Toucan Keep a Secret

by Donna Andrews

  “Where’d this come from?” I assumed he had just found the picture I’d sent him.

  “A box of Dr. Womble’s stuff that Robyn asked me to take over to him.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “Thank you.”

  “So is there anything else?” Chuck Hagley’s gaze drifted from the chief, over to me, and on to Maudie.

  “Mr. Hagley, this is Meg Langslow,” Maudie said. “She’s with Trinity.”

  “Not in the mood to be prayed over,” Hagley said. “Thanks all the same.”

  “I’ll be running along.” The chief looked as if he was dashing away to avoid bursting out laughing.

  “Praying’s not really my line,” I said.

  “Aren’t you the minister?” Hagley looked confused.

  “Robyn Smith’s the minister, and she’s out on maternity leave,” I said. “I’m just filling in for her on a few practical things.”

  “Practical things?” Hagley allowed Maudie to herd him back into the arrangements room and ease him into a chair. She set the tea tray down on the mahogany conference table that filled most of it and refilled Hagley’s coffee cup. I trailed after them with my teacup.

  “Well, I was supposed to find out how you wanted Trinity to handle arrangements for your mother as well as your father,” I said. “Though I gather Maudie’s already taken care of that.”

  Maudie nodded and beamed at me as she slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her, leaving me face-to-face with yet another next of kin.

  Chapter 20

  “You just need to know what to do about Mom?” Hagley asked. “That’s easy. Whatever the old man wanted is fine with me.”

  “I’m also supposed to convey Trinity’s regret about what happened, and our condolences to you,” I went on.

  “Consider them conveyed.” He took an impatient gulp of coffee.

  “Because you have a long drive ahead of you and you’re wondering how soon you can get rid of me and hit the road,” I said. “No problem; I’ll skip the rest of the conveying.”

  “Ha!” He looked surprised and genuinely amused. “Yeah, that’s pretty much the size of it. And I know your chief of police is just trying to catch whoever killed Dad, but I don’t know any other way to explain that I have no idea who could have done it. He should be asking people here in town. I mean, yeah, Dad drove everyone crazy, and I’m sure a lot of people had to fight the urge to smack him occasionally, but you don’t murder someone just because he’s an old fussbudget.”

  “Then you see the chief’s problem,” I said. “Because so far no one in town can figure out why anyone would have done this. I just wanted to say that if you have questions of your own about what happened to your father, I was the one who found him. So if there’s anything you want to know about that, just ask. Not necessarily tonight—I’m sure you want to get home. But whenever. Here’s my number.”

  I handed him one of my business cards—one of the blacksmithing cards, not the much more bureaucratic-looking ones I had for my job as Randall’s assistant. He barely glanced at it—but he was staring at me.

  “You found him,” he echoed. “Do you have any idea what he was doing out there?”

  “Not really,” I said. “One theory is that he wanted to reclaim your mother’s ashes.”

  “With a crowbar?” He looked incredulous. “I mean, isn’t there a process for that?”

  “A process that Reverend Robyn explained to him more than once.”

  “But of course he couldn’t be bothered.” Hagley closed his eyes and shook his head. “He just barks and expects everyone to carry out his orders. And why would he want to move Mom’s ashes, for goodness’ sake? He’s always been so … involved with the church. Pretty damned close to obsessed, if you ask me.”

  “It’s also possible that he went out there for the same reason I was out there when I found him,” I said. “He could have seen a light, gone out to investigate, and surprised a vandal. He’d been there earlier at a vestry meeting, and I thought he’d gone home like everybody else, but maybe he stayed behind to police the grounds or something.” I didn’t actually think this was too likely, but I suspected Hagley might find it more comforting to think of his father as the self-appointed guardian of the church instead of a grave robber.

  And I was right. His face lit up at the thought.

  “That would be just like him,” he exclaimed. “He could be such an old busybody, and it would never occur to him that he was putting himself in danger. No common sense.”

