Toucan Keep a Secret

by Donna Andrews

  “Interview room,” Horace corrected absently, his eyes still on the doorway. Aida raised her eyebrows and rolled her eyes, as if to say she knew perfectly well that I was only staying put so I could catch a glimpse of Hempel. But they didn’t order me out, so I made sure I was well clear of the path Vern and his prisoner would take through the reception room and settled in to watch the door with them.

  Hempel was a mess. From the way he shuffled as he entered the station, I thought at first Vern must have put leg irons as well as handcuffs on him. No, his legs were unfettered. Was the shuffle some holdover from his prison time? Or did he have some kind of neurological condition that affected his gait? He was tall and broad, but his whole body had a bulky, bloated look, like a football player or wrestler gone to seed. The mane of thick, curly hair I’d seen in his mug shot had thinned, grayed, and begun receding from the top of his head. His face was slack and wrinkled. I remembered that one of the newspaper articles had identified him as Bart Hempel, 25. If that was so, he was only in his fifties, but he looked as old as Grandfather—and a lot less vigorous.

  Although his hands were cuffed behind his back, Vern was keeping a watchful eye on him—and probably would keep doing so until Hempel was safely stowed in the interview room. I’d have just come right out and called it an interrogation room, especially when someone like Hempel was occupying it. As he passed me, he threw a quick, frowning glance my way and I had to make a conscious effort not to shudder. Life had not been kind to Hempel, but even in his current somewhat-diminished state, he wasn’t someone I would ever want to meet in a dark alley. He wasn’t even someone I’d want to meet in a well-lit street unless I had at least a brace of burly cousins with me.

  “Room Two,” Aida told Vern.

  Vern nodded as if this was information he needed to know. Anyone who’d spent any appreciable amount of time in the Caerphilly Police Station knew that it only had two interview rooms. Room Two was the one in which the chair intended for the prisoner was bolted to the floor, the better to keep its occupant from coming over the table at you. Not something they had to use all that often, but I was glad they had it today.

  Aida, Horace, and I watched Vern disappear. When the interview room door closed behind him and his prisoner, the two of them exchanged a look of—triumph? Not quite. But definitely satisfaction mixed with impatient anticipation. You didn’t have to be law enforcement to see what they were thinking. They’d brought in the guy. Now it was up to the chief.

  I wished them good night and headed out to my car with a curious sense of anticlimax. However interesting my news about the Hagleys and the Washingtons might be, it was probably irrelevant and useless. And I hadn’t even had time to tell him about Mrs. Van der Lynden haunting the local antique and jewelry stores after the robbery. Probably also irrelevant. The police had a genuine bad guy in custody. Hempel would probably turn out to be Mr. Hagley’s killer.

  Of course, it was always possible that Hempel would have an alibi. If it turned out that on Thursday evening he had been leading a prayer meeting or teaching an embroidery class or—more likely—locked up in some other county’s drunk tank—the chief might suddenly take a lot more interest in my information.

  Meanwhile, it was time I relaxed with my family. One more errand, and then I could head for home. I pulled into the Trinity parking lot, which was empty except for the now-repaired van. I nodded with satisfaction at seeing that. I parked my car and strolled up the front walk to the familiar bright red double doors.

  Before fumbling in my purse for my key to the doors, I reached out and pulled the right handle, almost out of habit.

  The door swung open.

  If it had been after dark, I’d have gone right back to my car and called 911. But this early in the day, finding the church unlocked wasn’t really that weird. There could be people here. Okay, empty parking lot. But still … people who lived within walking distance, or who would be picked up by friends or family when they finished whatever they were doing here.

  Although I didn’t know of any planned activities for Saturday afternoon—we tried to keep Saturday free from church meetings so people could spend time with their families. Apart from the Altar Guild doing their prep for tomorrow’s service, which had probably finished hours ago, no one was scheduled to be here. Not that I knew of, anyway.

  I kept my eyes and ears peeled as I walked as quietly as possible through the vestibule into the office corridor.

