Lord of the Wings

by Donna Andrews

  “Oh, my God! But I had nothing to do with any of that!” Either she was genuinely surprised or she was a much better actress than I’d thought. “Randall, why didn’t you tell them why I was going?”

  “I might have if you’d had the common courtesy to tell me,” Randall said.

  “I left a voice mail.” She sounded highly indignant.

  “Not on my phone,” Randall said.

  Lydia uttered the kind of sigh that suggested that she was tired of dealing with idiots. Then she looked at our stern faces and decided maybe she’d better explain.

  “My best friend from college needed me,” she said. “She was trying to throw this killer Halloween party, and her caterer folded—two days before the party. I figured since the festival was already pretty much planned, I’d fly down and help her out.”

  She sat back in her folding chair, and from the expression on her face, she clearly thought she’d explained everything quite satisfactorily.

  “You ran out on your responsibilities here to help a friend throw a party?” Randall said.

  “All the planning here was done,” Lydia said.

  “The planning may have been done,” Randall said. “But plans fall apart, and you need someone on hand to make new ones. If you’d asked me if you could go, I’d have said no. You didn’t even notify me.”

  “But I left you a voice mail,” Lydia said. “It’s not my fault you didn’t get it.”

  Randall, Vern, the chief, and I all exchanged looks.

  “Yes, it is your fault,” Randall said. “You ran out in the middle of an event for which you had major responsibilities.”

  “When you disappeared,” the chief said, “we didn’t know if you were the killer, an accomplice, or maybe another victim, so we used up a lot of valuable time and resources that could have been better spent trying to catch the real killer.”

  “You never liked me,” Lydia said, turning to me. The chief and Randall had been doing most of the talking. Why was Lydia lashing out at me? “You resent me because I took what used to be your job.”

  “Resent you?” I said. “I was thrilled to be off the hook. No, I resent you for doing such a lousy job on my old volunteer position and then expecting to be paid for it.”

  “Randall, I won’t stand for this,” she said. “I won’t be treated like … like … a kindergartener.”

  Randall had closed his eyes and was taking deep breaths. Then he opened them again.

  “Sorry, Meg,” he said. “This counting-to-ten thing may work for you, but it just gives me time to get madder. Lydia, you’re fired. I’m going to ask the chief to send a deputy to escort you while you clean out your desk, and when you get back to my Aunt Bessie’s house, you can start packing. I’ll have a moving truck waiting in the driveway, and I’ll be there to make sure none of Bessie’s antiques leave with you.”

  Lydia’s mouth fell open in astonishment, and she stared at Randall for a good thirty seconds. Then she shut her mouth firmly, stood up, and put her hands on her hips.

  “Well,” she said. “I’m not going to stay around where I’m not appreciated.”

  She flounced out, head high, as if she’d just resigned over some issue of principle instead of being fired.

  “Good riddance,” Randall muttered.

  “Amen,” the chief said. “Vern, you go do the desk cleaning detail.”

  Vern saluted and hurried after Lydia.

  “Randall,” the chief went on. “You can tell me to mind my own business if you like, but when you start hiring Lydia’s replacement, why don’t you let Meg help you interview the candidates? I think she probably has a pretty good idea what the job requires.”

  “I have an even better idea,” Randall said. “Why don’t I just hire Meg?”

  “Sounds good to me,” the chief said.

  “Me?” I squeaked.

  “You’re better at this job than anyone,” Randall said. “Nobody was badgering me to hire someone to do it because they weren’t satisfied with your work. They just thought I was exploiting you because I was dumping so much on a volunteer. So how about if I pay you for it?”

  “I’m trying to get back into my blacksmithing, now that the boys are in school,” I protested.

  “But having the boys in school doesn’t solve the whole problem, does it?” he said. “I heard you say so yourself the other day—you’re finding more time to do the iron work now, but to sell it properly you’d have to spend your weekends at craft fairs when you’d rather be spending them with your family. If you take Lydia’s job, you can make your own hours.”

  “Except when events like the festival are happening,” I pointed out.