  But the tone of his voice was a little warmer—almost affectionate.

  “Look—I may take you up on your offer to talk,” he went on. “Some other time. Right now I still haven’t taken it all in, and I have no idea what to ask. I don’t know when I’ll be back here—my aunt’s going to help me plan the funeral and all, but we can’t schedule it until the police release the body and the crypt, and your chief would like me to leave the house as is till he has time to search it for any possible clues—no idea what he’s hoping to find, but he’s welcome to try. Nothing for me to do here except hang around feeling useless, so I might as well go back home. But call me if there’s anything you need to know.”

  He handed me his business card. Charles H. Hagley, Esquire, and an office on Broad Street in Richmond.

  “You’re a lawyer,” I said.

  “Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who hates lawyers.” His voice was more than a little defensive.

  “I’m fine with lawyers,” I said. “I have several dozen in my family. And I find them very useful indeed. What kind of law do you practice?”

  “Mostly personal injury,” he said. “If you lived in Richmond and watched a lot of late-night television, you’d recognize my face from the annoying commercials. ‘Injured? Don’t haggle over the settlement! Let Chuck Hagley do it for you!’” He delivered his lines in the stagy, overdramatic manner of an anxious amateur—something I had indeed seen on far too many late-night commercials.

  A thought hit me—he was a lawyer from Richmond.

  “Ever heard of a Richmond firm called Wellington Blodgett?” I asked.

  “Out of my league.”

  “What’s their specialty?”

  “Rich people,” he said. “Wills, trusts, estate planning.”

  “Do they do any criminal work?”

  “Not on your life.” Hagley seemed to find that amusing. “Although if any of their exalted clients were so unfortunate as to be mistaken for a common criminal, I’m sure they’d know how to arrange for a suitably high-powered defense attorney. Why do you ask?”

  “I heard their name somewhere and it sounded vaguely familiar,” I said. “I figured if you were from Richmond you might know. But that’s not a firm I’d ever have dealt with, so I must be confusing them with someone else.”

  “They all sound alike, the snooty-sounding names of the really elite firms,” he said. “Well, I’m going to hit the road.”

  We shook hands, and I followed him out into the reception area. He thanked Maudie and took off.

  “He seems in a much better humor than when he arrived,” Maudie said, as we watched Mr. Hagley stride across the parking lot. “Good work.”

  “I think he was just tired of being asked if he knew anyone who’d want to knock off his dad,” I said. “Time for me to hit the road myself.”

  Although after I got into the Twinmobile I sat for a few minutes, pondering. If Wellington Blodgett was a snooty firm catering to the wealthy and influential, how did they end up as the point of contact for Archie van der Lynden—an ex-felon whose family had supposedly lost all its money?

  I made a mental note to ask one of those many family lawyers when I got a chance. Then I started the car and headed for home.

  Out of habit, I took the route that went past Trinity. Which was, fortunately, not my responsibility tonight. Someone else was the Key Holder and had probably already locked up and gone home. So I was just going to drive past—no stopping to sure make everyth
ing was locked up properly—even though some of my fellow Key Holders were careless. Not my problem. I had a rendezvous with my pillow.

  But when the church came into sight, I couldn’t help glancing over at it.

  Why was there still a light on in the building? A light that flickered, darker then brighter, and moved from one window to another.

  Someone was moving through the church with a flashlight. Unless Trinity was experiencing a power outage, why would anyone be walking around inside with a flashlight? I could think of no reason.

  No legitimate reason, anyway.

  I pulled into the parking lot. No cars—not even the van, which was still in the shop. Even more suspicious. Anyone with a good reason to be there would just park near the front door.

  I came to a stop in the middle of the parking lot, with my car parallel to the building in a place where I could keep my eye on both the front door and the side exit. Then I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 911.

  “Meg, what’s wrong now?” Debbie Ann asked.