  Mother’s umbrella and rain hat were sitting neatly on the bench just outside Robyn’s office. Not an unreasonable place to set something down, but a rather hard place to overlook them.

  It occurred to me to wonder if Mother had actually forgotten them, or if she had deliberately left them behind.

  “And why would she do that?” I asked myself.

  To get me over to Trinity. I pulled out my phone and opened a document I kept saved in it—the roster of Key Holders, showing who was responsible for each day. And then I nodded. Sally Penworthy was Key Holder of the day. Mother considered Sally flighty—and I didn’t disagree with her. That was probably why Sally had been given Key Holder duty on Saturday, which tended to be the lightest duty of the week.

  But Sally wasn’t here. She tended not to stay on site like the other Key Holders—she’d just show up when she thought all the meetings would be over and lock the front door. Either she’d already come and gone way too early, or she was planning to drop by later to do her usual half-baked job of checking things out and securing the church.

  I could go back home and leave her to it.

  But when we’d already had two crimes on the grounds, did I really want to do that?

  Not really.

  Obviously Mother knew that if I found the church unlocked, or anything else amiss, I’d do my usual thorough job of securing the building. So she hadn’t forgotten her umbrella and rain hat. She’d—

  “Deliberately left behind,” I murmured. And not just the umbrella and rain hat. An idea was forming in my mind.

  I still had my key ring in my hand, although I hadn’t needed it to unlock the front door. I unlocked Robyn’s office and sat down on the love seat to think for a moment.

  Then I called the police station. The nonemergency number.

  “I knew you’d call when you heard the news,” Aida Butler said, instead of hello.

  “Hello to you, too, and what news?”

  “Bart Hempel is alibied for the time of the murder.”

  Chapter 34

  If Bart Hempel was alibied for the murder, then I definitely needed to tell the chief what I’d just realized.

  “He must have blurted out his alibi as soon as he walked into the interrogation—sorry, interview room,” I said aloud.

  “Yeah. Dude could have given it up to the Virginia Beach police and saved Vern the trip.”

  “Maybe he wanted free transportation to Caerphilly for some reason,” I suggested. “Are they sure his alibi will hold up?”

  “The chief made a couple of phone calls and so far it’s good,” she said. “He was playing the organ for a choir practice of the Methodist church he’s been attending since he got out of prison. His alibi includes five sopranos, three altos, and I forget how many tenors, baritones, and basses. Plus the minister, who doubles as the choir director. So yeah, I think it will hold up.”

  “Damn.” I had liked Bart Hempel as the killer. Someone from out of town. Someone I didn’t know and never would. Ah, well.

  “Keep it under your hat,” she said. “The chief wants to lull the real killer into a sense of complacency. But I figure you should know.”

  “In case the real killer isn’t lulled and decides to take another potshot at me? Charming. Could I speak to the chief?”

  “I’ll ask.” She put the phone on hold. After a short pause, the chief came on.

  “Before you ask,” he said. “Yes, now that Bart Hempel is no longer a suspect, I will be looking more closely at the interesting connection between the Hagleys and
the Washingtons.”

  “That’s good,” I said. “Meanwhile I had another idea. Possibly a crazy one.”

  “It’s a crazy case,” the chief said.

  “What if the ring wasn’t left behind by mistake,” I said. “What if it was left behind on purpose? In fact, not even left behind on purpose—deliberately brought to the crypt and planted there.”

  “Why? And by whom?”

  “The why would depend on the whom, I think,” I said. “For example, if you had someone who felt guilty about taking the jewels, they could have left behind the ring where it would be found and returned to whoever owns it now.”

  “Presumably Archie van der Lynden would be the owner,” the chief said. “Or possibly his creditors. But I’m not sure I buy the idea of a guilty thief.”

  “No, it seems unlikely,” I said. “I could see Paul Blair doing it, from what I’ve heard about him. But he’s long dead. Bad example, I guess. Not a guilt offering, then, but maybe a message.”

  “Saying what?”