  “Yeah, but what are the odds that anything big like this is going to happen without you volunteering for some kind of job anyway?” he said. “Heck, you put in more hours as Chief Goblin than Lydia ever did as my assistant. Isn’t it better to be the boss? And any old time you find someone you think can take your place, you just tell me and I’ll hire her.”

  I was tempted. Getting paid for doing things that I would probably end up doing anyway sounded sweet.

  “If you like, I can install a forge and an anvil in your office,” Randall said. “You can blacksmith whenever things get slow.”

  “I’m not making any decisions until I’ve talked to Michael,” I said. “And had a full night’s sleep.”

  “Let’s talk tomorrow,” Randall said. “We’ve got to start planning the Christmas festivities right away.”

  I was about to answer when I heard shouting outside. The chief got up and walked over to the window to look out.

  “I’ll let you know,” I said. “Meanwhile—”

  “Where is she?” bellowed a powerful voice.

  We turned to see Ragnar Ragnarsen bursting through the door. He raced over to stand in front of me.

  “I have found you!” Ragnar shouted. “You are my blacksmith!”

  “I am?” I wasn’t quite sure why Ragnar needed a blacksmith—though my imagination conjured up the vision of a horse large enough to carry him with ease, an enormous draft horse with shaggy fetlocks and hooves the size of hubcaps. Time to give my explanation of the difference between an ornamental blacksmith and a farrier. But then I noticed that Ragnar was holding a copy of the Vampire Colonies II poster.

  “You made this?” He was pointing to the intricate dagger with the bat-shaped hilt. “And this?” The candelabra that appeared to be made from blackened fingerbones. “And this?” The iron balcony, with its bats, gargoyles, claws, teeth, and eyes. “Rob tells me that these are not made with Photoshop but with real iron?”

  “I made all of it,” I said. “I’d be the first to admit that some of the ideas came from Rob and his art staff, but Rob wanted real ironwork for the cover, so he could hold contests to give away reproductions as part of the publicity campaign.”

  “Fantastic!” Ragnar exclaimed. “My house needs you! It needs candelabra! Chandeliers! Railings! Andirons! Sconces! I travel everywhere looking for the perfect ironwork for my house, and I find it here in Caerphilly! This is wonderful! You are my blacksmith!”

  He seized me in an embrace that would probably have broken bones if he’d tried it on a smaller, frailer person. Fortunately, being a blacksmith has toughened me up more than most people.

  “You must come to the house so we can make plans!” he said when he’d finally released me.

  “After we recover from the festival,” I said.

  “Of course, of course,” he said. “You are tired. And I still have many vampires infesting the house, recovering from the revelries of last night. But when the house is quiet again, we will begin! Please, I beg of you—do not take on any other commissions until you see my house. I think perhaps I will keep you busy for years.”

  With that he beamed at me and strode off.

  I’d heard worse offers.

  “There you are,” Randall said. “No reason why you can’t run the special events for me and still do commissions for R
agnar.”

  “I’ll talk to Michael,” I said. “Because—”

  “Meg, dear.”

  I looked up to see Mother in the doorway.

  “I came to pick you up for the All Saints’ and All Souls’ Day service at Trinity,” she said.

  “I was just going to go home and nap,” I said.

  “We’ll run you home after the service,” she said. “I think it would be nice if you were the one to read the name of that poor young man who was killed in Dr. Smoot’s museum. In addition to honoring all the saints,” she added, turning to Randall and the chief, “we also read the names of everyone who has died during the year at the service—if possible by someone who was close to them. I’d do it myself, but I think it would be so much more suitable if Meg did, since she was instrumental in solving his murder. And besides,” she added, turning back to me, “you have to come and see the boys in their saint costumes.”

  “Saint costumes?” the chief echoed.

  “It’s a new idea that dear Robyn has introduced,” Mother said. “All the children come dressed as their favorite saints.”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “I forgot all about the saint costumes for the boys.” Robyn probably wouldn’t mind if they came as a robot and a space alien, but some of the other parents would probably look down their noses at our parenting skills.

  “Don’t worry,” Mother said. “Dahlia and I took care of that while Rob’s costume experts were here. Would you like to see them?” She turned again to Randall and the chief with that question.

