Lord of the Wings

by Donna Andrews

  “Good thinking,” she said.

  The boys were scampering up the walkway of the first house, and Grammy and I scrambled to catch up.

  This part of the day was delightful—like having our town back again. Almost the only people we met were other parties of trick-or-treaters. The boys recognized some of them, or thought they did, and called greetings to their friends, while Michael, Grammy, and I trailed after them. And the boys had the whole routine down pat. They knew not to go up to the occasional darkened house. They smiled proudly when their costumes were praised, gave Uncle Rob’s employees due credit, and so ostentatiously took only one piece of candy that at least half of the householders urged them to take more. And they paused at the end of every block to plot their next course.

  “We should go that way.” Josh pointed to the right at one such intersection.

  “But there are lots of houses down that way.” Michael’s mother indicated the street ahead of us, which was dense with townhouses.

  “Yeah, but they’re all those stuck-together houses that never answer the doorbell on Halloween,” Josh said.

  “Or they close the door and make you wait while they find something and then all they give you is raisins,” Jamie said. “That way’s better.”

  They scurried off in the direction they preferred, and Michael steered his cart after them.

  “Mostly groups of students or young working people in the townhouses,” I explained to Grammy. “They tend to be more interested in partying on Halloween than giving out candy.”

  She nodded and hurried on after the boys. I paused long enough to make a note of our route on my map.

  And then just as I was turning the corner, I realized—we were just leaving Pruitt Street. The darkened house the boys had just passed by was Lydia’s house.

  Why was there a car in her driveway?

  Chapter 25

  I put a thick stand of bushes between me and Lydia’s house. Then I pulled out my cell phone and called Randall.

  “What kind of car does Lydia drive?”

  “Little silver compact,” he said. “Honda, I think, or maybe a Toyota. Why?”

  The car in Lydia’s driveway was a silver Honda Civic.

  “We’ve been trick-or-treating in her neighborhood,” I said. “And I noticed that there’s a car in her driveway.”

  “Wasn’t her car supposed to be down at the Richmond airport?” he asked.

  “No idea,” I said. “Would they have impounded it or just left it there and kept an eye on it?”

  “Not sure they’d have any grounds to impound, would they?”

  We both fell silent for a few moments. I didn’t know the answer. Neither did Randall, apparently.

  “Did you check to see if she’s there?” he asked.

  I glanced at the house.

  “The lights are out, so if she’s there she may not want anyone to know it,” I said. “And I’m not all that keen to knock on the door of a murder suspect. I’m hanging up and calling 911.”

  “I’ll be over with the key,” he said, just before I cut the connection.

  “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency.” Debbie Ann was more businesslike than usual. Probably due to the number of out-of-towners who might be calling these days.

  “There’s a car in Lydia Van Meter’s driveway,” I said. “At 1510 Pruitt Avenue. A silver Honda Civic. Matches what Randall can remember about her car. Which I know was found out at the Richmond airport, but I didn’t know whether it was impounded or whether maybe she could have come back and claimed it.”

  “Dispatching a deputy. Can you see the license plate?”

  “Not from where I’m standing,” I said. “Too dark. Do you want me to stroll closer so I can see it?”

  A pause.

  “Let me ask the chief.”

  As I waited, peering through the shrubbery at the car, I began to hear voices coming from down the block, where Michael and Grammy and the kids had gone.

  “Meg! Where are you?” Michael was calling.

  “Mommy?”

  “Blast,” I muttered. I didn’t really want to draw attention to where I was crouching in the shrubbery. But neither did I want Michael and the boys circling back to a house where the police might be about to confront a murderer.

  I ran a few yards down the street.

  “Coming! Just a minute!” I shouted, waving my arms.

  Then I ran back to my position in the bushes. As I did, I heard the noise of a car engine starting.

  “It’s moving,” I said into the phone.

  The car had been nose out, as if its driver had anticipated the need for a fast getaway. It darted out into the street, turned left and disappeared into the night.