  “Here’s the ring. I’ve got the rest of it. What’s your offer?”

  “Interesting message,” he said. “But from whom and to whom?”

  “From whoever has the jewels to someone they think would want them. Want them and be able to pay for them, which probably leaves out Archie van der Lynden.”

  “Maybe.” He sounded dubious. “But why not just sell the jewels to a fence?”

  “Maybe it’s someone who doesn’t know how to do that,” I said. “If you suddenly came into possession of some jewels that didn’t belong to you, would you know where to find a fence? Well, yeah, you probably would because I’m sure you’ve arrested a few over the years. But I wouldn’t. A lot of people wouldn’t. So they leave the ring, and someone interested in buying the rest of the jewels finds out they’re available.”

  “That’d be taking rather a chance,” he said. “What if whoever found the ring had just pocketed it?”

  “By killing Mr. Hagley, they made it pretty darn certain that the police would be the ones to find the ring.”

  “The police or the person they knew would be locking up the church that night.” He chuckled slightly. “I think anyone who knew you would consider you a reasonably trustworthy ring finder.”

  “That would mean the killer is someone I know. Probably someone who belonged at Trinity.” I didn’t much like the idea.

  “Or someone who’d done their research. So your theory is that someone dropped the ring in the crypt, knowing that word of its reappearance would get out and someone they know to be interested in the jewels would know that they were on the market.”

  “And then they contact that someone to start the negotiations.”

  “Where does Hagley fit into your theory?”

  “Maybe he was the person who had the jewels,” I suggested. “And someone suspected as much and ambushed him in the crypt. Or maybe like me, he saw a light on in the crypt, went out to investigate, and surprised someone who killed him to keep his identity a secret.”

  The chief pondered for a bit.

  “Unfortunately,” he said. “Your suggestion opens up a whole lot of new theories of the crime without disproving any of the ones I’ve already thought of.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I just think it’s way too much of a coincidence. Mrs. Hagley and Mrs. Washington are sisters. Mr. Washington is canned—unfairly—when the jewels disappear. Mr. Hagley is killed when one of them reappears. What if one of them—or all of them—was in on it?”

  “I suppose I should find grounds to search Mrs. Washington’s bungalow,” the chief said. “See if the jewels—or any other suspicious objects—turn up. And it might be worthwhile doing a much more thorough search of the Hagleys’ house. Although obviously if any of them were connected with the theft, they’ve had thirty years to find the perfect hiding place.”

  “Maybe the perfect hiding place was our crypt,” I said. “Although searching their houses is probably a good idea. And check out their finances, to see if any of them have been living above their means.”

  He didn’t speak for a few moments.

  “I’ll be talking to Mrs. Washington,” he said. “Although at the moment I still need to have a few more discussions with Mr. Hempel, so he’ll be remaining as our guest tonight. He’s alibied for Thursday night, but not for last night, when someone fired two shots at you from a gun he claims not to have seen for thirty years. And I’m not yet satisfied with his account of why he didn’t identify his brother when my predecessor showed him the photograph of our John Doe.”

  “If you’re worried that I’m going to go over and browbeat Mrs. Washington into confessing that she’s the killer and that she’d been hiding the Van der Lynden jewels in her basement all these years, relax,” I said. “I’m going home. I might have to drop by Ragnar’s tonight to pick up Dad later, but apart from that, I plan to spend some quality time with the family.”

  “Good,” he said. “And in case you’re worried, I’ve stepped up patrols near Trinity and your house. And I’ve assigned Vern to keep watch out at your grandfather’s zoo to make sure his cousins don’t shoot too many random trespassers tonight.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Talk to you soon.”

  “Yes,” he said. “But not, I hope, too soon. I’d like a quiet night for a change.”

  I ended the call and sighed.

  “Me, too,” I muttered. “Me, too”

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I was planning to take several of them while mentally pushing Mrs. Washington and Bart Hempel and everything connected to the Van der Lynden jewel robbery and Mr. Hagley’s death out of my mind so I could go home to my family with a calm, uncluttered mind.

