After trailing along behind them for a few minutes, I decided I could stop worrying—luckily, since it was getting close to the time when I should start my afternoon class. So when Cordelia and the techs left the terrace, I stayed behind, perching on the railing and letting the view soothe my jangled nerves. And doing a little more of Rose Noire’s deep breathing. Somehow it seemed a lot more useful out here in the mountains, with the fresh air and the smell of pine and spruce.
I was slightly annoyed when my phone rang, interrupting my efforts to regain serenity. I glanced down to see who was calling. Cousin Mary Margaret. I hurried to answer.
“Anything wrong?” I asked.
“Not a thing.” She sounded cheerful, so I relaxed. “Just wanted to let y’all know what’s up with Mrs. Venable, in case you were worried that she hadn’t shown up for her class this morning.”
“Actually, we hadn’t noticed,” I said. “I trust she’s making good use of her time.”
“Been prowling all over the woods behind your grandmother’s house,” Mary Margaret said. “In addition to stomping around at midnight with their flashlights, I had the kids we hired drop a clue back in the woods.”
“What kind of clue?”
“An old pith helmet your grandfather left behind when he was here last summer. Soon as she found that, she was off into the woods like a hound who’s caught the scent of a rabbit.”
“Good job,” I said.
“Of course, she could be in for a nasty surprise later today,” Mary Margaret went on. “I had them leave the pith helmet in the middle of a big stand of poison ivy. I’ll keep you posted.”
Mary Margaret’s call left me feeling more cheerful. I went back to my breathing in a more cheerful mood.
My phone rang again. I glanced at the caller ID—my nephew Kevin. Okay, maybe another useful, rather than annoying, call. I answered the phone, heading for a quieter part of the terrace as I did so.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“I’m still working on those million-and-a-half names you gave me. The students and the faculty and the staff and the Jazz Hands people and the Dock Street people. And remember Smith Enterprises, that developer that’s been annoying Great-Gran? Him too. Looking for connections.”
“If you’re angling for more brownie points, you’re going about it the right way. I know I gave you a completely unreasonable number of names. Have you found anything else interesting about any of them?” Sensing—or at least hoping—that the answer would be a long one, I made myself comfortable in one of the Adirondack chairs at the far end of the terrace.
“Well, I’m not sure if it’s useful, but I found it pretty interesting that the guy who owns Smith Enterprises isn’t really named Smith.”
“He’s not?”
“No. His real name’s Rahn. Charles Rahn.”
“Then why is his company called Smith Enterprises? You’d think he’d want to use his own name—it’s much more distinctive. Did he buy it from the original owner?”
“No, he is the original owner, and he didn’t want distinctive. Not all that many Rahns out there, so if you Google it you’re probably going to find him. But using Smith makes it a lot harder to figure out what he’s really up to, because it’s so hard to separate his outfit from the dozens of other Smith businesses, nearly all of them completely legit and respectable.”
“That sounds like the kind of sneaky thing he’d do. Anything else?”
“Dunno,” he said. “Is it interesting that Jazz Hands and Smith Enterprises both use the same lawyer?”
Interesting? Yes, though downright implausible. From what I remembered of Cordelia’s recent jousts with the developer’s counsel, he was with a white-shoe law firm with offices on K Street in D.C. and in the Fan District of Richmond—what our savvy attorney cousin, Festus Hollingsworth, who was representing Cordelia, called a worthy opponent. By contrast, E. Willis Jasperson, Esq., the Jazz Hands attorney, seemed to be a one-man show who, according to Festus, would have to step up his game considerably to be considered a bottom feeder.
“It could be interesting,” I said aloud. “Tell me more. Are we talking about E. Willis Jasperson?”
“That’s him. Great-Gran had me do a search on him after he sent her that cease-and-desist letter.”
“Just mentioning his name makes me grind my teeth,” I said. “Are you telling me he also represents that wretched developer?”
“Not usually. Usually Smith Enterprises uses some fancy outfit out of Richmond. But for some reason they hired Jasperson for something they were doing in Charlottesville two years ago.”
“It’s called hiring local counsel,” I said. “There are reasons for doing it. For example, if they had some kind of court appearance that was required, but really quick and simple, they might hire someone on the spot instead of sending one of their highly paid attorneys to do it.”
“Or maybe they hire someone like Jasperson for the kind of job the fancy lawyers don’t want to get their hands dirty with,” Kevin suggested.
“I see someone else has been talking with Cousin Festus.”
“Yeah. He thought it was a kind of weird coincidence, too.”
“Did he sound worried?”
“Not really. He still seems to think old E. Willis will run away with his tail between his legs if it comes down to a court battle between the two of them. But he thought it was interesting. He’s going to look into it.”
“Good.”
“And I will, too.” His voice was less blasé than usual—clearly the thrill of the chase had gotten to him. “Keep you posted.”
With that he hung up.
Interesting. I could imagine how Festus would say it, packing several volumes of meaning to those four syllables. Depending on the tone, interesting could mean almost anything. I had a feeling in this case it meant highly suspicious and well worth investigating.
