Gone Gull

by Donna Andrews

  It slid until it encountered the scrubby little tree, whose trunk poked in through the doorway I’d shouldered open. And there it stuck, the whole weight of the caravan on that small tree—small, but evidently exceedingly tough.

  As I continued scrabbling up the slope, I could see, to my left, the caravan lurching as Marty gunned the engine several times, trying to send it all the way over. The stubborn little tree didn’t budge.

  I continued to climb, mentally cheering the tree.

  The truck door slammed. Apparently Marty was getting out to see what was holding up his murderous plan. Luckily, he was on the opposite side of the caravan, but still, I was running out of time.

  “Damn,” I heard him say, just as I heaved myself over the top of the slope and lay, panting, on the same level as Marty and the truck. Spike wriggled out of the tote, but luckily had the sense to plop down on the dirt. He lay there panting as if he’d been the one doing the climbing.

  Just as long as he had the good sense not to bark.

  Marty appeared to be doing something on the other side of the trailer. Something that was irritating him.

  “Son-of-a—!” I heard him exclaim.

  The truck was still running. And not connected to the trailer.

  I began creeping toward the truck. Spike picked himself up and trotted in my wake.

  When I reached the passenger side, I raised my head carefully until I could see Marty. He was holding a long branch, poking and prodding at something over the edge of the cliff—presumably the sturdy little tree that was impeding his plans.

  “Damn!” He stood up straight and frowned. “Don’t get your hopes up.” He was looking at the caravan. “If I can’t send this thing over the cliff, I’ll set it on fire.”

  Good. He didn’t realize we weren’t still in the caravan.

  No time to wait. I tried the passenger side truck door. It was open. I slowly opened it, and slid into the truck. Spike hopped in behind me. I quickly crawled over the stick shift and was about to reach for the hand brake

  Just then Spike, who had been angelically still and quiet, came to life, erupting in furious barks and growls. He leaped out of the open driver’s-side window and made a beeline for Marty.

  “What the—get out of my truck!” He took a few steps toward me, and then Spike launched himself at Marty, teeth bared. Marty flinched, tried to bat Spike away, and took a few steps backward.

  He fell over the cliff.

  I eased the hand brake back in place and ran over to the edge of the cliff. Marty was dangling from the sturdy little tree, right below the caravan. He clung to its trunk with both hands as his feet scrabbled in vain for purchase. As I watched, the tree made an ominous cracking noise, but stood firm.

  You had to give him points for persistence. Or possibly stubborn, stupid courage in the face of danger.

  “Just wait till I get up there!” he bellowed.

  Not a man who seemed to feel in need of being rescued, and under the circumstances I figured playing good Samaritan would be a suicidal move. It occurred to me that he just might figure out how to climb up, and waiting around while he did so probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do.

  “Come on, Spike,” I said. “Let’s blow this pop stand.”

  As usual, Spike ignored me. He was too busy running up and down the edge of the cliff, barking at Marty and occasionally turning his back to the cliff and kicking small showers of dirt and stones down on him. I made a couple of efforts to catch him, and then gave up.

  “Okay, suit yourself.” I backed away from the cliff. “You can guard him while I fetch help.”

  As I was heading back to Marty’s truck, my phone, still in my pocket, suddenly came to life and began making the various dinging sounds that indicated I had mail, text messages, and voice mail. I fished it out and turned it on.

  Evidently here at the top of this mountain we got glorious cell phone reception. My e-mails had gone out. Everyone in the world was trying to reach me. I scrolled through all the missed calls and picked one to return. The one from Michael. I have my priorities.

  “Meg? Are you all right? Where are you?”

  “I’m fine, but I have no idea where I am,” I said. “On top of a mountain somewhere. Marty—did you get my message that Marty was the killer?”

  “I got your message that he was the kidnapper,” he said. “If he’s also the killer—where is he?”