  But as I was exhaling that first deep breath I heard a slight noise. I opened my eyes to see Mrs. Washington.

  She stood just outside the doorway to Robyn’s office. She was neatly dressed in a navy blue dress that made her diminutive figure look almost doll-like, and a matching navy blue hat. Normally I’d have found her a welcome sight compared to, say, the hulking Bart Hempel. But something about her set off all my mental alarms. The rigid, tense body posture. The death grip on her navy leather purse. The look of pure hatred in her eyes.

  “How dare you?” she began. “I’ve never done anything to you. I lead a quiet, respectable life, and you’re accusing me and my family of all sorts of horrible things. How dare you?”

  Her voice shook, but I suspected it was anger, not fear. And I noticed that she was only gripping the purse with one white-knuckled hand. Her right hand was inserted in the purse.

  I had a bad feeling about this.

  “Mrs. Washington,” I began.

  “Don’t talk to me,” she said. “Don’t try to make excuses. You’re trying to frame me. And insult the memory of my dead husband. I’ll see that you pay for this.”

  “Let’s talk this over.” I stood up. Possibly a tactical mistake. She clearly didn’t like being loomed over. She took a step back.

  “I’m sure if we—”

  Her right arm tensed and I realized she was about to pull out whatever she had in her purse. Probably the gun. I lunged forward to grab her hand to keep her from aiming it at me.

  She screamed and tried to throw herself backward away from me.

  Thanks to our combined efforts, both of us got a healthy dose of pepper spray from the aerosol can she’d been trying to aim at me.

  “My eyes! My eyes! What have you done to me?” Mrs. Washington had fallen down. I could just barely make out her writhing form on the hallway floor before the swelling completely shut my eyes. She was coughing and moaning. I could understand. It wasn’t just my eyes. My face, my nose, my whole respiratory tract felt as if they were on fire.

  “Wretched woman,” I tried to mutter, but trying to talk made my own coughs worse. And my nose was running so badly that I had to breathe through my mouth, which would set the cough off again.

  Mrs. Washington wasn’t talking anymore, either
. Coughing, moaning, and—was that a choking sound?

  I realized I should call 911. I reached into my pocket for my phone, but discarded that idea immediately. Since my cell phone didn’t have physical buttons and I couldn’t see the screen, using it would be difficult if not impossible. I groped my way back into Robyn’s office and over to her desk. I felt around until I found the phone. Thank goodness our last round of cost-cutting hadn’t eliminated the land line.

  I managed to dial 911 by feel, and felt a surge of relief when Debbie Ann answered and asked me what my emergency was. If only I could cough out enough words.

  “Help!” I croaked. “Trinity!”

  “I know you’re at Trinity,” Debbie Ann said. “Help is on the way. Who is this? What’s wrong?”

  I tried to cough out “pepper spray,” or my name, but my throat wasn’t cooperating. So I just hung on to the phone with one hand as I groped around the desk with the other, hoping to encounter the box of tissues Robyn usually kept there. And I kept coughing into the phone. It somehow seemed important to keep open what small connection I had to the outside world.

  I heard someone run in. Surely not the police so soon?

  “What’s going on here? What’s the meaning of this?”

  Ah. Mr. Sedlak, the remaining misogynist. I would have given a lot to see the look on his face. I held up the phone and felt him take it. I relaxed back into the chair, listening as Mr. Sedlak proceeded to give Debbie Ann a highly colorful if not entirely accurate description of what he was seeing.

  Why did it have to be Mr. Sedlak? Quite apart from the fact that I disliked feeling even slightly beholden to him, I knew he’d probably inflate his role in this afternoon’s events out of all proportion. By this time tomorrow I’d be hearing how brave Mr. Sedlak saved me from certain death at the hands of a large gang of armed desperadoes.

  “This could be some kind of terrorist attack!” Mr. Sedlak said at one point. “Anthrax! Or some kind of fast-acting poison. Should I evacuate?”