  “If you have time, sure,” Randall said.

  “I’d be very pleased,” the chief said.

  Mother bustled out and I held my breath. I couldn’t, offhand, think of any saint that would appeal to the boys nearly as much as space aliens and robots. I hoped they were wearing whatever their two grandmothers had devised with reasonably good grace.

  And then, to my delight, the boys raced in, looking very excited.

  “Mommy!” Josh exclaimed. “Look at my costume today!”

  “This is almost as good as the space alien,” Jamie added.

  The costumeless reality of November second was going to come as a great shock to both of them.

  “Aren’t they adorable?” Mother asked from the doorway.

  Josh was dressed as St. Sebastian, in a toga festooned with so many arrows that he’d probably have to stand during the entire service. Jamie was St. George, wearing silver lamé armor and a helmet borrowed from his role as a Roman soldier in this year’s Easter pageant. Around his shoulders curled a three-foot-long stuffed dragon made of red and gold metallic fabric.

  “Mommy, I got a hundred and ninety-one pieces of candy,” Josh said.

  “I got two hundred and thirty-three,” Jamie countered.

  “And it’s all locked up in the candy boxes ready to be doled out for good behavior,” Michael said from the doorway, where he was balanced on his crutches.

  “Mommy, this was the best Halloween ever!” Jamie exclaimed.

  “Can we do it again just like this next year?” Josh asked.

  I tried not to wince at the “just like this” part. There were many things about this Halloween that I hoped we never repeated.

  “I took a pulse check this morning,” Randall said. “So far the merchants are happy. And I don’t know about the other churches, but First Presbyterian’s going into the holiday season with our fund for relief of the poor and unfortunate fatter than it’s been for years.”

  “We Baptists are also well supplied for this winter’s good works,” the chief said.

  “Robyn is delighted with how well the food tent did,” Mother said. “The women’s shelter’s future is secure.”

  “And Ragnar’s excited about taking a bigger role in the festival next year,” Randall said. “Prepared to throw a lot of money at it. And he had a pretty good suggestion—we could have all the family friendly stuff here in town, and push the vamp and ghoul stuff out to his place. He’s got plenty of space out there.”

  “All we really need is for someone to agree to organize it all,” Mother said.

  “We’ll see,” I said. But I couldn’t help smiling as I said it.

  “Hurray!” Everyone joined in the cheers, even the boys, who probably didn’t really understand what they were cheering for.

  “But we’ll talk about that later,” I said. “After the services. And my nap, which I will be working hard to postpone until after the services are over. Let’s go.”

  I strolled over to the door and linked my arm in Michael’s—not easy to do with him on crutches, but I managed.

  “Come on boys,” Mother said. “Let’s go show off your latest costumes.”

  “See you later,” I called over my shoulder as we headed out. “And Happy Halloween.”

  About the Author

  DONNA ANDREWS has won the Agatha, Anthony, and Barry Awards, an RT Book Reviews Award for best first novel, and three Lefty and two Toby Bromberg Awards for funniest mystery. She is a member of the Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and the Private Investigators and Security Association. Andrews lives in Reston, Virginia.

  Visit her Web site at www.donnaandrews.com. You can sign up for email updates here.

  ALSO BY DONNA ANDREWS

  The Nightingale Before Christmas

  The Good, the Bad, and the Emus

  Duck the Halls

  The Hen of the Baskervilles

  Some Like it Hawk

  The Real Macaw

  Stork Raving Mad

  Swan for the Money

  Six Geese A-Slaying

  Cockatiels at Seven

  The Penguin Who Knew Too Much

  No Nest for the Wicket

  Owls Well That Ends Well

  We’ll Always Have Parrots

  Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon

  Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos

  Murder with Puffins

  Murder with Peacocks

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  About the Author

  Also by Donna Andrews

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.

  An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.

  LORD OF THE WINGS. Copyright © 2015 by Donna Andrews. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.thomasdunnebooks.com

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  Cover illustration by Maggie Parr

  eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to
MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

  The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 978-1-250-04958-2 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-1-4668-5056-9 (e-book)

  eISBN 9781466850569

  First Edition: August 2015