Gone Gull

by Donna Andrews

  “What’s eating me? Everything!” I shot back. And then I realized that it sounded ill-tempered and cranky. Sounded a lot like Grandfather’s usual tone, in fact. “Sorry,” I added. “The stress is not helping my temper.”

  “You know what’s bugging me?” he said. “Those cousins of yours.”

  “Lance and Jason?” My tone probably sounded cranky again.

  “They don’t seem to be taking Operation Gull Quest seriously,” he said.

  “That’s because they’re not here to help with Operation Gull Quest,” I said. “They’re here to keep your great-grandsons alive.”

  “Keep them alive?” Grandfather had a whole wardrobe of scowls. The one he was wearing right now suggested that he thought I was making a joke in very poor taste—on top of not taking his missing gulls seriously.

  So I explained, in a few blunt sentences, the real purpose behind the family camping trip.

  “In other words,” I concluded, “I frankly don’t give a damn if Lance and Jason completely ignore Operation Gull Quest. They’ve dropped everything on a moment’s notice to come up here and protect the boys. They could be putting their lives on the line. Stay out of their way.”

  Grandfather stood for a few minutes, blinking. His face had gone ashen. Maybe I’d been a little too blunt. He was, after all, in his nineties, and right now he looked every minute of his age and then some. I pulled out my cell phone in case I had to call Dad to look after him.

  “I’m an old fool sometimes,” he said finally. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “I’ve barely seen you since we found the threatening note,” I said. “Not something I could shout across the dining hall.”

  “And I’m not famous for my discretion. So what do you want me to do? Should I stay home from the camping trip?”

  I thought about it for several long moments before shaking my head and patting him on the shoulder.

  “No,” I said. “As long as you understand why Lance and Jason won’t be breaking their necks looking for gulls, I see no reason why you shouldn’t go along. You have to promise me you’ll follow their orders, no matter what.”

  “Right.” His face was glum. For once, he clearly got it. “Okay if I brief Baptiste? He’s a lot more likely to be of use than I am.”

  “Make sure the boys don’t overhear,” I said.

  Just then we heard a horn honking from where the Jeep and the Land Rover were waiting.

  “Great-great, hurry up!” Josh called.

  “Time to leave!” Jamie added.

  Grandfather stood for a few moments, staring morosely at the waiting vehicles.

  “Thanks for telling me.” He lifted his chin, squared his shoulders, and marched over to climb aboard the Jeep.

  I watched them drive away with mixed feelings. I hated having the boys out of my sight at a time like this. But I also felt very relieved that I was sending them off to a safe place. I’d actually have felt pretty good about sending them off with Michael. Add in Dad, Eric, Baptiste, Stanley, Jason, Lance—and yes, even Grandfather? I could rest easy about the boys.

  Chapter 27

  “They’ll be fine.” Cordelia came up beside me as I was watching the Land Rover and Grandfather’s Jeep disappearing into the woods.

  So much for my attempt to appear calm and collected in the face of danger to the boys. Then again, Cordelia read me better than most people.

  “I know they’ll be fine,” I said. “But I reserve the right to worry about them anyway. At least a little.”

  “Worry away.”

  “Although getting them away from here has freed up my mind to think about a few other things as well.”

  “That’s good.”

  “No, not so good. I’m feeling guilty.”

  “Whatever for?” she asked. “You’re not still thinking you should go along, are you?”

  “No, I’d only be in the way of the boys’ night out,” I said. “It’s Grandfather.”

  “That’s the one thing that worries me,” she said. “The old fool thinks they’re all going to look for his gulls. Maybe you could pass the word to Michael to brief him on what’s really happening. Make sure he stays out of Lance and Jason’s way.”

  “I already briefed Grandfather, just now,” I said.

  “So that’s why he was looking so gloomy all of a sudden. You think he gets it?”

  “Yes. He even offered to stay behind if I wanted him to.”

