Lord of the Wings

by Donna Andrews

  I couldn’t help smiling at that.

  “Thanks,” I said. “But I should probably be going. Busy day. Unless you think Mr. Griswald expects me to wait while he talks to his attorney.”

  “Heavens, no.” She grimaced. “He’ll be shouting on the phone for hours. At upwards of five hundred dollars an hour. He always feels much better afterward. I suppose it’s like therapy. Of course, real therapy might be rather cheaper and produce a more long-lasting effect, but Harris wouldn’t hear of it. Are you really going to make us take the brooch back?”

  “Sorry, but I think it would be a good idea,” I said. “At least until the festival’s over. It was very nice of you to lend it—”

  “I didn’t lend it,” she said. “Harris did. I wasn’t keen on the idea one bit, and after all, it’s supposed to be my brooch, isn’t it? He gave it to me for our twenty-fifth anniversary. Then a couple of months later, he goes and lends it to a museum. And the Caerphilly Museum, of all places. Of course, I happen to know the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts wouldn’t take it. Why should they? They’ve got all those fabulous Fabergé eggs—what would they want with that ugly old thing?”

  “Then you’re not overly fond of your brooch?” I asked.

  “I loathe it,” she said. “I think it’s supremely ugly, and the fact that it once belonged to the Duchess of Windsor doesn’t mean much to me. I don’t approve of her, if you must know. And when I think of what we could have done with all the money he spent on it, I’m almost sick.”

  “At least as long as it’s in the museum, he can’t expect you to wear it,” I said.

  “Thank goodness,” she muttered. “But I don’t want it down at the museum, either. People must be laughing at us, spending so much money for something that looks like cheap, ugly costume jewelry. No, I want it back here—or rather, back in our safe-deposit box down at the bank, where I don’t have to look at it and no one else can either.”

  She looked anxious. Very anxious, considering that she hated the brooch. But then there was all that money. And maybe she wasn’t so much anxious about the brooch or its cost but about having to disagree with her husband. I got the feeling she didn’t do that very often.

  “Call Dr. Smoot, then,” I said. “And in case either he or your husband drags their feet, I’ll ask Randall to issue a formal request.”

  “Thank you, Meg.” She still looked a little anxious, but her smile was warm and genuine. “How’s the Trinity food tent in the town square doing?”

  “Business is booming,” I said. “And the pie is as good as ever.”

  “Of course,” she said. “It’s your family’s famous recipe, isn’t it? I wish I could go down and help, but Harris won’t hear of it.”

  “If you ever feel like sneaking away and pitching in informally, they’d love to see you,” I said. “Or just drop by for lunch sometime.”

  “I just might,” she said. “Are you sure you don’t have time for that tea?”

  “How about a rain check?” I said. “Assuming Mr. Griswald’s continued absence means he’s finished with me for now, I should get back to my job.”

  “I’ll hold you to that rain check.” She rose from the sofa and walked with me back to the front door. “And if you want to meet someplace other than this mausoleum, that would be fine.” And then seeing the curiosity on my face, she added, “Harris picked the designer and gives her all her instructions. Not my idea of homey.”

  “How about lunch at Muriel’s Diner after the festival’s over and things calm down,” I suggested.

  “You’re on!” she exclaimed. “I love the diner. Let me give you my number—I’m not in the parish directory. Harris disapproves.”

  I added her number to my cell phone and said good-bye. As I walked down their front walk, I found myself wondering how Mrs. Griswald had put up with her husband all these years—how, and even more, why? When I reached my car, I made a note to call her for lunch, and another note to see what Mother knew about her.

  I waited until I was out of Westlake before pulling over to call Randall.

  “So I mouthed off and probably made an enemy of Mr. Griswald,” I said, after I’d explained that the stolen cat was actually the brooch in the museum.

  “He’s hard to like and easy to offend,” Randall said.

  “But I think we should make good on something I suggested to him,” I said. “I think it’s a bad idea having such a valuable piece of jewelry down at the museum. Dr. Smoot has some security, but I’m not sure it’s up to repelling serious jewel thieves. And even if it is, just having it in the museum exacerbates our already serious security problems down at the Haunted House.”