  “He’s out of commission, at least for the time being,” I said. “If Kevin or maybe Chief Heedles has any way to track the current location of my phone, they might want to do that. Meanwhile, I’m going to take Marty’s truck and go in search of civilization.”

  “Just be safe,” he said. “You have no idea where you are? What do you see?”

  “Trees, and sky, and a very pretty sunrise just beginning. Apparently I’m on the east side of whatever mountain I’m on.”

  Just then I noticed the birds wheeling around the caravan. Could they be … yes! They were gulls.

  One landed on top of the cab of Marty’s truck and studied me, head cocked. I was no bird expert, but as far as I can see, this gull looked exactly the same as the one in Edward Prine’s painting.

  “Heading out,” I said. “And tell Grandfather that when they find me, I may have a very nice surprise for him.”

  Chapter 32

  As it turned out, I didn’t have to go in search of civilization after all. As soon as Michael and I hung up, it occurred to me that if my phone was getting a signal, the GPS app might be working. Sure enough, I was able to call 911 with my longitude and latitude and the knowledge that I was atop something called Oatmeal Mountain. Biscuit Mountain, Oatmeal Mountain—not for the first time, I wondered if the early explorer who had named the local landmarks had been running short on provisions at the time.

  So instead of driving back down the dirt road, I sat in Marty’s truck with the doors locked and the key in the ignition, watching from a safe distance as Spike continued to taunt his fallen enemy.

  In about twenty minutes I heard the first siren in the distance.

  Within the hour the clearing atop Oatmeal Mountain was swarming with police officers, including Chief Heedles, back from Charlottesville. Luckily one of the Riverton officers, a dog lover, happened to have a leash and some dog treats in his vehicle, so we were able to drag Spike away from the edge of the cliff before he assaulted too many officers. He was now asleep in the back of one of the cruisers, secure behind the barrier normally designed to protect the officer from violent arrestees. Although I noticed that in spite of the barrier, no one seemed very eager to go near the cruiser.

  Once Spike was out of the way, half a dozen of the officers kept their guns trained on Marty as the burliest of the Riverton officers threw him a rope and hauled him up to safety. Then the chief herself handcuffed him and read him his rights before sending him back to town.

  “He can cool his heels in a cell till I’m ready to talk to him,” she said.

  One of the new arrivals was a state trooper who had Gillian in the back of his cruiser. So the BOLO had worked. I deduced that he’d picked her up from wherever she’d been apprehended and had been en route to the Riverton jail when he’d caught the first reports of my kidnapping and joined the hordes rushing to my rescue.

  I wondered if he’d told her that she was no longer under suspicion of murder. Or if perhaps she’d overheard enough on the radio to figure it out on her own. Or maybe not. She was sitting in the back of the trooper’s car, in handcuffs. I tried to catch her eye, but she was staring down at her feet.

  Ah, well. She wouldn’t have too much longer to wait. Though I suspect for her, the revelation of her relationship with Prine and his attempt to blackmail her would be almost as bad as jail.

  I was relieved when an enormous tow truck arrived and began hitching cables to the caravan to keep it from plunging down the cliff while they figured out the best way to haul it back up.

  I was still watching the tow truck’s efforts wh
en a nondescript blue sedan pulled up and parked near Marty’s truck. A fraction of a second after it came to a stop, all three of its passenger doors flew open. Mother, Caroline, and Cordelia jumped out and rushed over to me.

  “Meg, dear.” Mother’s kiss actually landed on my cheek, a sure sign that she was less calm than usual. “We were that worried.”

  “Sorry if I upset you.” I gave her a quick hug.

  “But I hear you got the bloodthirsty creep!” Caroline thumped me on the back.

  “Nearly destroying your caravan in the process,” I said.

  “I can get another caravan,” Caroline said. “I’d rather lose a hundred of them than have anything happen to you.”

  “Of course, I may never forgive you for costing me my cook.” Cordelia’s fierce hug belied her words. “Or should I be thankful you unmasked him before he poisoned us all?”