  “You’re joking.”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, I’ll be.” Her face took on a bemused look. “Will wonders never cease. But then why am I surprised? We may disagree on a lot of things, your grandfather and I. And I know we’re pretty annoying about it sometimes. But one thing we absolutely see eye to eye about is keeping our family safe.”

  “I know.”

  “And I’ll try a little harder to stop goading him,” she said with a sigh. “Entertaining as it is.”

  “Maybe I should have told him to stay home.” A wave of worry was washing over me. “What can he possibly do if they’re attacked? And what if he gets himself killed trying to protect the boys?”

  “Don’t underestimate him.” Cordelia’s face wore a look of grudging appreciation. “Remember that old saying—age and treachery will beat out youth and skill every time.”

  “Here’s hoping,” I said. “But meanwhile, since he so readily agreed to drop looking for the gulls and focus on protecting the boys, maybe I should do a little work on Operation Gull Quest. It’s not as if I’ve done much so far.”

  “In your copious spare time, between classes and murders.”

  “Still. I’m going to humor him.”

  “Of course.” She rolled her eyes and threw up her hands. “Doesn’t everyone? Always?”

  “He’ll be a lot easier to live with if we find those wretched gulls,” I said. “And Chief Heedles won’t have to arrest him for interfering with a police investigation.”

  “Has she threatened to?” From the sound of it I suspected Cordelia rather liked the idea.

  “It’s only a matter of time,” I said. “That’s one of the reasons I didn’t try to talk him out of joining the camping trip. But he’ll be back in the morning, and even though he gets that the gulls should take a backseat to protecting the boys, he won’t be happy.”

  “He’ll be crankier than ever,” Cordelia predicted. “Unless they happen to stumble on the gulls, which seems unlikely.”

  “And we need the chief focused on the case,” I went on. “Cases, actually, since we still have no idea if the two murders are connected, or if either of them have anything to do with the vandalism. She has enough on her plate. She shouldn’t have to deal with him.”

  Cordelia nodded.

  “So I’m going to set out some bait for his gulls. Several miles away from here,” I added, before Cordelia could object. “I was thinking somewhere over in that direction.” I pointed over the roof of the center toward the higher mountains beyond. “Someplace where we could see the gulls from the terrace if they show up.”

  “Half a mile would do as long as it’s off my property. But all around me is Park Service land. They’ll charge you with littering if they catch you.”

  “I don’t plan on getting caught,” I said. “So where can I find some plastic garbage bags?”

  “You could try getting some from Marty.”

  “I could also try taking a bacon treat away from Spike. But I’d rather not.”

  “Wise woman. He’s been on a tear all day. No idea why.”

  “Having to feed so many extra people?”

  “It’s only a dozen, and we’re totally set up to handle significantly larger numbers than this week’s enrollment. I think it was the police searching his kitchen.”

  “There’s also the whole lack of sleep thing,” I said. “He’s running on short rations of it to begin with, and Grandfather waking him up an hour or two too early the other night didn’t help.”

  “Anot
her thing to thank the old coot for,” Cordelia grumbled. “The way it’s going, I might need to hire more kitchen staff again tomorrow.”

  “So any idea where else I can snag a couple of garbage bags?”

  “Try the storage room in the barn. And make sure you’re well away from here before you start dumping the garbage.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I remember how it smelled around here last week. Oh, by the way—Stanley has shed some light on the mystery of the Slacker.” I filled her in on what Stanley had told me.

  “I knew he was up to something.” Cordelia glowered at him. He didn’t seem to notice.

  “But not necessarily something that has anything to do with us.” An idea occurred to me. “Why don’t you mention it to the chief? If he hasn’t told her what he’s up to, she might appreciate knowing—and if he has, maybe she’s found out what he’s investigating.” Since Cordelia and the chief were old friends, she might have a better chance of gleaning information from her reaction.

  “Good idea.” Cordelia looked more cheerful, as she always did when she had something definite to accomplish. “You go strew your gull bait and ease your conscience. I’ll find out what he’s up to.”

