Toucan Keep a Secret

by Donna Andrews

  “Who won?”

  “No one, from what I can tell. One of the gentleman bandits and one of the real bandits were killed. The remaining gentleman bandit surrendered at the scene and confessed to what they were up to. He claimed it was just supposed to be a joke on Mrs. Van der Lynden, and it’s possible he actually believed it. The two surviving real bandits were captured a day or two later. They claimed that when they dumped out the contents of the pillowcases and pried open the jewelry boxes, they found nothing but cheap costume jewelry and gravel. They all went to prison—real bandits, gentleman bandit, and Archie. But the jewels never turned up.”

  “Not ever?”

  “Nope.” Fred shook his head. “Not until you and Horace found the One Ring down in Trinity’s catacombs. As it happens, the chief dropped by this morning to see what we had on the robbery, and we were able to give him copies of the pictures we had in the morgue of some of the more fabulous pieces stolen, including the Van der Lynden Ruby, as the old lady was fond of calling it. Either the ring’s the real thing, or a damn good copy.”

  “Did Mrs. Van der Lynden go to prison, too?” I asked.

  Fred shook his head.

  “Why not?” Although I had a good idea, if Mrs. Van der Lynden could afford the right attorneys. Still. “Conspiracy to defraud the insurance company, accessory before the fact to murder—I’m sure they could think of a few more charges if they tried.”

  “They did—but they couldn’t get around the fact that Archie took the fall for his mother. His story wobbled back and forth between claiming he’d only meant to play a prank on her to confessing that he was up to his ears in debt and hoped to sell the jewels to get himself free. But he stoutly denied that his mother had had anything to do with it.”

  “Maybe he was telling the truth.”

  “Maybe.” Fred steepled his fingers in front of his face. “But no one who ever met him thinks Archie had the brains to think up something like this or the gumption to try it. And the smart money said he was more scared of his mother than of the law. They finally gave up trying to break his story.” He spread his fingers as if setting free some winged creature he’d been clutching.

  “So Archie went to prison, and Mrs. Van der Lynden lived happily ever after with the insurance money.”

  “She didn’t get the insurance money.”

  Chapter 11

  “Wait—Mrs. Van der Lynden didn’t get the insurance money?”

  “Not a penny.”

  “Why not?”

  “The insurance company shared the general belief that it was an inside job. They dragged their heels for a couple of years, then denied the claim on some technicality—possibly something about her failure to provide adequate security for the stolen property, but I’m only guessing on that. Mrs. Van der Lynden filed suit against them, and that dragged on for a couple of years. Then she died, and the suit fell by the wayside when everyone found out how broke she was. I expect the lawyers figured out Archie had no money to pay for the work they’d already done, and they’d have had little appetite for running up more costs that might never be paid—especially when the smart money said sooner or later proof that she’d been in on it would turn up somewhere or other.”

  “And did it?” I asked. “Turn up, that is.”

  “Not that I’ve ever heard. Up until yesterday, if you’d asked me what I thought happened to the jewels, I’d have bet Mrs. Van der Lynden hid them somewhere, didn’t tell anyone where, and took the secret to her grave.”

  “And now?”

  “Either someone found where she hid the loot, or someone else had it all along.”

  “Had it and hid it in one of the niches at Trinity?”

  He nodded.

  “But why? Why go to all the trouble of stealing the jewels just to bury them?”

  “Beats me. Maybe they thought they should wait until the statute of limitations ran out.”

  “I don’t think Virginia has a statute of limitations on murder.”

  “Good point,” he said. “But maybe the crooks didn’t know that.”

  “They’ve had thirty years to figure it out—why wait until now?”

  “Okay, here’s another possibility: to spite Mrs. Van der Lynden. If they sold the jewels, she could always buy them back, and selling them would prove to the insurance company that they were stolen, so she’d get the insurance money. So—hide them until after she dies.”

  “Great idea, except that she’s been dead since 1993. Why would whoever hid them wait twenty-five years?”