  “It pulled out before I could get the license,” I said. “Heading north on Pruitt Avenue.”

  I could hear Debbie Ann relaying this over the police radio.

  “Randall’s on his way with the key to the house,” I said. “I’m trick-or-treating with the boys—I should get back before they start to worry.”

  “That’s fine,” Debbie Ann said. “You call us if you see anything else suspicious.”

  I didn’t for the rest of the trick-or-treating, but my fleeting encounter with a car that might or might not belong to a murderer cast a slight pall over my enjoyment. The boys probably wondered why I was following them up to every doorstep and studying the people who opened the doors, instead of waiting at the foot of the driveway as I had earlier in the evening.

  I was relieved when the boys finally agreed that yes, they had hit all of the really good houses, and it was time to go home. Of course, no six-year-old would ever admit that he has more than enough candy, but I could tell by their tired yet satisfied expressions that they were not unhappy with their haul.

  And thanks to my useful little map, I’d managed to steer our party in a giant circle, so we ended up only a few blocks from where we’d parked the llama trailer. Grammy and I helped Michael into the car while the boys scrambled to sit in the far back of the Twinmobile. Then I unhitched Groucho, led him into the llama trailer, and pulled the llama cart into the parking space where Randall would be picking it up later.

  “I wish you weren’t patrolling alone,” Michael said, sticking his head out of the window.

  “I’ll be careful,” I said. “And I’ll call or text you as often as I can. Don’t let them make themselves sick.”

  “Boys!” Grammy called back from her post in the driver’s seat. “Remember, we have to take the candy home for the count to see who got the most. Anything you eat on the way doesn’t count!”

  Michael and I grinned. Grammy had figured out how to slow the boys’ candy consumption—appeal to their overly developed competitive spirits. As they drove off, I could see that Josh and Jamie were both clutching their candy bags and eyeing each other with suspicion.

  I walked to my own car and set out for my evening of patrolling.

  Evening and morning, more like it, I thought with a sigh.

  I started with a long, slow crawl through the residential streets of Caerphilly. Trick-or-treating was trailing off—only a few of the older kids were still out, twelve-year-olds pretending cynicism about the whole thing but not passing up the chance—their last chance, since Caerphilly had an ordinance against trick-or-treating after the age of twelve. And maybe a few thirteen-year-olds hoping no one remembered their birthdays, or dragging along weary siblings to justify their presence on the streets—“I’m not really trick-or-treating, I’m just taking my kid brother around.”

  I spotted and reported a few pranks. A small bungalow not far from Lydia’s had been toilet papered. Three more toilet paperings in Westlake, where the great distances between the houses and between the houses and the street probably made it easier to prank unseen. On an otherwise quiet side street a scarecrow appeared to be trying to crawl out of a manhole. Another scarecrow was sitting sedately on a bench at the base of the War Memorial Cenotaph. I took pictures of them all and called
them in to Debbie Ann.

  Then I headed out to the Haunted House area—which, between the house itself, the Fun Fair, and the impending concert, was now Halloween Central. There was a line of people waiting to get into the house. More lines at all the rides and booths in the Fun Fair. And an enormous crowd of people had taken over the field across the road from the Haunted House, where a couple of the Rancid Dreads and their entourage could be seen making desultory preparations for the concert.

  The night wore on. I thought longingly of home, where Michael and his mother had probably allowed the boys to eat a small amount of their candy before tucking them into bed. Where Rose Noire was probably off in the nearby woods, performing her annual Samhain blessing ritual to dispel dark forces and call down peace and positive energy on the town. Mother had probably gone to bed and was happily dreaming of tomorrow’s grand All Saints’ Day service at Trinity Episcopal. Last time I checked on him, Dad was snoozing in his tent, though that would probably end when the Dreads began playing—or sooner, if anyone needed his medical services. Michael was home and fretting. I tried to text him every fifteen or twenty minutes to help ease his anxiety. “All fine,” I texted more than once.