  She strode off. I trudged out to the barn and rummaged in the storage room there. Yes, Cordelia was right—everything I’d need was there. I found a box of black plastic garbage bags. And several brand new pairs of heavy-duty plastic utility gloves. But even with the gloves, the notion of filling the bags by hand and then hauling bits of garbage out of them turned my stomach. I grabbed three plastic buckets and what looked like a large grain scoop—perhaps left over from some previous owner who’d actually kept livestock in the barn. I could fill the buckets with the scoop, and then pour the gull bait out on the field. The plastic bags would still be useful. After I filled the buckets, I could bag them. It would make riding with all that garbage in the back of the Twinmobile more palatable, and reduce the danger of a spill. And then I spotted a long-handled shovel—even better.

  I loaded bags, buckets, gloves, scoop, and shovel in the back of the Twinmobile and headed down the road to the trash area.

  Cordelia had done her best to camouflage the trash area. It was about half a mile down the mountain from the main building, at the end of a short gravel lane that branched off the main driveway. The lane was lined with graceful crêpe myrtles that would come into bloom shortly, and the fence surrounding the trash yard was covered with honeysuckle and trumpet vine. We’d actually done such a good job of camouflaging its real nature that newcomers frequently mistook the lane for a pleasant byway, and we’d had to put up a sign at the entrance warning “Garbage dump ahead—staff only!” Even with the sign, a high percentage of people coming to the center still found their way down the road. We probably had the most photographed trash dump in Virginia.

  Inside the fence were a Dumpster for trash, an industrial-size recycling container, and, around the perimeter, a series of stationary compost bins enclosed with chain-link fencing to discourage raccoons and bears. Various varmints did still show up, so I scanned the area carefully as I approached the gate. Out of the corner of my eye I saw something disappear into the woods behind the crêpe myrtles just outside the gate—probably only a deer, but I wanted to be sure. I had no desire to barge in on a frustrated bear. And a bear was more likely than usual since whoever had been here last had left the gate open. Probably one of the long-suffering kitchen staff. Given what they’d had to endure today from Marty’s temper, maybe not the time to complain to Cordelia about them.

  The trash yard was bare of bears, so I drove in, parked just inside the gate, and got out. I studied the compost bins until I figured out which one was currently being filled and would contain the freshest garbage. Then I grabbed two of the buckets and approached the bin.

  It wasn’t actually all that smelly. Which probably meant whoever was in charge of tending it was doing a pretty good job of balancing the ingredients. I scanned the bin’s contents—vegetable peelings and fruit rinds and spoiled produce of various kinds. Yes, this would do. I could also peer into the Dumpster to see if there were any fish heads. Gulls would like that.

  I set the bucket down and turned to go back to the Twinmobile for the shovel and the scoop. But as I did, I spotted something sticking over the edge of the Dumpster. A piece of wood. A piece of wood that looked a lot like the one-by-two-inch strips of wood Frankie’s assistant had been using in her demonstration on how to build and size your own canvases.

  I walked over to get a better look.

  It was a one-by-two board, all right. But not one of the brand-new ones the assistant had been using. This one had some nail holes in it—and was that a little shred of canvas?

  I looked around for something I could stand on to get a closer look. Nothing came to hand, so I started up the Twinmobile and pulled it up beside the Dumpster. Then I unrolled the driver’s side window and used the window opening as a foothold to hoist myself up level with the top of the Dumpster.

  Yes, definitely a disassembled canvas frame—I’d seen enough of them being built lately to recognize the pieces of one, even though it appeared to have been wrenched apart before being stuffed into the Dumpster. I estimated it had been about two by three feet or thereabouts. There were evenly spaced nail holes all along one side of the boards, and a few stubborn nails. Two of the nails sported shreds of canvas.

  I held my breath and leaned closer, studying the edges of the boards. One of them had some dark stains at one end that looked like—could that be blood?