Since the vandalism had started, Cordelia and I had more than once debated whether Jazz Hands was behind it or whether it was Smith Enterprises’ latest tactic for pushing Cordelia into selling Biscuit Mountain to them. We generally leaned toward blaming Jazz Hands, because it all seemed so petty—and the developer, while sleazy and unscrupulous, usually didn’t stoop to petty.
But what if it wasn’t Jazz Hands or Smith? What if all along it had been Jazz Hands and Smith? Maybe Smith Enterprises had done some opposition research on Cordelia, found out about the Jazz Hands vendetta against her, and decided to join forces and help them out. What if Jazz Hands, though annoyed by Biscuit Mountain, had only launched its legal campaign—and possibly the vandalism—at the developer’s encouragement?
I made a mental note to tell Cordelia—and the chief.
But after class. I put my phone away and hurried inside.
As I passed through the great room, I could see and overhear that a giant game of musical rooms was taking place, as Cordelia tried to find space for the latest contingent of visiting law enforcement personnel. I went off to teach my class feeling mutinous about the fact that I’d probably be rolling out my sleeping bag on the floor of the room Mother was sharing with Cordelia, the room Amanda was sharing with Peggy, or the room Lesley Keech was sharing with a lanky woman deputy from Goochland County. The happiest people at the center were the ones already ensconced in what Cordelia called the “efficiency singles,” rooms so tiny that they were barely large enough for a twin bed and a luggage stand. No one was asking the occupants of the efficiency singles to take in new arrivals. Not yet, anyway. Maybe sleeping in the tent wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
But no. Not by myself. And I realized I wouldn’t have to. There was still the caravan. The boys wouldn’t be using it, and I had the key. I could lock myself inside and sleep as snugly and safely as anyone—and a great deal more comfortably than some of the people in tents, since we were expecting thunderstorms overnight.
And for an added benefit, the caravan was in a secluded location, yet commanded a view of both the front porch and the studi
o side exit door. If anything happened in the night, prowling around the grounds probably wouldn’t be a good idea with so many unfamiliar law enforcement officers patrolling the area. For that matter, it probably hadn’t been such a great idea before, when whoever killed Prine and Victor was loose in the house. But if anything happened in the night, the caravan would give me a good observation post.
I dashed into my class in a much better mood.
The afternoon crawled by. Since my studio was on the front side of the building, the enormous windows let me follow at least some of what was happening elsewhere in the center as I roved up and down the studio, checking on what my students were doing at their forges and anvils.
The occasional police officer from some other jurisdiction would arrive. At one point, a Riverton police car drove up in front of the main entrance. Officer Keech emerged, went inside, and came out again, accompanied by Horace and Chief Heedles. All three were carrying cardboard boxes. They loaded the boxes in the backseat, and Officer Keech took off. More evidence on its way to the crime lab in Richmond, no doubt.
The Slacker had given up any pretense of attending whatever class he was supposed to be registered for and sat all afternoon in one of the Adirondack chairs on the front porch, sipping a tall glass of lemonade and watching everything that went on with unabashed fascination.
Rob’s tech guys occasionally dashed by laden with tools and electronic equipment, or clumped together on the lawn and held animated discussions with a great deal of pointing and arm waving.
Stanley Denton arrived in his nondescript sedan, and was greeted by Cordelia with the hugs appropriate to his role as another of our cousins.
Frankie led her class outside again to paint en plein air for the afternoon. She’d also procured a sheep from who knows where, and tethered him on the grassy lawn. Some of the class were painting the sheep while others were immortalizing the main building—with or without the Slacker in his Adirondack chair, depending on their taste. I couldn’t hear what Frankie was saying as she darted from student to student, but I could pretty well guess her advice from her gestures—she was imploring most of them to go bigger, bolder, and stop shying away from color. The students all looked happy and intent, which was certainly a change from what they’d looked like the few times I’d peered into Edward Prine’s studio. I found myself wondering if the chief had considered the possibility of Prine’s students banding together and assassinating him in the hope of getting a better teacher for the rest of the week.
The afternoon classes finally ended, though it was a while before my students could tear themselves away from their projects and their conversations. Their mood, like that of the painters, seemed to have rebounded during the class. Worrying about the investigation had eaten away at my mood, so mine was the only glum face.
Most of Biscuit Mountain’s inhabitants seemed reassured by the police presence—that and the fact that we’d survived Wednesday night and Thursday morning with no new murders and no new acts of vandalism. But most of the inhabitants hadn’t seen the threatening note Cordelia had found on her desk.
When I’d finished checking that the upstairs studios were securely locked up, I went downstairs and found a congenial cadre of glum faces in Cordelia’s office. Cordelia, Chief Heedles, and Stanley Denton, the private investigator, were sitting in a circle around the desk. The phone was on speaker, and it only took me a few words to recognize the voice coming over it—Cousin Festus, the attorney.
“Festus, Meg just walked in,” Cordelia said. “Meg, we’re discussing how to get hold of some phone and e-mail records to figure out who’s causing our problems.”
“Whose phone and e-mail records?” I took a seat on the edge of a two-drawer file cabinet.