  “The chief said the body was moved,” Randall said. “What if it was moved a couple of miles down the road from the museum? Even an ugly piece of jewelry worth half a million would be worth killing someone over. Though blessed if I know how the article about Arabella fits into it. She and Billy were highfliers in their day, but I doubt if they had anything to do with the Duchess or her jewels.”

  “The chief knows about Arabella’s connection to the museum,” I said. “I’m sure he’ll check it out. And I’m not going to ask if he’s showed Dr. Smoot pictures of Justin Klapcroft and the dead guy, to see if he recognizes either of them as people he had to shoo away from the museum. I’m sure he already has.” I wasn’t going to ask, because doing so would annoy the chief. But I was curious to know if Dr. Smoot had recognized them, and Randall, in his role as mayor, could probably ask without getting his head bit off.

  “I’ll look into it,” Randall said. “How about if we just ask Smoot to send the brooch back for the time being? It’s only common sense.”

  “Not something Dr. Smoot has a surplus of,” I pointed out.

  “True. But we can start by asking. And I’ll also talk to the county attorney. Must be some kind of legal grounds she can think of for making him do it. Threat to public order or some such thing.”

  “Sounds good,” I said. “Can you go talk to Dr. Smoot as soon as possible? Come down all official on him?”

  “Yes’m,” he said. “I’ll head over right now.”

  “And we should start thinking about issuing a public statement,” I said. “Warn the tourists.”

  Randall didn’t say anything for a few long moments. Then he sighed.

  “Better if it comes from us,” I said. “Before the press gets hold of it.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “It’d be nice if we could say we have a suspect in custody.”

  “Not if Justin Klapcroft turns out to be innocent and sues us.”

  “Good point. I’ll talk to the chief and the county attorney.” He hung up.

  As long as I was stopped anyway, I called Rob.

  “Hold your horses,” he said. “We’re still just getting started.”

  “No problem,” I said. “I just wanted to add one small search item to your list. Can you see if it’s widely known over the Internet that Dr. Smoot’s museum contains a piece of jewelry worth half a million dollars?”

  “It does? Holy cow—what kind of idiot would trust Smoot with anything worth half a mil?”

  “Good question,” I said.

  “Hey, maybe the owner’s planning to have someone steal it and collect the insurance,” he said.

  “Possible,” I said. “Or maybe the owner’s an idiot who has no idea how little security Dr. Smoot has. Just let me know whether it’s likely that any enterprising cat burglars could have found out online that the jewelry’s there. I’ll send you a picture of it.”

  “We’re on it.”

  I hunted down my best picture of the cat brooch and sent it to Rob. Then, before starting off again, I finished tallying my list of Goblin Patrol members. Only two had failed to respond to my e-mail. I called and talked to one. My call to the other went to voice mail, so I left a detailed message.

  I debated for a few moments. Did leaving a voice mail for the final goblin allow me to check off “confirm that all goblins a
re watching for pranksters” in my notebook? It didn’t quite feel done. But it was so tantalizingly close.

  I created a new, much smaller task: “confirm that Nelson Dandridge listened to my voice mail.” And then I checked off the bigger task as done and went back to my patrolling. I could start by dropping by the New Life Baptist Church, where Mr. Dandridge was supposed to be patrolling.

  My phone rang a minute or so after I began driving. I let it go to voice mail, with the idea that I’d call back when I got to the church. Of course it was Lydia. She left a cryptic voice mail: “Meg—have you called Mr. Brimfield yet? Can you call him ASAP?”

  And of course her phone went to voice mail when I called back.

  “Lydia,” I said. “This is Meg Langslow. No, I haven’t called Mr. Brimfield; I have no idea what you want me to call about, and I don’t even have his phone number.”

  I hung up and sat in the church parking lot for a few minutes, fuming. Maybe I should have left a more polite message.

  No. Hell, no. Lydia needed to learn how to do her job.

