn't answer. Sam slipped into the crowd and began to search for the mysterious Veronica Loewen.

It was Dean who found her first. He had been right; she was at the bar. She was standing facing him, talking to another man, who was in a black pressed suit with a wine-red undershirt. A glass of hard scotch was in one hand and she didn't really appear to be concentrating on what the man was saying. Dean's hand slipped into his inside coat and found his fake FBI identification. He slipped past that, grabbed his wallet, and walked right inbetween them.

"Barkeep! I'll have a hard scotch on the rocks!" he said stoutly, sliding ten dollars across the mahagony counter. The bartender, an old fat man, began to make his drink immediately. He looked to the man who had been talking to Veronica, who was staring at him with scrutiny in his rat-eye gaze. He was good-looking, but looked very shifty. Cunning, almost. He looked to Veronica, who was walking away.

"Nice going, jackass." the man grumbled, before walking away angrily. Dean smirked and took his drink, and caught up with Veronica.

"Excuse me!" he leapt in front of her and she stared at him, eyebrow raised.

"Yes? Do I know you?" her voice was cultured, and deep, pleasantly husky. It had a foreign sound to it, and a barely noticible tinge of European accent. She also sounded very annoyed. Smoothly, without missing a beat, Dean pulled out his FBI identification and her eyes widened.

"Veronica Loewen?" She nodded. "I'm agent Taylor." he put his ID away. "I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"If it's about the graveyard, I've already talked to the FBI, CIA and the state police and local police." she replied, sounding vastly irritated now. She sipped her scotch and swallowed without a wince. Dean was reminded of an alcoholic.

"Then you won't mind going over it again." he said, smiling.

"Fine."

"Where were you the night of October 19th, 2006?" he asked, referring to two weeks back, when the graves were first desecrated. She furrowed her brow, thinking.

"I was visiting my father in the Bentley Old Folk's Haven." she said. "I signed in. You can go check if you want."

"Did you pass by the particular cemetary that was violated that evening?"

"No."

"Do you remember any sort of black-outs, fainting spells or sudden memory loss that isn't normal to your standard biological chemistry?" he was spewing out words he had heard Sam use, but Veronica was following along just fine.

"No. I went home, did some work, had a shower, went to bed."

"You have a very accurate memory."

"Same routine I do every night." she replied irritably. "Anything else?"

"Yes, one more thing-- if me and my partner stopped by tomorrow, would it be possible to retrieve your employee records."

"Of course. Won't be a problem. Now excuse me." she walked away, melting into the crowd. Dean watched her go. She's got a nice ass for a forty year old. He thought cheerfully. However, despite his thoughts, he was confused and frustrated. The woman had given little to no information. He didn't particularly sense anything wrong with her. She appeared to be your average, middle-aged, gloomy mortician. He turned around and almost bumped heads with Sam.

"You find her?" he asked. "I can't. This girl keeps following me." he spied a look over his shoulder into the crowd. Dean smirked.

"Yeah, I found her."

"Well? Tell me about her!"

"Real nice ass. Good legs too, far as I could tell. Boobs, eh... not so much. She's got this whole Queen of the Undead thing going down... she's probably got a kink--" Sam glared at him.

"You idiot, did you question her?" he snapped. Dean gulped his drink down in one blast and shook himself. He nodded as the fire spread through his body.

"Yeah. She knows nothing, or she just didn't tell me. She doesn't have any symptoms of possession, then and now. We have to go to Misty Lake Mortuary tomorrow to pick up the employee records." He checked his watch. It was eight-thirty. "Let's go find Raegan."

"Already did." Sam pointed past Dean, who turned around. The cop was talking to Veronica, who was cracking a razor-thin smile. The brothers raised eyebrows.

"Jeez, Raegan." Dean tsked. "Going for the Corpse Bride." he guffawed and Sam elbowed him again. "Ah, let's just leave 'em to it. Let's hit that graveyard." Sam sighed and followed his older, shorter brother out through the side exit. The rain had stopped, and they splashed through the puddles, inhaling the deep scents of darkness and water.

"Beautiful night." Sam remarked, glancing up at the sky. The clouds had cleared and the stars shimmered in the sky. "Maine really is a gorgeous province."

"Yeah, yeah, get in here you little romantic." Sam threw Dean a dirty look, who scoffed. "Bitch."

"Jerk!" The brothers slid into the Impala bickering, and Dean shot out of the parking lot and towards Klausen and Loewen Cemetary, shovels and pickaxes clinking in the backseat.

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review plz.