  “Maybe the person who hid them died before she did.”

  I flipped to the page in my notebook where I’d jotted down the names and death dates.

  “Of the niches that were disturbed, hers was the oldest,” I said. “Everyone else that we know to have been involved in the case was still alive in 1993.”

  “Not such a great theory, then. Maybe they were hidden until one of the crooks got out of prison.”

  “Better idea,” I said. “Except that it would mean the next of kin of one of those six people was in cahoots with the robbers. Because you’d need the cooperation of a family member to hide the jewels in someone’s niche.”

  “It’s possible,” he said. “But yeah, not likely.”

  “Have any of the crooks recently gotten out of prison?”

  “They hadn’t when I wrote that piece,” Fred said. “I was going to include a ‘where are they now’ section to the article, but I really couldn’t get much data and what I got was too depressing. Two real robbers and two gentleman robbers went to prison. One of the real robbers died in 2002, the other one—the ringleader, a hard case named Bart Hempel—was still up in Coffeewood, serving thirty to life for the murder. Archie Junior and Blair got much shorter sentences, so they got out in the nineties. I think they’d have made their move by now if they’d arranged for someone to stash the loot in the crypt. Archie has been in and out of rehab for the last twenty-five years. According to the police report Paul Blair shot himself while cleaning his gun, but isn’t that so often what they say when they don’t want to embarrass the family of a suicide? I didn’t want to depress my readers with all that.”

  “Wait—Paul Blair?”

  “You’re wondering if he’s the same one as the P. Jefferson Blair whose niche was disturbed. I haven’t yet tracked down proof, but I’d bet real money he is.”

  “That seems weird,” I said. “He turns up back here under a slightly disguised name, and ends up getting buried across from Mrs. Van der Lynden.”

  “Weird?” Fred grinned. “I’d call it downright suspicious. If it is the same guy. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  “But even if it is the same guy, I’m not sure I see how they could manage to sneak the jewels into the niche without anyone seeing them.”

  “Stranger things have happened. I had an aunt who wanted to be buried with the ashes of her Yorkshire terrier. I had my suspicions that the funeral home might not be keen, so I ended up putting the damned dog in a candy box tied up with a red ribbon and tucking it in her coffin at the funeral. I told everyone it was her love letters from her late husband.”

  “That was nice of you,” I said. “Carrying out her last wishes like that.”

  “I suppose,” he said. “It’s put me right off Whitman’s Samplers, though. Can’t even look at the box. My point is that if someone asks for a moment alone with their dear departed, wouldn’t the people from the church or the funeral home slip tactfully away?”

  “Probably,” I said. “But wouldn’t it occur to whoever hid the jewels that they couldn’t just drop by, pop the niche open, and reclaim them? They fasten those polished granite front panels in place pretty securely.”

  “I don’t know,” Fred said. “Could be a good thing from their point of view. You wouldn’t want a hiding place that was too easy to open, now would you?”

  “True. And if Mr. Hagley’s anything to go by, maybe people don’t realize quite how involved a process it is
to open up one of the niches.”

  “Yes.” Fred looked thoughtful. “Curious, isn’t it, how he suddenly got so fired up about reclaiming his wife’s ashes. Maybe I should do some digging into Mr. Hagley.”

  I considered telling him Mother’s theory about Mr. Hagley’s dire need of cash and decided against it. For one thing, it was only a theory—and a theory built on information that was both unflattering and not really in the public domain. And for another, I rather liked the idea of having an inquisitive and persistent reporter poking into Mr. Hagley’s possible motivations. If what he learned confirmed Mother’s theory, all the better, and if it didn’t, no problem.

  “I should leave you to your digging.” I stood up and hefted my tote bag onto my shoulder. “I assume I can drop by if I uncover any new information—or new questions?”

  “I would be delighted to see you in either case,” Fred said. “So will I see you at tonight’s game?”

