Lord of the Wings

by Donna Andrews

  “Rob and his employees are the experts,” I said. “But if you think I can help.”

  Just then Justin stepped into the room, followed by Festus. The chief motioned Justin to a chair in the center of the room. Festus pulled up another chair and sat at his elbow.

  “Now tell us again how you got involved in this game.” The chief sat behind his desk and fixed Justin with his sternest glance.

  Justin glanced back at Festus, who nodded.

  “This guy e-mailed me,” he said. “Didn’t give me a name—just called himself GameMaster41. And he said he’d seen my post that I was going to the Caerphilly Halloween Festival, and would I like a chance to win an advance copy of Vampire Colonies II. It’s a computer role-playing game.”

  “Published by Mutant Wizards,” I said, in case the chief hadn’t heard of it.

  “Yeah,” Justin said. “And the festival’s in Caerphilly, and Mutant Wizards is in Caerphilly, so I figured maybe it was a publicity stunt, and I said yes. And then GameMaster told me I had to sign a confidentiality agreement so if I told anyone about the game before the end or tried to get anyone to help me win, I’d forfeit the prize.”

  “Mr. Klapcroft has given us access to his e-mail.” The chief held out a sheet of paper. I took it and held it so Randall could read it, too. It was a copy of GameMaster’s original e-mail.

  “Sent, you will note, from a Yahoo account,” the chief said.

  “Rob predicted that,” I said, nodding. “Easy to set up, hard to trace.”

  “Precisely.” The chief turned back to Justin. “GameMaster said nothing about the number of players you’d be competing with, did he?”

  “Not exactly,” Justin said. “He just said it was a select group of players. I hoped that meant a small group. And he said to watch my e-mail, and he’d send me the first day’s tasks promptly at twelve oh one a.m. Wednesday morning, and if I finished them by midnight Thursday, and sent in photos to prove it, I’d get the next batch at twelve oh one Friday. I guess I’m out of the running now.” Justin glanced at the chief with a slightly resentful look. “Being in jail overnight, I missed the midnight deadline.”

  “Look on the bright side,” I said. “As far as we know, you’re the only game player who has a solid alibi for one of the murders.”

  Justin grimaced. Maybe I wouldn’t have been too thrilled either.

  “Mr. Klapcroft also has an alibi for the first murder,” Festus said.

  “An alibi we’re still checking,” the chief said.

  “I was still working at the college cafeteria at midnight,” Justin said. “I didn’t get here till nearly three a.m.”

  “By which point, according to Dr. Langslow, James Green had been dead for several hours,” Festus added.

  “Congratulations,” I said. “And if that doesn’t make you feel better, remember that all your fellow players are out there doing who knows what kind of stupid, dangerous, or unpleasant things to win a prize that doesn’t exist.”

  “You mean there isn’t a Vampire Colonies II game?” Justin looked alarmed.

  “There is,” I said. “But there’s no way in the world that Rob’s giving out an advance copy to anyone playing this scavenger hunt—it absolutely has nothing to do with Mutant Wizards.”

  “Oh. Bummer. For them, I mean. The other players.”

  “Glad you’re not out there eating more insects?” I asked.

  “The cricket wasn’t bad,” he said. “Tasted kind of … nutty.”

  An idea struck me.

  “Are you sure you’re out of the running?” I asked.

  “Pretty sure, yeah.” Justin glanced up at the large, industrial clock on the wall of the chief’s office. “’Cause it’s more than nine hours past the deadline for sending in my proof.”

  “This says ‘complete all five tasks before midnight and e-mail GameMaster the proof,’” I read. “I’d interpret that to mean that midnight’s the deadline for the tasks, not the e-mail.”

  “Of course, GameMaster may not see it that way,” the chief said. “But it’s worth trying.”

  “I thought you said there wasn’t a prize,” Justin said.

  “There is for you,” I said. “A lot of goodwill with the chief—maybe even a get-out-of-jail-free card—if you can convince GameMaster to send you today’s tasks.”

  Justin frowned for a moment as if puzzled, then his face cleared as he obviously figured it out.

