The Gift of the Magpie

by Donna Andrews

  I suddenly realized that this wasn’t Morris Haverhill—Morris was still sitting in his car, scowling at us. But the man in front of me was clearly a Haverhill. He wore a faded blue suit rather than a gray one, and his bow tie was navy rather than red, but apart from that I’d have had a hard time figuring out which was which if they were standing side by side.

  “You told my brother.” His voice suggested that he didn’t like being mistaken for Morris. “I’m Ernest Haverhill.” He held out his hand, which proved to be as dry and bony as his brother’s.

  “Sorry,” I said. “As I told your brother, we’re here to declutter the house, and then a crew will come in to fix it up. It hasn’t been condemned yet, and if we can get our work done, it won’t have to be.”

  “Well, that’s not very satisfactory,” he said. “When will you know?”

  Not very satisfactory? I considered and rejected several snarky replies.

  “That depends on what the building inspector finds when he gets here,” I said finally. “I’m sure your cousin can keep you posted.”

  “I’m sure he could, but he won’t,” Ernest said. “Just hides in his house. Won’t even answer the phone.”

  He glared at me as if this was my fault. I thought of pointing out that if his cousin refused to talk to him, maybe trying to pry information out of me was a little inappropriate. But I sensed that was a subtlety that would be lost on him.

  “Let’s see how it goes, shall we?” I accompanied this nonanswer with a bland smile. Realizing he wasn’t going to get any information out of me, he made a “hmph” noise, turned away, and crossed the street to get in one of the cars parked there. Not the one his brother Morris was sitting in—the one at the other end of the little line. There appeared to be a tall figure in the middle car—did they travel in threes, like the ghosts in Dickens’s A Christmas Carol? And would I soon be meeting the Haverhill yet to come?

  I got into my car and dialed Mother. When her phone went to voicemail, I called Robyn Smith—who as rector of Trinity Episcopal was one of the main instigators of Helping Hands for the Holidays.

  “Meg! Your mother and I were just talking about you!” she said, once we’d exchanged Christmas wishes.

  “Mother’s there with you—good. I have a lot of work for both of you.”

  I filled them in on our latest project and then laid out my requests: willing bodies to pack Mr. Dunlop’s stuff. Food and beverages to fuel the bodies.

  “We can manage that,” Robyn said. “Your mother wants to know if she should come over to help out.”

  “Good heavens, no,” I said. “If she even caught a glimpse of this place she’d probably have to take to her bed with a cold compress over her forehead. Remind her that we’re keeping our eyes out for rats and cockroaches, and encourage her to stay put and recruit volunteers.”

  “Roger.”

  “And see if you can get at least one volunteer who’s also a deputy,” I said. “Cousin Horace might be willing. Or Randall’s cousin Vern. Or Aida Butler.”

  “That could be tough,” Robyn said. “Last I heard, the chief had two officers out—Sammy Wendell with his broken leg, and poor Bethany in California, not knowing if her mother will pull through or not.”

  “Three actually,” I said. “Four if you count civilian staff.” Which meant I had to fill her in, since she hadn’t heard about George, the desk clerk, having his appendix out late Sunday night, or the fact that Dad had sent another officer to the hospital with concussion—a casualty of the same obstreperous drunk-and-disorderly prisoner who was responsible for Sammy’s broken leg.

  “I see I should add a few hospital visits to my agenda,” she said. “Getting back to your project—why do you want a deputy—are you expecting some kind of trouble?”

  “I don’t know. Randall says there’s bad blood here.” I glanced around. The binoculars were still trained on me from the house on the left. The Haverhills’ cars were still parked across the street from me. Mr. Brimley had left his porch and come down to the street. In fact, he was now crossing the road and approaching one of the cars. Ernest’s. “I have this creepy feeling of being watched by unsympathetic eyes,” I said. Ernest Haverhill had rolled down his window, and he and Brimley were talking. They were both frowning—but were they frowning at each other, or at Mr. Dunlop’s house? “And some of those eyes belong to Mr. Dunlop’s relatives and neighbors,” I continued to Robyn. “According to him, they’ve already done a vigilante decluttering on his garage and made off with a lot of valuable antiques.”

  “Does he actually have any valuable antiques?” Robyn asked. “I tried to make a pastoral call a couple of times—not that he’s ever come to services since I’ve been here, but we have a bunch of Dunlops buried out in the Trinity churchyard that I’m pretty sure are his kin, so I thought I should try. The one time he let me in I couldn’t see anything but rubbish.”

  “Who knows what’s buried beneath the rubbish?” I asked. “Besides, what matters is that he thinks he has a house full of treasures. What if the neighbors or the relatives try to take advantage of our being here to barge in again and start throwing his stuff away? That could torpedo the whole thing.”

  “Somehow I think you and Cordelia could handle them.” Robyn chuckled. “But yes, it would be nice to have someone who can take official action if necessary. I’ll see what we can arrange.”

  “Thanks.” We hung up, and I continued to watch Brimley and Ernest Haverhill. Now Morris Haverhill had gotten out of his car and was walking in my direction. No, not in my direction. He stayed on the opposite side of the street until he was well past my car. Then he crossed the road and hiked up the driveway of Mr. Dunlop’s left-hand neighbors. I kept expecting the middle car, the one between Morris’s blue sedan and Ernest’s silver one, to open and reveal its third Haverhill, but it remained closed and motionless. Its windshield reflected the sun and prevented me from seeing if there was anyone inside.

  I started when Caroline opened the passenger door.

  “No sign of rodents,” she said. “Let’s go run these errands of yours so we can get back here and dig in as soon as possible.”

  “Good idea,” I said.