  “Are the Eagles playing the Flying Foxes tonight, then?” Fred’s grandson was the same age as Josh and Jamie and equally passionate about baseball. And on a rival team—which was unfortunate, because he was one of the best catchers in the league.

  “Yes, the grand rivalry continues tonight,” he said. “Just smack me if you hear me reverting to the old name and shouting ‘Go Flatworms.’”

  “Yes—Flying Foxes is a much better name.” Not only a much better name but less likely to remind us of the much-reviled former president of the local youth baseball league.

  So after we thanked each other for sharing information, Fred returned to his warren of an office and I stepped out into the town square and pondered my next move.

  A little past ten. I checked my phone. No word from the chief to indicate he’d finished with Mrs. Washington, so I couldn’t tackle her. I headed back toward the town hall. I could always do a little more online research, and I’d be handy if Judge Jane decided to see me.

  I was in luck. I strolled into the courtroom hallway, just to see what was happening. Court wasn’t in session yet, but the high-ceilinged oak-paneled courtroom was open and filling up with lawyers, plaintiffs, defendants, witnesses, and the usual handful of nosy Parkers who just loved to watch any kind of legal proceeding, even the routine ones that made watching paint dry look exciting. When Cal, the bailiff, spotted me, he waved and motioned me closer.

  “Her Honor wants to see you pronto!” he said.

  Several people who were standing nearby looked at me sharply, no doubt wondering what I’d done to incur Judge Jane’s well-known ire. Just for the fun of it, as I followed Cal to the door behind the bench that led into Judge Jane’s chambers, I tried to assume the worried expression of someone about to be thrown in jail for contempt of court.

  “Glad you dropped by,” Cal said. “With any luck, talking to you will put her in a better mood. She’s always grouchy on her town days, you know.”

  A few years ago, when Caerphilly’s financial difficulties had led to the town’s main creditor repossessing all the government buildings, including the town hall, Judge Jane had started presiding over court in her barn. Most people hadn’t minded—in fact, at least half of the people I knew had considered the barn ambience a distinct improvement over the stuffy courthouse. So even though we’d long since gotten our courthouse back, Judge Jane had been splitting her time between her official courtroom and her barn. Only the occasional attorney from out of town ever seemed to find this strange or inconvenient.

  While I would have enjoyed a trip out to Judge Jane’s farm, I had to admit that, given everything I had to do today, it was convenient that this was one of her town days.

  “Come in and sit down,” she called out when Cal announced my arrival.

  I paused to let the half-dozen brown-and black hound dogs sharing her chambers sniff me. Judge Jane called them her deputies, and I hoped we never had to find out what they’d do to anyone who threatened her. They recognized me almost immediately and lifted up their heads to have their ears scratched. Between exchanging greetings with the dogs and stepping over and around the dog beds, chew toys, rawhide knots, and water bowls that littered the floor, it took a couple of minutes to reach the guest chair.

  But perhaps I should be grateful that she didn’t bring her horses to work.

  When I finally took my seat, Judge Jane looked up from a document she’d been reading and fixed me with a glance that had been known to inspire hardened repeat offenders to confess and throw themselves on the mercy of the court.

  My conscience was clear—well, mostly—but it was still hard not to squirm.

  Chapter 12

  “You had quite a time last night over at Trinity.” Judge Jane pushed the document aside and leaned forward on her elbows. “Henry Burke caught the doer yet?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, it’s early times. I hear they broke poor Lacey’s biscuit jar.”

  “The green glass thing she was buried in? Unfortunately. Do you know the story behind that?”

  “I know where it came from,” the judge said. “It was just about the one thing Lacey wanted when our grandmother died and we all went over to share out her possessions. No idea why she liked it so much. And definitely no idea she was planning to be buried in it. Of course, that was a good fifty years ago. She could have come up with the burying idea much later. Lord knows where I’m going to find another one like it.”

  I was startled for a moment—why would she want another one like it? Then I realized she was thinking about reburying Lacey’s ashes in the same container. Well, presumably it was what Lacey would have wanted.