  “Oh, I get it,” he said. “You want to get today’s tasks to help you catch the other players.”

  “One of whom may be a murderer,” the chief said. “Yes.”

  “But how am I going to explain not sending the picture in yesterday?” Justin asked.

  “Easy,” Festus said. “You were arrested while performing the last two tasks. You were in jail. Your lawyer didn’t arrive to bail you out until today.”

  “That’s almost completely true.” Justin sounded surprised.

  “When you tell a lie, it’s always better to wrap it in as much truth as possible,” Festus said.

  “It’s just the bail part that isn’t true.” Justin looked at the chief with a hopeful expression.

  “Provided Mr. Klapcroft can talk GameMaster into sending him today’s task list, and also provided that his alibi for the first murder checks out, we can discuss the possibility of bail,” the chief said.

  “Boy, will I be glad to get out of here,” Justin said.

  “If by get out of here you mean leave town, no way,” I said. “He has to keep playing the game, right? Otherwise GameMaster might suspect.”

  “Yes,” the chief said. “And since we have reason to suspect that GameMaster may already be responsible for at least one murder, we don’t want him to suspect Mr. Klapcroft, do we?”

  “So you want me to stay around here where someone might want to kill me?” Justin whined.

  “GameMaster will have no reason to kill you if he thinks you’re still playing the game,” the chief said. “And I’ll assign a deputy to shadow you, to ensure your safety. In fact, I think we’ll put you in protective custody, for your own safety, but I think we can find someplace a little more comfortable than the jail.”

  “And for heaven’s sake,” I added. “Don’t tell anyone you’re cooperating with the police. Not even your best friend.”

  “Meg’s right,” the chief said. “Indiscretion would jeopardize not only our operation but your life.”

  Justin looked a little scared, and glanced up at Festus.

  “A moment,” Festus said.

  He and Justin went to the far side of the room and whispered together for a few moments. Then they came back.

  “Okay,” Justin said.

  “My client agrees in principle to your proposal,” Festus said, with a repressive glance at Justin. “Let’s hammer out the specifics, shall we?”

  “Meg, can you help Mr. Klapcroft draft his e-mail to GameMaster?” the chief asked. “Something that’s in his own words as much as possible and doesn’t accidentally give anything away.”

  “Roger,” I said.

  So while the chief, the county attorney, and Festus worked out the specific terms for his eventual release, Justin and I came up with a draft message.

  “Hey, GameMaster,” it read. “Sorry I’m late sending this. Finished the tasks way before the deadline, but then I got arrested right after I finished 2 and 4—can you believe it? My lawyer didn’t get here to bail me out until today. Still got half the day left, so send me the Friday tasks, ’cause I’m determined to win!”

  The chief, the county attorney, and Festus studied it carefully.

  “Sounds good,” the chief said. “Here—turn this on.”

  He handed Justin an iPhone. With all of us looking over his shoulder, Justin entered his password, opened his e-mail, and typed in the message. He made half a dozen typos, but I figured that probably added to the authenticity. Then he held his phone up for inspection, waiting for approval.

  “Send it,” the chief said
.

  Justin obeyed.

  “Now what?” Justin asked.

  “Now we wait.” The chief held out his hand for the phone and Justin handed it over. “The next move is up to GameMaster.”

  “Do I have to go back to the cell?” Justin asked.

  Festus and the chief exchanged looks.

  “We can put you in the interview room for now.”

  “Okay,” Justin said.

  The chief called in a deputy to escort Justin back to the interview room.

  “So if he has an alibi for the first murder, why didn’t he tell you sooner?” I asked, when Justin had left the room. “And is it really solid?”

  “Your father wasn’t able to do the autopsy until yesterday afternoon,” the chief said. “That confirmed his earlier hunch that Mr. Green had been dead between ten and twelve hours by the time we found him. Mr. Klapcroft is a student at George Mason University, and has a part-time job with the campus dining services. At the time of the murder he was still at work in Northern Virginia.”

  “That must be a relief,” I said. “For him at least. Frustrating for you.”

