“Then they’re not very likely to have been up here in the middle of the night committing or witnessing vandalism and murder. And I’m not just taking that for granted; I’ve checked with the owners of all the bed-and-breakfasts in town and your off-campus students seem to be reasonably well alibied.” The chief glanced at her phone and stood up. “I should go. Some of my borrowed officers are arriving.”
She strode out. Cordelia and I looked at each other.
“The woman who’s having the affair,” she asked. “Do you know her by sight?”
“Jenni something-or-other,” I said. “No, but I’ll get Rose Noire to point her out to us. She’s in the herb class.”
“Good. Let’s plan to keep an eye on her when the chief’s speaking. See who she’s sitting with.”
“And who she sneaks glances at.” I nodded. “Good idea. It’s probably going to be someone who was here last week as well as this.”
“That should narrow it down.” Cordelia nodded, and glanced at her desk, where she kept a student roster handy. I suspected she’d be doing some preliminary research on candidates for Jenni’s boyfriend.
“And now I’ve got to run to class.” I stood up, leaving her with her roster.
It was a relief to bury myself in the increasingly familiar routine of class. My students weren’t quite as focused as last week’s class had been by this time in the week, but they were still here, and they were trying. If we didn’t manage to get the murders out of our minds for the whole four-hour session, at least we managed it for long stretches of time. I’d settle for that.
Class ended, finally. My students put away their tools and projects and trooped off to dinner, chattering with something more like normal good cheer. I recognized the feeling in myself—relief that we’d gotten through the day without further incidents.
Which was ridiculous if you stopped to think about it, since none of the incidents had happened during the day—not even, as far as we could tell, the acts of vandalism. It was the nighttime ahead we had to worry about.
“Let’s hope none of them do stop to think about it,” I told myself. And they probably wouldn’t—at least not now, with Marty’s dinner and several hours of rest and relaxation ahead of them.
When I’d finished tidying up the studio, I sat down to check my phone for texts, voice mails, and e-mails. Nothing important came up except for an e-mail from Rob.
“My guys will be there first thing in the morning,” he said. “I was going to send them up tonight, but it would be bedtime by the time they got there, and Granny Cordelia says there aren’t any spare rooms, so we rounded up a camper. It’s all loaded and they’re excited about having a paid camping trip. I’m assuming even if you’ve solved the murder by the time they get there, you’ll still need the shortwave and the security system for next time.”
“Next time,” I echoed. “Let’s hope there is no next time. One set of murders at Biscuit Mountain is more than enough.”
But yes, the need for having a way to communicate with the bus wouldn’t go away, and maybe if Cordelia had taken Rob’s suggestion and installed a security system before the center opened we wouldn’t have had any murders to begin with.
“Water under the bridge,” I muttered as I stuck my phone back in my pocket and walked over to check that all my windows were secure.
I ran into Amanda and Valerian in the hallway.
“Everything locked up tight,” Amanda reported.
“She probably wants to see for herself,” Valerian added.
“No, since it’s your studio that will suffer if you weren’t careful, I’ll trust you.”
“Could be useless if whoever’s doing all this has stolen a key.” Evidently Valerian was a bit of an Eeyore. He shook his head lugubriously as he ambled down the hall.
“I prefer to think positively,” Amanda said over her shoulder, as she strode off in the same direction as Valerian. “With all these police around, who’d be crazy enough to vandalize anything?”
“Hope for the best, expect the worst.” I went in the other direction to check on the rest of the studios.
When I’d finished my inspection and entered the great room, I spotted a bunch of people clustered around the message board. Last week the board had seen heavy traffic on Sunday and Monday, as people tried to figure out where everything was and how everything worked, but it was Wednesday now. By Wednesday of last week the board had been pretty much ignored.
I worked my way close enough to see what the fuss was all about.
Smack in the middle of the board was a notice written in Cordelia’s distinctive printing, so elegant it could almost be classified as calligraphy.
WEDNESDAY EVENING SCHEDULE
6:45 P.M. Children’s movie: STAR WARS: A NEW HOPE THEATER
Babysitting provided.
8 P.M. Security briefing by Sgt. Abel Hampton of the Virginia State Police
Great room
All adult residents requested to attend.
10 P.M. Smudging ceremony
Assemble on the front porch
Wear good walking shoes.
“I call that a step in the right direction,” one woman said to her companions—students from Peggy’s jewelry-making class I suspected, since they were all heavily festooned with necklaces, bracelets, earrings, and anklets. The others tinkled and jingled as they nodded in agreement—though I couldn’t tell whether they were approving the arrival of the State Police or Rose Noire finally going through with her oft-uttered threats to perform a cleansing at the center.
Possibly both.
“Meg! There you are!” I turned to see Cordelia approaching. With the odious Mrs. Venable in her wake. I braced myself. Cordelia gestured, and I followed them out onto the porch.
“So sorry, Mrs. Venable,” Cordelia was saying. “I just need to get Meg to take care of something for me, and then I’m all yours. Meg, dear,” she went on. “It’s about your grandfather.”
“What now?”