  “I suspect Marty would never sully his food with poison,” I said. “But I’m sure he’d have found plenty of other ways to dispatch those of us who irritated him, so we’ll have to make do with some other cook.”

  “Your mother is already working on locating someone,” Cordelia said. “Though it won’t be the same. What that man could do with a soufflé.”

  “If only I’d come up sooner,” Mother said. “Alas! Last night’s dinner will probably be the only time I get to try his cooking.”

  “Meg.” Cordelia looked stern. “You should probably go down and get some rest. And let me know if you don’t feel up to doing today’s class. Under the circumstances, I think everyone would understand.”

  “Of course I feel up to it,” I said. “After last night, I’m really in the mood to whack something with a hammer.”

  Cordelia studied me for a few moments, and then nodded.

  “By the way,” I asked. “Do we know where Mrs. Venable is?” I had no idea if the gulls soaring and flapping overhead were Ord’s gulls, but I rather suspected they were, and if so, I didn’t want Mrs. Venable seeing them before Grandfather did.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Mother said. “She’s out of the woods and should be fine in a day or so.”

  “Out of the woods?” I echoed. “I just wondered why she wasn’t trailing after you. Did something happen to her?”

  “Poison ivy.” Mother shook her head in sympathy. “Cousin Mary Margaret had to take her to the ER last night. They treated her for anaphylactic shock—apparently she’s very sensitive.”

  I wondered if Mary Margaret felt any guilt about dropping the pith helmet in the poison ivy patch, or if she figured it served Mrs. Venable right. I could ask later.

  “Oh, Meg,” Caroline said. “Mr. Radditch has something to say to you?”

  Mr. Radditch? I’d been aware that the driver of the blue sedan had followed the ladies over to where we were now standing, but they’d been hovering so closely that I hadn’t caught a glimpse of him. Now they parted to reveal him.

  The Slacker. He smiled and held out his hand.

  “Joe Radditch.” His handshake was a lot firmer than I’d have expected. “I understand Stan Denton blew my cover last night.”

  “Only to me,” I said. “And I told my grandmother.” I decided to play a hunch. “Have you gotten the goods on Mrs. Santo and Mr. Eads yet?”

  A look of surprise crossed his face—so quickly that I almost didn’t catch it. But he recovered.

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss the case I’m working on,” he said. “Though I can tell you that I’ve brought my investigation to a successful conclusion. And let me assure you that my investigation had nothing to do with the craft center, and I hope no one will object if I stay to the end of my week here. I’m overdue to take a few days off, and I can’t think of a more delightful place to spend them.”

  “Of course we have no objection.” Cordelia took him by the arm. “Though have you considered signing up for some of the courses we’re offering later this summer—the ones targeted to law enforcement and other investigators?”

  “What a brilliant idea!” Caroline took Mr. Radditch’s other arm, and the two of them led him off, no doubt to experience a full-length sales pitch.

  “Oh, good,” Mother exclaimed. “They’re releasing poor Gillian. I may see if Mr. Radditch can drive her back down to the center.” She hurried over to where Gillian was standing, rubbing her handcuff-free wrists and talking to the chief.

  When Mother arrived, Chief Heedles left her to fuss over Gillian and joined me.

  “Feel like telling me what happened?” she asked. “Or would you rather go back to the craft center and recover a bit?”

  “I’m fine.” Why did everyone seem to think I was in need of recovery? How bad did I look? “I’d rather stay here a little longer, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Fine with me.” She took out her notebook.

  “Before you interrogate me, may I ask how your trip to Charlottesville went?” I asked. “I know it probably doesn’t have much to do with the murders, but…”

  I paused, seeing the slight frown on her face. Then she chuckled, and let a broad smile cross her face.