  Because it really was. Not a quiet evening, of course, particularly not after ten, when the Dreads began their concert. And it wasn’t free from incident. A few more pranks happened, and the chief rounded up yet another suspected scavenger hunt player. But things really were running smoothly. Out at Ragnar’s mansion, the Vampire Ball was going splendidly, and the deputies watching had spotted no departures—only a continuing trickle of arrivals. Almost no one was left in the town itself. The crowds milled happily between the Fun Fair and the concert field. Some of them were surreptitiously sipping from bottles and cans concealed under their costumes, but after much discussion, Randall and the chief had agreed that the deputies would turn a blind eye on this as long as those involved were discreet and didn’t become rowdy. As if by osmosis, the revelers had figured this out, and were policing themselves far more effectively than the chief could have ever managed with his limited number of officers—even with help from the Goblin Patrol.

  I amused myself with thinking of things we could have done better. Things we could do better if we decided to hold the festival again. Some of them new ideas, others things I had suggested, in vain, to Lydia. Not that I’d have much luck getting Lydia to consider any of them, but then I suspected Lydia wouldn’t be in charge if we had another festival.

  I checked in from time to time at the zoo, where Caroline was standing vigil.

  “We’ve seen a few prowlers,” she reported. “But so far, our patrols have kept them away. I expect they’ll get more desperate as their midnight deadline approaches, and maybe we’ll catch a few.”

  Things weren’t as quiet at the Haunted House. I was on my way back from a trip to the zoo when Ms. Ellie called me.

  “Meg? You anywhere nearby? Something weird’s going on here.”

  I pulled to a stop in front of the Haunted House and shoved my way through the crowds to the door.

  “Out back,” Judge Jane murmured to me. “Someone’s trying to get over the fence. Debbie Ann’s sending a deputy.”

  She unlocked a door that led to the kitchen—which was not on display yet, being at the moment a highly utilitarian vintage 1950s kitchen full of stark white metal cabinets. We peered out the back door.

  Something was flapping at the top of one section of chain-link fence in the back left corner—the section that, thanks to the overhanging branches of two enormous oaks and an impressively large weeping willow, was least visible either from the house or anywhere else. I opened the door and stepped out onto the concrete back stoop.

  At first I thought it was merely someone’s cloak that had blown away and snagged on the fence. Then I realized that there was a human figure beneath the cloak.

  “Call the deputy,” I said. “We have a trespasser.”

  “We already did,” Judge Jane said. “I thought I told you that.”

  “I wanted to make sure our intruder knew,” I said in an undertone.

  I decided to get closer to keep an eye on the trespasser. I made my way carefully down the back steps and strolled across the yard. Which was empty, thanks to Randall’s extra fences. As I drew closer, the trespasser struggled more and more wildly.

  “Give up,” I called out. “You’re well and truly stuck, and the deputy’s already on his way here. If you promise to go quietly, we can probably find a ladder to get you down before you lacerate yourself too badly.”

  The figure grew limp.

  “Oh, bother,” it said. She said, actually, and her voice sounded familiar.

  “Hello?” I said. “Is that—”

  “Hi, Meg. It’s me, Becky Griswald. Yes, you’ve caught me. It was a pretty stupid idea to begin with.”

  Just then Deputy Sammy Wendell arrived, and for the next few minutes we had to focus all our attention on the difficult task of extricating Mrs. Griswald from the barbed wire and helping her climb down the chain-link. Irritatingly, although no one appeared to have noticed her climbing up, a large crowd eventually gathered around outside the fence to watch the rescue operation.

  “Thank goodness,” she said when her feet were finally on solid ground again. “I’m getting too old for acrobatics.”

  We led her into the kitchen and let her sit down on the least rickety of Dr. Smoot’s vintage aluminum kitchen chairs. Judge Jane handed her a glass of water and then went back to the public part of the house to help Ms. Ellie deal with the tourists.