“Jazz Hands, for starters,” the chief said. “We already know they were in touch with Mr. Prine—but not who else they might have been in contact with.”
“Can you do that?” Cordelia asked.
“Shouldn’t be too much of a stretch, given the fact that they were chatting back and forth with my murder victim. I should have no trouble selling that to Judge Klein.”
“But Smith Enterprises is a whole ’nother can of worms,” Festus said. “The information young Kevin has gathered is highly interesting. But however suggestive we may find it that both Smith and Jazz Hands have chosen to retain the odious Mr. Jasperson, I doubt if the most lenient judge on earth would consider it sufficient probable cause to issue a search warrant.”
“Well, let’s start with Jazz Hands, then,” the chief said. “And see where that takes us. With any luck we’ll find a smoking gun in their e-mails or phone records. Any chance you can help me draft this thing? Our town attorney’s off taking her mother to a medical appointment in Richmond.”
“You can use my computer.” Cordelia stood up to give the chief her seat.
Festus and the chief plunged immediately into a discussion of the optimal wording for the search warrant. Cordelia leaned against the wall, fascinated.
I left them to it. I wanted to see my boys before they headed off into the wilderness.
The boys were so excited about the upcoming camping trip that they couldn’t sit still long enough to eat.
“Don’t worry,” Michael said. “I’ve packed doggie bags. They won’t starve.”
I managed to finish my own dinner and then left Michael to wrangle the boys while I went and packed backpacks for the three of them with what they’d need for their overnight stay. By the time I finished, Lance’s Land Rover and Grandfather’s Jeep were standing in front of the main entrance, with the boys hopping into first one vehicle, then the other while the grown-ups loaded their backpacks and other gear.
A troubling thought hit me, and I pulled Jason aside.
“Call me paranoid,” I said. “But your vehicle has been here all afternoon, and Grandfather’s Jeep has been around for days. What if whoever threatened the boys has had a chance to put some kind of GPS device on one or the other or both?”
“You’re not paranoid,” he said. “Or if you are, welcome to the club. As soon as we get a mile or so away, we’re going to stop and scan both vehicles for unwanted devices.”
“I should have known you’d already thought of that.”
“And I’m very good at finding bugs and tracking devices. Among other things.” Jason’s fierce expression, half grin and half scowl, suggested that unlike me, he was rather hoping for a chance to test his mettle on this evening’s expedition.
He saw my expression and misinterpreted it slightly.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “They’ll be fine.”
As they were sorting out who went in what vehicle, Stanley Denton pulled me aside.
“I wanted to give you a heads-up about something,” he said. “Don’t turn and look if you can help it, but you know that guy who’s sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs on the front porch, sipping a lemonade? About five ten, medium brown hair cut fairly short, regular features—”
“Hang on,” I said. “Let me find an unobtrusive way of glancing over my shoulder. Let’s both look up and study the sky as if we were discussing the coming weather.”
We did so, and while we were pointing at the gathering clouds and nodding at each other, I managed to glance over my shoulder. There was only one man sitting on the front porch.
“You mean the Slacker,” I said. “So-called because he has been bouncing from class to class, never really doing much work in any of them.”
“Oh, he’s working all right,” Stanley said. “I’d call him the Snooper, not the Slacker. He’s a colleague.”
“A private investigator?”
“Yes, and odds are he’s on the job. I couldn’t find a chance to talk to him privately to find out what—I’ll work on that tomorrow.”
“The developer could have hired him,” I said. “Or Calvin Whiffletree from Jazz Hands.”
“Either is possible—or he could be on a case that has nothing to do with Biscuit Mountain. His bread an
d butter is doing workman’s comp investigations for a couple of insurance companies. And he does the odd bit of domestic work—you know, helping jealous wives and husbands find out if their spouses are straying. I hate those cases, so I’ve referred a few of them to him in the past. The point is, while he may or may not have the craft center’s best interests at heart, I don’t see him as a killer or a threat to the boys. If I were recruiting a colleague to help me on a case—well, he probably wouldn’t be at the top of my prospect list, but he’d be a long way from the bottom. He could be an ally.”
“Do you think he told the chief he’s a PI?”
“No idea.” Stanley shrugged. “Me, I would. But everyone operates differently. Maybe you should drop a word to her, just in case.”
“Yes,” I said. “That might keep him from getting shot if his case requires him to prowl around at night.”
Stanley smiled, nodded, and headed back to the camping crew.
I studied the Slacker with new suspicion. I’d have to keep my eye on him—and more to the point, figure out who he was keeping his eyes on. Maybe he was on a domestic case—working for Jenni’s husband, for example, or Valerian’s wife. And even if Jazz Hands or the developer had hired him, I couldn’t imagine what information he could possibly be gathering that would be of the slightest use to them. But still … I’d keep my eyes on him.
At the moment, he was doing nothing more suspicious than watching the members of the camping expedition pack their vehicles.
“What’s eating you?” I started slightly. I’d been studying the Slacker so intently that I hadn’t noticed Grandfather coming up behind me. And usually he was about as easy to overlook as a brass band.
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