  “The trip was very satisfactory. When advised that we were on the brink of obtaining both his personal telephone records and those from Jazz Hands, Mr. Whiffletree became remarkably helpful. He confessed to hiring Mr. Prine to undertake a campaign of vandalism against the Biscuit Mountain Craft Center. But he didn’t come up with the idea on his own—he did it at the behest of Mr. Rahn, of Smith Enterprises, and for that matter, with funds that Mr. Rahn provided. And as your grandmother surmised, Mr. Rahn was hoping to discredit the center and drive it out of business so he could purchase the property.”

  “If he thinks Cordelia would ever sell him Biscuit Mountain, craft center or no craft center, he’s delusional.”

  “No doubt. Unfortunately, however nasty his plan was, there’s not a lot we can charge him with.”

  “Conspiracy?” I suggested.

  “No such thing as conspiracy to commit a misdemeanor under the Virginia Code,” she said. “If the vandalism had reached felony level, we might have something to work with, but all the damage was relatively minor.”

  “Except for Baptiste’s photos,” I said. “He lost half-a-dozen large prints, and he sells those things for four or five hundred a pop. Wouldn’t that add up to a felony?”

  “It would indeed.” The chief smiled slightly as she scribbled in her notebook. “I’ll take it up with the town attorney. Thank you. So, getting to your story. Unless—are you sure you wouldn’t rather do this over breakfast?”

  “Pretty sure,” I said. “After all, with Marty in jail, do you know who’s going to be fixing breakfast?”

  Chief Heedles blinked in surprise.

  “I hadn’t thought of that. Who?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “Cordelia says Mother is already working on finding a replacement for Marty, but even Mother can’t produce a chef out of her purse at a moment’s notice. People will get fed, but it won’t be anything like one of Marty’s breakfasts.”

  “What that man could do with cinnamon rolls,” the chief murmured.

  “It won’t be the same,” I said. “But Mother will find someone wonderful—a relative, or an old school friend, or someone who happens to owe her a favor. I’m sure they’ll have a replacement by dinner time—maybe by lunch. But for now, I’d just as soon stay here and avoid whatever makeshift substitute meal is going on back at the center.”

  “Good point. So—”

  “And besides, I’ve been waiting for this moment.” I pointed to where the dirt track emerged from the woods. Lance’s Land Rover and Grandfather’s Jeep were racing up the road, with Michael, Dad, Grandfather, Stanley, Jason, and the boys hanging out the windows, cheering as they caught sight of me.

  One of the police officers tried to wave them off, but Chief Heedles stepped forward and pointed them to a parking spot, far enough away from the caravan that they wouldn’t interfere with the salvage effort.

  The boys h
ad probably broken the rule about never unfastening your seat belt while the car is still moving, but I didn’t care at the moment. They reached me a few seconds before Michael did, and nearly knocked me over, throwing their arms around me, each trying to drown the other out in his attempt to be the first to tell me about their camping adventure. Then Michael wrapped the three of us in a bear hug.

  “Next time, you can come along and be one of the guys,” was all he said.

  The rest of the party all came over to shake my hand, hug me, or pat me on the back—all except for Grandfather. He inspected me for a long moment and nodded with satisfaction that I seemed unharmed—not to mention in good hands with Mother, Caroline, and Cordelia at my side. Then he strode to the edge of the cliff, binoculars glued to his eyes.

  “It’s them!” he cried. “My gulls.”

  Jason stepped forward, carrying a black plastic trash bag, and began pouring some rather smelly, evil-looking garbage along the top of the cliff and throwing a few bits over the side. Evidently Grandfather had not gone on the camping trip unprepared for Operation Gull Quest.

  Almost immediately a few of the gulls swooped closer, and then a few more. I heard Baptiste’s camera clicking away. Before long, Grandfather had to take his binoculars away from his eyes, because he was surrounded by a flock of gulls, swooping down to pluck bits of garbage from the slope and noisily fighting over it in midair, so close that he had no need of binoculars. I didn’t think I’d ever seen him look happier.

  “See Great-great,” Josh called out. “I knew Mommy could find your gulls.”

  ALSO BY DONNA ANDREWS

  Die Like an Eagle

  The Lord of the Wings

  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