“Play along,” she breathed almost inaudibly. And then, in a low voice that Mrs. Venable could still easily hear, she went on. “He’s offering to give up his room to one of the visiting police officers.”
“That was nice of him.” Was she making this up, for some reason? I couldn’t imagine Grandfather volunteering to give up his comfortable room. “But where’s he planning to sleep?”
“In one of the bed-and-breakfasts. Specifically, in the bed-and-breakfast I’ve set up in my house. And quite apart from the fact that I prefer to have my instructors staying on site, I don’t want that man to have free range of my house. He’s up to something.”
Actually, she was the one up to something. And I had an idea what.
“He probably thinks he can find the you-know-whats there,” I said.
“At my house?”
“In the fields behind your house. Didn’t you hear? They sent a little side expedition down there sometime today, and saw some promising signs.”
“Blast the man.” Her tone was stern, but her lips were twitching in the effort to fight a smile. Or maybe a giggle. “You need to talk him out of it. He can lurk in the gazebo if he likes, or catch pneumonia crouching in the woods, but I’m not letting him sleep there. I don’t care how many rare critters he’s looking for.”
“Mrs. Mason?” Mrs. Venable stepped closer, with an unctuous smile. “Perhaps I could help.”
Cordelia and I both managed expressions of polite surprise as we turned toward her.
“I understand you’re looking for a few people to give up their rooms for the visiting police officers. If there really is a room available at your bed-and-breakfast, I’d be happy to make the sacrifice.”
“I hate to ask something like that,” Cordelia began.
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Venable said. “Not a problem. It’s so much more important to have the police and staff and instructors staying on site, and I have to admit that I’ve been a bit nervous about—well, you know. When can I make the move?”
>
“If you like, I can have a staff member pack your things while you’re having dinner,” Cordelia said. “And then Meg can drive you down at bedtime.”
“Perfect!” she said. “I’ll let you have my room key.”
She handed it to Cordelia and sailed off, looking smug.
“I can’t believe it,” I said. “Surely before long she’ll come to her senses and realize how unlikely it is that she’ll find the seagulls down at your house.”
“According to Caroline she’s not really a very knowledgeable birder. And by the time she figures out there aren’t any gulls down there, we’ll have Sergeant Hampton installed in her former room, so she’ll just have to like it or lump it.”
“So am I also the staff member who gets to pack her up? Because the only other staff we have around at the moment are the kitchen guys, and they’re pretty swamped.”
“I’ll pack her up.” She tucked the key in her pocket. “It will give me a chance to snoop in her things.”
“If she had anything incriminating in her room, she’d want to pack it herself,” I pointed out.
“True,” Cordelia said. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t learn anything of interest. You go have your dinner while I snoop. And don’t tell your grandfather about all this.”
“Why not?” I said. “He would appreciate your contribution to Operation Gull Quest. It might almost make up for not letting him strew his garbage around.”
“I’m not doing this for him.” She frowned as if resenting the accusation. “I’m doing it for the gulls. They deserve to be found by a responsible scientist, not some publicity-crazy loon.”
She stormed off.
“But maybe just a little bit for him,” I murmured.
I joined Michael’s class for dinner. It helped my mood to sit in the midst of the happy chaos of two dozen children who’d spent the day having fun and were looking forward to yet another movie night, followed by s’mores and camping.
“I’m going to get the kids settled in for the movie,” Michael told me in a low tone. “And then I’ll leave Eric and the other counselors in charge so I can come back to hear what Sergeant Hampton has to say. And the chief’s leaving a couple of her officers there at the theater, just in case.”
“Good,” I said. “And check the movie before you leave. Remember the lingerie, and the George Carlin routine? Make sure the vandal hasn’t switched out Star Wars with Deep Throat.”
“Will do.”
When Michael and the counselors took off to escort the kids to the movie, I looked around to find Amanda. She was sitting at the end of a table with Rose Noire, Peggy, Gillian, and a posse of Rose Noire’s herb class students. I slipped into an empty chair beside Amanda.
“So, have they converted you to vegetarianism?” I asked—but softly enough that the others wouldn’t hear.
“Luckily they’ve been too busy discussing the smudging ceremony.” Amanda kept her tone low, too. “Much debate over whether they should just use sage or whether they should add other protective or creativity-boosting herbs to the mix, and figuring how long it’s going to take to march around the house.”
The smudging posse appeared to finish their discussions—they all rose and scattered in several directions—to gather ingredients, no doubt.
“I do hope no one’s allergic to whatever they end up burning,” I fretted. “And frankly, I used to love the smell of sage, but lately Rose Noire’s been so enthusiastic about her smudgings every time something untoward happens that a mere whiff of it makes me start to expect dire tidings.”
“You can borrow my tub and take a long, hot bath in some other kind of smell,” Amanda offered. “I’ve been trading dishcloths and potholders to the herb students, and I think by now I’ve got a lifetime supply of nice smells.”
“I wouldn’t want to kick you out of your room.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I intend to be standing on the terrace with one of Dante’s limoncellos, watching the smudgers march by.”
“Watching them march by?”
“When they circumnavigate the house. Apparently you get the best results if you march all around the outside of the house. Sunwise, whatever that is.”