  “You want to give me a reason not to take you down to the station and charge you with trespassing?” Deputy Sammy asked.

  Mrs. Griswald shook her head.

  “Just why were you trespassing?” I asked.

  She set her jaw as if prepared to resist thumbscrews or Chinese water torture. Then her face fell.

  “If you must know, I was going to try to steal the brooch back.”

  “The cat brooch?” I asked.

  “But that isn’t even—” Sammy began.

  “But it’s your brooch,” I broke in, shooting Sammy a look to stop him from mentioning that the brooch, along with most of the rest of the smaller museum exhibits, was locked in the police department’s evidence room. “Why not just ask for it back?”

  “Because if the museum gives it back, Harris will just take it and lock it up in the bank again,” she said. “It’s my brooch, and I want it.”

  “I thought you hated it,” I said.

  “I do,” she said. “But it’s worth a lot of money. I want it so I can sell it. I’ve decided to dump Harris and make a new start in life, and that brooch is how I’m going to do it.”

  “Was that why you broke in Thursday night?” Sammy asked.

  “That wasn’t me,” she said. “I wouldn’t have hurt Dr. Smoot, much less killed that poor tourist. But it did give me the idea, you know. I figured if someone was going to steal my brooch, it might as well be me.”

  Sammy and I looked at each other. I suspected he was thinking much the same thing I was. Mrs. Griswald seemed harmless enough. But if she was that desperate to dump her husband, and thought the only way she could do it was to get her hands on that ugly half-million-dollar brooch …

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to take you down to the station,” Sammy said.

  He pulled out his radio and exchanged a few words with the chief. Then he helped Mrs. Griswald up. I was a little worried about her—she was limping rather badly.

  Sammy saw my face and looked faintly guilty.

  “We can call your Dad to check her out once we get her down to the station,” he said.

  I followed him out the door and watched from just inside the front gate as he led her down to the police cruiser. Just as he was about to guide her into the backseat, his shoulder radio crackled again.

  “Wendell here,” he answered. “What’s—ow!”

  Mrs. Griswald kicked him in the shin and ran away w
ith no trace of a limp, disappearing into the crowd almost immediately.

  Sammy tried to give chase, but she was wearing a black cape, and at least three-fourths of the crowd swirling around his cruiser wore all or mostly black. And the few who weren’t oblivious to his predicament—or pretending to be so—seemed to be taking Mrs. Griswald’s side, smirking at his discomfiture and clumsily stumbling into his path.

  I pushed my way over to his car.

  “The chief will kill me,” he said.

  “Have him put out a BOLO on her,” I said. “Five foot four, wearing a black cape and possibly a Darth Vader helmet. And I’ll notify the Goblins.”

  And just as I was composing my alert to the Goblins, the chief called me.

  “I gather you’re going to have your volunteers look for Mrs. Griswald,” he said. “Please make it absolutely clear that if they locate her they are to report her whereabouts—not attempt to detain or apprehend her.”

  “Understood,” I said.

  “And could you also ask them to be on the lookout for Ms. Van Meter?”

  “So that was her car in the driveway?”

  “No, her car is still in the long-term parking lot at the Richmond airport,” he said. “Under observation. But if she’s up to something, maybe she wouldn’t use her own car. And although Mrs. Griswald just shot to the top of my suspect list, Ms. Van Meter is still very much on it. So, same instructions as for Mrs. Griswald: If you or any of your volunteers spot either of them, call it in immediately and give them a very wide berth.”

  “Roger.”

  I finished my message and sent it out, then pushed my way back to the front door. Ms. Ellie was shepherding out the last tourists.

  “No, I’m sorry,” Ms. Ellie was telling several who were trying to push in. “We’re closed.” She was having to shout to be heard over the Rancid Dreads.

  Judge Jane stormed out of the door holding a hand-lettered sign that said CLOSED. GO AWAY. She held it up and turned slowly so everyone could see it. Then she slapped it against the front door and attached it with a small strip of duct tape.