  “I want to get that phone forensics expert to start working on this thing,” he said, looking down at Justin’s phone. “But not until—”

  The phone emitted a tiny ding.

  Chapter 18

  The chief looked down at Justin’s phone in surprise for a few moments. Then he reached down and tapped on the phone as if more than half convinced it would explode if he made a typo. Evidently he’d been paying attention when Justin had typed in his password.

  “It’s from GameMaster.” He was peering over his glasses at the phone. “‘Try to do better next time. Everyone else is getting ahead of you. Here are your Friday tasks. One: take a selfie with a bat. Two: do something amusing with fake blood. Three: put a spider on someone. Four: steal a gravestone—fake is okay. And five: toilet paper somebody’s house.’ Well, that gives us more clues to spotting the game players. Meg, I’m forwarding you a copy—can you get this out to your Goblin Patrol?”

  “Will do,” I said.

  “And have them keep looking for yesterday’s tasks,” he said. “Maybe it’s just coincidence, but I think we’ve seen some of these new pranks already. I’ll check the incident reports, but I’m pretty sure we’ve had fake gravestones stolen along with pumpkins. And a couple of reports of houses getting toilet-papered. Which means that Meg could be right about there being three groups of players, working the same tasks, but not always on the same day.”

  “Remember we found that scarecrow on the steps of the town hall yesterday morning with stage blood dripping down a dozen or more steps,” Randall said. “Damn stuff stained the marble—going to take a lot of work to get it off.”

  “And who knows,” I said. “Maybe the third list includes ‘steal something from the museum.’ Which could have been what our murder victim was doing.”

  “Or ‘set something on fire,’” Randall suggested.

  “Not something they’re going to be able to do today or tomorrow, stealing from the museum,” the chief said. “I’ve sent over a couple of deputies with our patrol wagon and orders to confiscate pretty much everything. We’ll be locking up the lot in our evidence room.”

  “Maybe we should publicize that,” Randall suggested.

  “And turn the station into another target?” the chief said. “I’d rather not. We have to keep an eye on the Haunted House anyway. Not just to keep people out of our crime scene, but if we catch anyone committing any of these pranks, we’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of getting that third list we think is out there. And now I’m going to turn over Mr. Klapcroft’s phone to your brother’s forensic computer specialist, and maybe he can start tracking down this GameMaster person. And if either of you hear from Ms. Van Meter, let me know. And don’t tip her off that we’re looking for her.”

  “Hey, one good thing,” Randall said. “I guess this means our cyber-savvy con artist wasn’t the GameMaster.”

  “Why is that good?” The chief was frowning. “If he was, maybe the confounded game would be over.”

  “Never thought of that,” Randall said. “Well, I’m going to make my rounds.”

  “I’ll send out new orders to the Goblin Patrol as soon as I get back to my computer,” I said.

  I was walking out the door when a thought struck me.

  “Chief,” I said. “Rob has had his people combing social media—Facebook, Twitter and all that—for anyone who’s talking about coming here to the festival. It’s possible they might have seen the dead guy. The latest dead guy.”

  “Good idea,” he said. “I’ll see if they can ID him. Thanks.”

  I headed down the corridor. When I reached the front desk, I found Jabba the Hutt arguing with a tall fortyish man in a suit that looked at least as nice as Festus’s. The man glanced at me as I approached the desk and then flicked his eyes back to Jabba—dismissing me, apparently, as uninteresting. I had the feeling I’d seen him before somewhere. He was almost handsome, in a gaunt, high-cheekboned way, but the most interesting thing about him was his eyes, which were so pale a gray that they seemed almost colorless.

  “How much longer are you going to keep me waiting?” the man said.

  I’d be the first to admit that I’m nosy, so I paused as if waiting my turn to talk to Jabba while I tried to figure out where I’d seen the man before.

  “The chief is in the middle of a murder investigation,” Jabba began. “I’m sure if you—”

  “Do you know who I am?” the tall man demanded.

  Jabba the Hutt had given up trying to reason with the tall man and was talking on the intercom.

  “Chief,” he said. “There’s a Mr. Brimstone here to see you.”