  Not my job to find out. I pulled out my phone, took a couple of pictures of the boards in situ, and then called 911.

  “This is Meg Langslow up at the Biscuit Mountain Arts and Crafts Center,” I began when the dispatcher answered. “I’ve found—”

  “Not another body!” the dispatcher exclaimed.

  “No, but possibly some evidence. Could you send someone down to the trash area to secure it?”

  “Right away,” she said. “Are you in any danger?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Stay on the line anyway till an officer gets there.”

  So I stayed on the line—though I decided I was under no obligation to stay in such close proximity to the Dumpster. Curious that it smelled so much worse than the compost bins. I put my cell phone on mute, climbed carefully back through the window into the Twinmobile, and jumped out the other door. I’d leave the car in place so whichever officer arrived could use it to inspect the Dumpster, but I went over to stand close to the gate, to watch for his or her arrival.

  As I stood there, I noticed something else—a black plastic garbage bag caught in the space between the gate and the fence. Had I dropped one of the ones I’d brought? No, the box was still in the back of the Twinmobile, closed tight. And the bag behind the gate wasn’t empty, either—the loose edges of it ruffled in the breeze, but there was something weighing it down.

  At any other time, I’d have picked it up and stuffed it into the Dumpster where it belonged—after taking a peek inside to see if its contents helped me identify who’d been so careless as to drop it there. But since the Dumpster was probably about to become a part of the chief’s crime scene, not a good idea to add to or subtract from its contents.

  Still, I could make a start at identifying the litterer.

  I swung the gate out far enough that I could retrieve the bag and then returned to my sentinel spot. No one in sight yet, but I could hear the sound of an engine approaching.

  I peered into the black plastic bag.

  “I believe I’ve found the missing painting,” I said aloud—not that there was anyone to hear, with my cell phone still on mute, but at least saying it gave me some satisfaction.

  Of course, I realized that I’d just disturbed a piece of evidence. I should have realized that anything within the fence should be left alone. But since the horse was already out of the barn …

  I carefully pulled the roll of painted canvas out o
f the bag—luckily I was still wearing the brand new pair of plastic gloves I’d donned in preparation for loading the buckets, so I didn’t have to feel too guilty about touching things. The canvas was about two feet wide and had been rolled up rather carelessly. The edges looked slightly ragged, as if whoever had removed it from its frame had done so hastily, and without worrying much about keeping the painting intact.

  I began to unroll it. First I saw a naked foot, graceful and feminine, against the background of a white bearskin rug.

  “One of Prine’s pinups,” I muttered. He could paint a bearskin so realistically that you could almost feel the soft caress of the fur, I’d give him that much, but the whole effect was … derivative? Retro? Perhaps just a little bit corny? Or maybe just downright sleazy?

  The feet were followed by calves, then thighs. Around hip level I could see several slashes that cut right through the canvas, causing flaps of it to droop down. The slashes continued as I unrolled the woman’s belly and breasts. They stopped at about neck level, and I unrolled the final foot or so of canvas to reveal a familiar face.

  Gillian.

  Chapter 28

  Prine hadn’t given Gillian a smoldering, sexy look, or a flirtatious one. She stared out of the canvas just as cool and unapproachable as she always looked in real life, as if she couldn’t care less who saw her.

  Though if that really was so, maybe we’d have found the painting in Prine’s cabinet, not disassembled and stuffed into the trash.

  I even spotted a small reddish-brown stain on one corner of the canvas—a stain that would probably correspond to the similar stain on the one-by-two frame in the Dumpster. And that no doubt when tested would match Prine’s DNA.

  Chief Heedles’s car pulled up just outside the gate and she and Horace hopped out.

  “Meg?” the chief called. “Dispatch told me you found something that might be evidence?”

  I held up the canvas. Horace’s eyes bugged and his mouth fell open. The chief stared at the painting coolly for a few moments. Then, without taking her eyes off it, she took the radio off her belt and spoke into it.