  “Was the jar an antique?” I asked.

  “Must have been,” she said. “In my earliest memories of Gran’s kitchen, that jar was always there, full of cookies. And I’m nearly an antique now, so the jar must have been. Depression glass, I think they call it. I have no idea if it’s valuable—I’ve got enough old things around the house without buying more. But I guess I’ll find out.”

  “Since it’s an antique, I can sic Mother on it,” I said. “I’m sure she’ll have no problem finding one.”

  “Kind of you,” she said. “And I won’t say no to her expert help.”

  “It’s only fair.” I took out my notebook and jotted a note about the biscuit jar. “Robyn asked me to talk to the next of kin of all the people whose ashes were disturbed, to see what they want done about reburial.”

  “Ah, so that’s your angle.” She laughed and shook her head. “I just figured your curiosity was getting the better of you and you were butting into Henry Burke’s case to see what you could find out.”

  “I won’t pretend I’m going to ignore any evidence that would help the chief if I came across it,” I said.

  “Or if you can hunt it down,” Judge Jane added.

  “But he was okay with my talking to the next of kin as soon as possible. Randall and I figured either you were Lacey’s next of kin or you’d know who was.”

  “I reckon I am. I was her executor, at any rate. I was the one who had to talk Maudie Morton into putting her ashes in that green glass jar, and break the news to the family that there wasn’t going to be any funeral or even graveside services. There was hard feeling over that, I can tell you. But she laid out what she wanted in her will—bossiest will I’ve ever seen, if you want to know. She made her wishes known, and I did my best to carry them out.”

  “I’m glad to know she didn’t quarrel with her whole family.”

  “She came damned close,” Judge Jane said. “She had such promise and she ended up leading such a sad, lonely … useless life. I know that sounds harsh, and maybe she was perfectly happy in her own way, but—just damn. Hearing someone had disturbed her grave just brought it all up again.”

  “What was her story, anyway?”

  “She was pretty as a picture and whip-smart.” Judge Jane settled back in her chair with faraway eyes and a half smile. “And an only child, which was a big part of the problem. A lot better for everyone if
Aunt Ida’d had a dozen or so kids to spread out all her energy on, but there was just Lacey. Aunt Ida and Uncle Ferd wanted Lacey to go to college, which wasn’t exactly usual for girls in our family back then. They pushed too hard and she was going through a rebellious phase. I always thought if they’d given her an ultimatum that she had to find a job or a husband, she’d have moved heaven and earth to get to college. But instead she took up with Anse Whicker. A handsome devil, but already a troublemaker. And an ex-con to boot. If you ask me, she looked around to see who she could drag home to her parents that would hurt them the most and settled on Anse. And again, if they’d gritted their teeth and said ‘that’s nice, dear,’ she’d have gotten bored with him. Instead, they wept and wailed and threatened to turn her out of the house, and she and Anse eloped.”

  “Yikes.” I found myself remembering a few of my own youthful rebellions, which my parents had handled with grace, aplomb, and stoic patience. I wasn’t sure I’d have gone as far as Lacey, but still, maybe I’d had some narrow escapes.

  “And if you ask me, Lacey figured out what a disaster the marriage was pretty quickly, but she wasn’t ever one to admit her mistakes. She held her head up and stuck by Anse. I’ve always suspected it was a relief to her when they sent him off to prison. She stayed loyal and visited him every week for a couple of years, but finally she’d had enough. Divorced him and moved back to Caerphilly.”

  “And continued to annoy her family by defecting to the Episcopalian church,” I put in.

  “You could be right.” She shook her head and chuckled. “I’ve always thought the family was a little too happy to say ‘I told you so!’ and ‘thank goodness you’ve come to your senses!’ If everyone could have just kept their traps shut and started including her in all the family doings, I think things would have been different. She dropped her unsuitable Clay County friends, but she didn’t come back and reconcile with her old ones, either.”