  And maybe I was particularly annoyed at her because Mr. Brimfield was almost certainly part of the family from whom Dr. Smoot was trying to get funding for his museum and anything having to do with the museum or the zoo could have something to do with the murder. I’d be happy to call Mr. Brimfield if I could.

  I mentally called Lydia a few unkind names. Then I shoved her out of my mind and climbed out of my car to look for Mr. Dandridge.

  It turned out that Mr. Dandridge hadn’t yet gotten my message because he’d been letting his grandson play Minecraft on his phone for the past several hours. But someone else had told him about the pranksters and the murder, and he’d been staking out the cemetery, watching for possible makers of tombstone rubbings.

  “And what were you going to do if you caught one?” I asked. “It’s not illegal to do tombstone rubbings.”

  “I planned to take their picture—well, actually that’s why I brought along Colby—four years old and he already knows how to do more with this confounded phone than I do. And then I’d send the photos to the police. And then I’d engage them in polite conversation, to see if I could get any information.”

  “Good idea, on all counts,” I said. “Which reminds me that I need to recruit watchers for the rest of the town cemeteries.”

  I made a few phone calls and steered reliable goblins to each of the town’s cemeteries. It temporarily reduced the number on patrol, but Caroline had e-mailed me to report that she’d be arriving in town by two and would start deploying the Blake’s Brigade volunteers around the zoo, so by the time we flipped over to the Night Side we’d be fully staffed again.

  And after that flurry of activity, I felt momentarily blue. I started my car and headed back for the center of town, but my mind wasn’t on the road. Was any of this going to do any good? And was there anything else I could do to help solve the murder, keep the townspeople and tourists safe, and keep the bad news from undermining the success of the festival?

  An idea occurred to me—though I couldn’t decide if it was a good idea or a terrible one. The brooch was the most valuable thing in the museum—but it wasn’t the only valuable thing. I flipped through the photos on my phone. Arabella’s dress? Dr. Smoot probably wouldn’t want to contact the parents of the modern-day Arabella, but maybe he’d let me? Or at least move it to safety. I should go and ask him who owned the inaugural gown. And Mrs. Paltroon’s painting was probably valuable. I couldn’t imagine anyone bothering to haul away any of the museum’s other contents.

  I had a plan. Randall was taking care of the brooch, but I could investigate the other objects worth stealing. And first off, I needed to talk to Mrs. Paltroon.

  Chapter 12

  Of course, deciding to talk to Mrs. Paltroon and finding her were two different things. Odds were she also lived in Westlake, like the Griswalds, but I had no idea where. And even once I found her, there was the challenge of getting her to talk to me. I kept on my way toward the heart of town and as soon as I’d parked my car again in the Mutant Wizards parking lot, I called my expert on Caerphilly social matters.

  “Mother,” I said. “Do you have any idea where I could find Mrs. Paltroon?”

  “Probably,” she said. “Although I have no idea why you’d want to.”

  “I don’t want to find her,” I said. “But I need to. Goblin Patrol business.”

  “Is she in some kind of trouble?”

  “You don’t have to sound so eager,” I said. “Not that I know of. I just want to talk to her about the painting she lent to Dr. Smoot’s museum.”

  “That ghastly painting?” I didn’t have to see Mother to know that she’d just shuddered. “If our ancestors looked that unprepossessing, I certainly wouldn’t put them on display in the Caerphilly Museum.”

  “Especially since none of them actually lived here in Caerphilly,” I said. “Then again, I gather Colonel Paltroon didn’t either.”

  “Oh, is it Colonel Paltroon now?” Mother asked. “Last time I heard he was only a major. And some of the folks who’ve been attending the local DAR meetings for years tell me they can recall when he was only a captain. I’ve never seen a man so successful at obtaining posthumous promotions. At this rate, he’ll probably make general in time for the Sestercentennial.”

  “The what?”

  “Sestercentennial,” she repeated. “The two hundred and fiftieth anniversary of independence, which will occur in 2026.”

  “Ah,” I said. “Well, why stop at general? Mrs. Paltroon should aim for commander-in-chief. George Washington doesn’t have any blood descendants around to put up a fight. Habakkuk Paltroon, father of his country. We could all visit the Paltroon Monument when we go up to the city of Paltroon to visit our congresspeople. I look forward to seeing his face on the dollar bill.”