“They mean clockwise, and they’ve got to be kidding,” I said. “Marching along the front of the house, maybe, but the ground drops off pretty steeply along the left side, and a mountain goat would have trouble marching along the back of the house. One false step and they’ll slide all the way down to Biscuit Creek.”
“That’s kind of what I figured,” Amanda said. “Should be quite a show.”
“I’ll talk to Cordelia. And Chief Heedles. Surely we can come up with some way to confine the smudging to the terrace.”
“Oh, you’re no fun.” Amanda cuffed me lightly on the shoulder. “Seriously, I’m not sure I believe in this smudging thing, but it seems to make a lot of them feel better. Gives them something positive to focus on. We don’t want people panicking and deciding that maybe learning how to weave a dish towel or tell St. John’s wort from poison ivy isn’t worth risking their lives for.”
“Or their children’s lives, for those who brought them,” I said. “So far I haven’t heard that anyone’s dashed up here to yank their kids out of Michael’s class, which surprises the heck out of me. I mean, I’m wondering myself whether it’s wise to keep the boys here, even though I know that we’ve got enough family here to make sure they’re never left unguarded.”
“Family and friends.” She put her hand on my shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Over my dead body will anyone hurt Josh and Jamie. Or any of the other kids.”
“Thanks,” I said. “That makes me feel better. Although I confess, I’m also eager to see the arrival of reinforcements for Chief Heedles. She’s a good police chief, but it’s a small town, and she doesn’t have a lot of resources.”
“Can’t she call on the sheriff of whatever county we’re in?”
“Not if she wants to keep her job in the long run,” I said. “From what Cordelia’s told me, there’s no love lost between the town and the county. The county wants to take over and run things, and the town has always dug in their heels and refused. So turning to the county for help would be like admitting they can’t handle their own business. Especially for a crime here on Biscuit Mountain—which, thanks to a bit of gerrymandering by Cordelia’s family, is a long, skinny bit of town sticking way far out into the county. Kind of like an upraised middle finger if you look at a map of the town boundaries, and that’s certainly how the county sees it.”
“How long’s that been going on?” Amanda asked.
“Since the Civil War. The town was pro-Union, the county pro-Confederacy, and there’s some people still trying to fight that battle. So Chief Heedles will bring in the State Police, and even the FBI if she can get their attention, but I think she’d almost rather let the murderer walk than call in the county.”
“Well, the State Police and the FBI are probably a lot more help than some hick sheriff’s department anyway. And unless I miss my guess, here comes the cavalry now.” Amanda pointed to the door, where Cordelia was standing next to a uniformed state trooper—presumably the promised Sergeant Abel Hampton. “Nice addition to the scenery if you ask me.”
Chapter 21
Sergeant Hampton was tall, held himself ramrod straight, and sported the sort of serious high and tight haircut that made me wonder if he’d served in the Marines before becoming a state trooper. And from the way he was looking around at the denizens of Biscuit Mountain—not so much wild-eyed as wary and disbelieving—I suspected no one had told him much about the location of the crime scene he was coming to help out with.
I hoped he had a good sense of humor.
“I’m going to get that limoncello before he starts,” Amanda said.
“Before you go—can you point out the herb class student who’s supposedly sneaking out to meet someone at night?”
“Jenni Santo. Over there.” Amanda pointed to a gro
up of women who were making a second pass through the dessert line. “With the frizzy hair.” I studied Jenni, who turned out to be a petite, slightly plump, thirtyish woman with loosely permed brown hair. Far from unattractive, but probably not someone Edward Prine would have been trying to talk into posing.
“Lives in a small town called Crozet,” Amanda went on. “And does some kind of office work.”
“Crozet?” I frowned at the name. “That’s suspicious.”
“How come?”
“It’s near Charlottesville. Jazz Hands is in Charlottesville.”
“We’ll keep an eye on her, then. And on whoever she’s sneaking out to meet, once we figure out who he is.” She stood, picked up her tray, and carried it over to the service hatch.
I followed her example, though I wasn’t going in search of Dante’s limoncello. I wanted to make sure I got a good place in the great room—a place where I could watch everyone to see their reactions while Sergeant Hampton spoke.
In the great room, my nephew Eric had dragged out the podium we used for formal meetings and was fiddling with the microphone and speakers, while two young men I recognized as the kitchen staff were hurriedly setting up rows of folding chairs facing it. Marty was standing near the head of the room, arms folded, watching. Was he here early for the meeting? Or was he sulking because we’d dragged his staff away from their usual post-dinner cleanup to do the chairs?
As if to answer my question, he sat down in one of the armchairs along the side of the room and proceeded either to fall asleep sitting up or do a very good imitation of it. After all, I reminded myself, he was up before dawn every day, and while Cordelia would have no problem if he had gone off duty as soon as dinner was over, he seemed to prefer staying around until the kitchen was spotless and ready for the next morning’s breakfast. Which would happen later than usual tonight, thanks to the meeting setup. From the location of the armchair he’d chosen, it looked as if he was not only planning to stay for the meeting but wanted to gauge the audience reaction—it was not far from the podium and would give a great view of the whole room.
Gone Gull Page 17