  “I think there’s an intruder at Trinity.” I leaned to the right a bit to get a better view. “Someone’s moving around inside with a flashlight, and—”

  Two popping noises startled me, and the window to my left exploded into several million tiny little beads of safety glass. I threw myself sideways and ducked under the dashboard.

  “Meg! What was that?”

  “Someone’s shooting at me.”

  Chapter 21

  Normally Debbie Ann might have muted her phone for a few seconds while she put out the radio call. This time she didn’t. An oversight, or did she guess how reassuring I’d find it, hearing her ordering all units to the Trinity parking lot?

  “I feel like a sitting duck here.” I was sprawled awkwardly over the Twinmobile’s center console, covered with tiny little glass beads, with my nose buried in someone’s clay-covered baseball socks.

  “Keep your head down!” she ordered.

  “And let the shooter sneak up to my car and finish me? I’m going to start the car and put some distance between me and whoever’s out there.”

  “Maybe I should ask the chief what he wants you to do,” Debbie Ann said. “Sammy’s only a minute or two away.”

  But my gut told me that safety lay in flight. I listened to my gut. The first thing it told me was to get a weapon, and for a second or two I groped on the floor. Then I reminded myself that the only weapon I was likely to find was Josh’s bright orange metal bat, which wouldn’t be all that useful against a shooter. Okay, if I couldn’t arm myself I needed to get out of there. I counted to three before pulling myself upright again and gripping the steering wheel. I looked wildly around as I started the car. No one in sight. I put the car in gear and took off. Since the church was on my left, it was a pretty good bet that the bullets had come from that direction, so I floored the pedal and steered toward the parking lot’s exit, sending gravel flying behind me.

  I hesitated when I reached the road. Homeward? Or back toward town? Town, definitely. I didn’t much like the idea of running into the shooter on the long, lonely country road between here and home. In town there were more likely to be lights and witnesses. Besides, the sirens were coming from that direction.

  I could hear faint noises coming from the floor on the passenger side of the car, where I’d dropped my phone. I decided to put a little more distance between me and the church before I stopped to pick it up.

  I was relieved when, a few blocks later, I spotted a patrol car heading rapidly toward me. I slowed down as it approached, and then, when it zoomed past me toward the church, I stopped by the side of the road and snatched up the phone.

  “Meg? Meg? What’s happening? Meg, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I said to Debbie Ann. “I drove out of the parking lot with no problems, and I just passed a patrol car heading that way. I’m going to turn around and head back to Trinity. I expect by the time I get there every deputy in the department will have arrived, so it should be the safest place in town.”

  “Don’t get in their way,” Debbie Ann warned. “And remember, there’s still an active shooter out there.”

  I made a cautious U-turn and headed slowly back the way I’d come. Three police cars were already parked in the middle of the lot, lights flashing, and I could see figures bearing flashlights striding around the grounds.

  I spotted the chief’s blue sedan near the cluster of police cruisers and drove over to park near it. The driver’s-side door was open and the chief was standing between the door and the body of the car, talking on his radio while his eyes followed the officers.

  “She’s here,” he said into the radio. “Meg—you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “The Twinmobile, not so much. It’s going to need a new driver’s-side window. When it’s light, I guess I’ll figure out if there are exit wounds on the passenger side or if there are still two bullets rattling around in here.”

  “Actually, we can figure that out for you. Although if there are any bullets, they’ll probably be embedded in something, not rattling around.” He picked up the radio handset. “Horace, soon as you get a chance, grab your forensic gear and meet me at Meg’s vehicle. It’s parked right beside mine.”

  I heard Horace’s static-ridden “Yes, sir.”

  The chief returned the handset to its holder and turned back to me.

  “I know you weren’t on duty here at Trinity tonight,” he said. “Since you were at the ballgame and then at Morton’s. What brought you back here?”