  “I don’t,” Mother said. “Have you seen his face?”

  “In the family portrait,” I said. “Speaking of which—Mrs. Paltroon’s whereabouts?”

  “She’s probably holding court down at the DAR’s dried flower sale,” Mother said.

  “The Weed Patch?” I said. “Great! Thanks!”

  I hung up before Mother could protest my using the sarcastic local nickname for the dried flower sale and turned my steps toward the town square.

  I couldn’t help thinking that while the town council might have decided to keep the official decorations in the tasteful fall/harvest range, the crowd in the town square was full-bore Halloween. Which made it all the more amusing that the Caerphilly DAR was holding its annual dried flower sale this weekend, in the front yard of the Methodist church, which faced the town square. Odds were that the genteel crowd who usually turned up every year to patronize the Weed Patch had been scared away by the Halloween hordes. And it was hard to imagine that many of the ghouls and witches roaming the square would even venture into the DAR tent, much less emerge with expensive armloads of desiccated vegetation.

  Then again, maybe I was wrong. I tended to avoid the tent entirely because the dried stuff always made me sneeze. Possibly a psychosomatic reaction, since Rose Noire’s dried herbs and potpourris never bothered me.

  I followed the perimeter of the town square until I reached the Methodist Church, and then hiked up the driveway and entered the tent.

  The curiously hushed and almost deserted tent. I gazed around and saw nothing but dried plants. Plants lying in sheaves on the tables and standing upright in buckets and baskets. Baby’s breath, larkspur, hydrangeas, Japanese lanterns, heather, statice, globeflowers, eucalyptus, flax, tansy, wheat, and heaven knows what else.

  I was already fighting the urge to sneeze.

  “May I help you?”

  A pleasant, if somewhat anxious-looking woman in a Colonial costume had approached me. I recognized her as one of the Weed Ladies—Mrs. Paltroon’s loyal troops who labored year-round to collect and preserve local plants for the sale. At least half of the plants in the tent were displayed under huge
banners that proclaimed them LOCALLY GROWN AND PRESERVED! But still not very fragrant.

  “I’m looking for Mrs. Paltroon,” I said. “Is she here?”

  The woman smiled and gestured toward the back of the tent. A stately figure was slowly making her way down the wide aisles between the flower displays. The woman who had greeted me had been dressed neatly but not extravagantly, in a plain blue gown and a lace-trimmed mob cap. Mrs. Paltroon would not have looked out of place at a court ball. When she was about six feet away from me she stopped, as if unwilling to risk closer contact, and fixed me with a gimlet eye.

  “May I help you?” From her, it sounded more like “How dare you sully the purity of our tent with your modern Halloween nonsense?”

  “Meg Langslow,” I said. “I’m in charge of the festival’s Visitor Relations and Police Liaison Patrol. I wanted to talk to you about your painting.”

  “My painting?”

  “The portrait of Habakkuk Paltroon that you loaned to Dr. Smoot for display in his museum.”

  “Yes,” she said. “That’s mine. What of it?”

  “Festival management is recommending to the owners of any valuable objects that they remove them from the museum until next week,” I said.

  “Are you saying you can’t protect my painting?” she said.

  “Protecting your painting is Dr. Smoot’s responsibility, not ours. However, festival management is concerned that, given the increased crowds visiting the Haunted House and museum this weekend, the presence of valuable objects in the museum will make it harder to maintain crowd control in that part of the festival.”

  What was it about this woman that sent me into full formal bureaucratic mode? No doubt my suspicion that she had an expensive attorney on speed dial. With almost anyone else, I’d probably just have said, “Please take your precious family heirloom painting home before some clueless tourist Magic Markers a mustache on one of your ancestors.”

  “It’s too much of a temptation,” I said. “And were you aware that Dr. Smoot has already had several break-in attempts?” I decided against mentioning the murder, since I didn’t know what information the chief had released already, and after all, it wasn’t actually at the museum.