  “Brimfield,” the tall man snapped.

  “Brimfield,” Jabba repeated. “Something about the museum.”

  “Send him back,” came the chief’s voice, tinny over the intercom.

  “First door on the right,” Jabba said.

  I watched as Mr. Brimfield strode down the corridor and disappeared into the chief’s office. If he was Dr. Smoot’s main hope for museum funding, odds were it would be a long while before those store mannequins would be replaced by real wax figures.

  I couldn’t see Jabba’s face, and his costume didn’t let me pick up much body language, but somehow I sensed that he wasn’t entirely thrilled with Mr. Brimfield.

  “Don’t you hate people who say that?” I asked. “‘Do you know who I am?’”

  Jabba made a noise that probably would have sounded more like a raspberry if his costume hadn’t muffled it.

  “Wish I could see the chief take care of him,” he added.

  “What does he want with the chief, anyway?” I asked.

  “He seems to think poor Dr. Smoot has stolen something of his,” Jabba said.

  “Dr. Smoot?” I exclaimed. “Seems unlikely. Stolen what?”

  “Something in the museum,” Jabba said. “‘I do not care to have my family name connected with that travesty of a museum,’” he said, in what I deduced was an imitation of Mr. Brimfield’s voice. “‘And I demand the return of my family’s property.’”

  “Well, a lot of us aren’t that thrilled with the museum,” I said. “But however peculiar the results, I’m sure Dr. Smoot is trying his best to put together a proper museum, and I can’t imagine him stealing anything for it.”

  “Yeah,” Jabba said. “It’d be pretty stupid to steal something and then put it on display for the whole world to see. Well, the chief will take him down a peg. Wish I dared listen in through the intercom.”

  I smiled at the thought.

  “Especially since I know he’s going to complain to the chief about my costume,” Jabba added. “Even though I explained that I’m a civilian volunteer helping out so the police can put as many boots on the ground as possible for the festival. And that got him started ragging on the festival. He had no idea it was happening till he hit the traffi
c coming into town, and to hear him talk, you’d think we’d organized it for the sole purpose of making his life more difficult. I think he’d still be going on about that if I hadn’t finally said that no matter how silly he thought it was, the festival made the town a whole lot of money. That seemed to shut him up. Guess he’s one of those jerks who only respects the power of the almighty dollar and thinks he can get his way anytime he wants if he throws enough money around.”

  Just then the front door of the station opened and a uniformed state trooper entered.

  “Sorry to vent at you,” Jabba said quickly. “But some people just have a knack for getting under your skin, don’t they?”

  “They do indeed,” I said. “You have a good afternoon.”

  I left Jabba to see what the state trooper wanted and left the station. If I hadn’t been so exhausted I’d have been tempted to hang around to see how Mr. Brimfield looked when he’d finished his meeting with the chief. And then a sad thought struck me. Mr. Brimfield was not only unlikely to be the big donor the museum needed, he also seemed perfectly capable of harassing Dr. Smoot on his sickbed.

  As I approached my car I pulled out my phone and called Dad.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Is there someone watching Dr. Smoot constantly?” I asked.

  “Of course,” Dad said. “Medically, he’s still not out of the woods, so we have him in the ICU and heavily monitored. And I’ve asked the chief if there’s any possibility that he can spare a deputy to guard him—after all, there’s a murderer out there who could still be after Smoot.”

  “That’s good,” I said. “Tell the nurses to keep their eyes open for a guy named Brimfield, who thinks he owns something that’s in the museum and came to town for the sole purpose of badgering Dr. Smoot about it.” I described Brimfield in as much detail as possible as I opened my car and collapsed into the driver’s seat.

  “We’ll keep an eye out for him,” Dad said. “And if I catch him even trying to harass my patient … well, we’ll see about that!”

  I hung up. I felt a sudden wave of tiredness. I’d been fine when I was running on adrenaline, but now I was starting to crash, and getting a sleep-deprivation headache. I was glad that all I had to do was get home, send out my e-mail to the Goblin Patrol, and crash.