  “Inability to delegate,” I said. “I should have headed straight home, but since I was passing by anyway, I couldn’t help glancing over, and I spotted someone with a flashlight inside the building. So I pulled into the parking lot to take a closer look and called Debbie Ann to report it, and while I was talking to her, someone fired two shots at me.”

  “Speaking of inside—do you have your key to the building with you?”

  I nodded and fished in my purse for the separate key ring on which I kept my Trinity keys. My friend Aida Butler, one of the chief’s deputies, was just pulling up, and at the chief’s request I handed her the key ring and showed her which key opened the front door. The chief diverted Vern Shiffley, another deputy, from searching the graveyard and assigned him to go with Aida to clear the inside of the church.

  It was slightly disconcerting to see how, after Aida had unlocked the bright red double doors, she and Vern had taken up tactical positions on either side of the gray stone doorway. And then to watch them slam open the doors and step in, guns at the ready, Aida facing right and Vern left, in what looked to my admittedly amateur eyes like a precision tactical maneuver.

  Just like on television, I couldn’t help thinking. Which would actually have been rather cool to observe in real life if it had been happening anywhere other than the quiet small-town church where my family and I spent so many peaceful hours.

  “Chief?”

  Horace had arrived. I turned over my car to him and looked around for a place to sit. The chief waved me toward the front passenger seat of his sedan.

  I slumped gratefully into the seat. It had been a long day. But I left the car door open, the better to follow what was going on outside. And I pulled out my phone to update Michael.

  “I was just about to call you,” he said. “I was getting a little worried—I thought you’d be home by now.”

  “So did I,” I said. “Do you think you could pick me up at Trinity?”

  “Actually, Rob and I are already on our way,” he said. “The fire department just sent out a call to all volunteers. Is something on fire? And what are you doing there? And is something wrong with the Twinmobile?”

  “No fire that I can see,” I said. “I’m fine. So is the Twinmobile, except that someone shot out the driver’s-side window. When Horace finishes processing it for evidence, I’m going to ask the chief if he can have someone drop it off at Osgood Shiffley’s repair shop. I’d rather not have to explai
n the missing window to the boys, much less any bullet holes Horace may find in the interior.”

  “Agreed—but for heaven’s sake, fill me in.”

  So while Rob and Michael raced toward Trinity, I gave him the rundown on my evening. As we talked, I kept an eye on what was happening around me. Flashlight beams revealed where some of the deputies were combing through the woods. The lights inside Trinity let me follow the progress of the inside search. I overheard a deputy reporting to the chief that the lock they’d put on the crypt was still intact. Eventually the chief grew tired of questioning me and asked if I could put him in touch with whoever was supposed to have been serving as Key Holder this evening. Luckily I had the duty roster, complete with the volunteers’ contact information, in my cell phone. The chief strode a few paces away—was he seeking a better view of the church or just getting far enough away from me that I couldn’t eavesdrop while he called the duty Key Holder? I didn’t really care which. I sat back and watched the action.

  After a couple of minutes, a fire engine pulled into the parking lot. The skeleton crew manning it began unloading some kind of equipment. I reported this to Michael.

  “But there’s still no sign of a fire,” I added. “So I have no idea why they’ve called you out. Surely they’re not going to send unarmed firemen out to search the woods for an active shooter.”

  “I suspect they’re going to have us set up the big lights to help with their search,” Michael said.

  “That makes sense.” And also gave me a sense of relief that the chief wasn’t sending Michael into danger. “So maybe once you get here, I could take Rob’s car home. Assuming you two can probably get a ride home from one of the other firemen.”

  “Absolutely. Just sit tight for a few more minutes—your transportation is on its way. I should hang up now and get the rest of my gear on.”

  After we ended the call, I got out of the car and strolled over to where the chief was talking to Vern Shiffley, who had just emerged from the church.

  “Anyway, someone was obviously looking pretty hard for something,” Vern was saying. “Every door’s been unlocked—a few forced open. Even closets. But not a lot of ransacking—no drawers turned out or anything like that.”