  But I kept checking the rearview mirror as I drove away, seeing the Haverhills and Mr. Brimley and Mrs. Gudgeon, the lady of the binoculars, all staring at Mr. Dunlop’s house and talking in what their faces suggested were probably conspiratorial whispers.

  “He’ll be fine,” Caroline said, reading my expression. “Cordelia will keep an eye on things. Your mother and Robyn will have the place crawling with volunteers in no time. And we’ll be back before too long. Where to next?”

  “The lady who wants the manure, I think.”

  “Excellent!” She settled comfortably in her seat. “I can’t wait to meet the manure lady.”

  “Her name is Ida Diamandis,” I said. “We should probably work on thinking of her as Mrs. Diamandis, not the Manure Lady. Avoid any embarrassing slips of the tongue.”

  “I will be the soul of discretion. Are you planning to spend all day on these projects?”

  “Pretty much,” I said. “Because we want to finish as much as possible before Christmas Eve. I, for one, am planning to spend Christmas Eve with family and friends—and not sorting through some packrat’s clutter.”

  As I drove, I filled her in on some of the events on my—and probably her—schedule. Tonight was the New Life Baptist Choir’s annual Christmas concert for people who, not being Baptists, wouldn’t be able to hear them at the actual holiday services. Tomorrow night was the first night of Michael’s one-man show of A Christmas Carol—demand had been so high that he’d scheduled three more performances between Christmas and New Year’s, but we’d bagged a ticket for her to the gala opening performance.

  “And Wednesday night, the twenty-third, Mother will be holding a dinner so elegant that Michael and I aren’t invited.”

  “Surely that’s not her real reason?” Caroline said. “Because if it’s that
elegant, I don’t think I’d fit in, either.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “We’re actually invited but not going because we’re among the chaperones for a middle-school caroling, cookie-baking, and sleepover party at Trinity.”

  “You’re brave souls,” she observed.

  We were drawing near Mrs. Diamandis’s house, so I broke off to concentrate on finding the right address. She lived a little closer to the center of town—although, thank goodness, well out of the touristy part. Still, even here we could catch the strains of a brass band playing “Good King Wenceslas” and see the top of the small Ferris wheel—part of the Christmas Carnival now occupying the town square, which also featured a merry-go-round and several other lesser rides. It was one of Randall’s innovations for this year’s Christmas in Caerphilly celebration. Like Mother with her decorating, Randall seemed to feel the need every year to top the previous year’s holiday excesses. Which wouldn’t have bothered me quite so much if they hadn’t also felt the need to get me to help them brainstorm and make decisions. And in Randall’s case, implement them. I had to give Mother credit—once she’d settled on each year’s over-the-top decorating scheme, she went off and found volunteers or hired help to carry it out. All Michael and I had to do was ooh and ah on cue.

  I’d already started trying to find a way to convince them that more was not necessarily better. Maybe toward the end of the season, I could say something like “I think this year everything was absolutely perfect! Let’s do it all just the same way next year!”

  Would they listen?

  Worth trying.

  I focused back on finding Mrs. Diamandis’s house. And reminding myself not to call her the Manure Lady.

  Mrs. Diamandis’s house and lot were both small but well maintained. A neat picket fence surrounded the yard, and when I saw what was inside the fence I figured I knew why she wanted manure. The entire yard was full of what probably looked to the uninitiated eye like small dead shrubs peeking out of the tops of tiny tussocks. But since Dad was an obsessive gardener and Mother was a member in good standing of the Caerphilly Garden Club, I recognized the unprepossessing objects as dormant rose-bushes, carefully mulched for the winter. There were dozens of them. Except for a narrow path from the front gate to the front door, and a few even narrower paths designed to give access for whoever tended the roses, every square inch of yard was filled with roses. For that matter, so were the side yards, although they were each less than six feet wide, and from what I could see of the backyard it contained more of the same.

  In the summer it must have been magical. In fact, I was sure I’d admired it at least once, when I was driving through this part of town. Now, in the dead of winter, all I could think of was how very much work all those roses must take.

  “Looks a little OCD to me,” Caroline said.

  “I suspect being a little OCD actually helps if you’re trying to grow roses,” I said. “From what I’ve seen, growing them requires so much work that you’ve got to be either OCD or just plain crazy to bother with them.”

  “Is that why you’ve got so many in your backyard?” she asked. “Who takes care of them?”

  “Dad,” I said. “And you’ll notice they’re not exactly in our backyard—they’re in their own little compound in the middle of the llama pen. The llamas chase off any deer that try to get at the roses—short of an eight-foot fence, that’s the only way Dad’s found so far to protect them. Let’s go see why Mrs. Diamandis needs the Helping Hands project to manure her roses.”

  As I headed for Mrs. Diamandis’s front door—decorated with a small and slightly faded artificial Christmas wreath—I couldn’t help thinking that in summer, even if she’d been careful to plant nothing but thornless roses next to the path, the journey would still be difficult. And if she hadn’t—well, it probably discouraged annoying door-to-door solicitors.

  I rang the doorbell and we waited. And waited. I was about to try again when I heard rustling noises inside, and the door opened—but only as far as the chain would allow.

  “Yes?” came a voice from inside. Mrs. Diamandis’s voice—I recognized it from our phone conversation.

  At first I thought she was hiding behind the door. Then I glanced down and saw her. She was tiny. And ancient. I doubted she’d hit the five-foot mark even if she were standing up straight instead of bent almost double over one of those walkers equipped with wheels.

  I stooped a little to get closer to her ears, in case she was hard of hearing.

  “Mrs. Diamandis? It’s Meg Langslow and Caroline Willner from the Helping Hands project. We’ve come about the manure.”

  The tiny wizened face brightened.

  “Lovely,” she said. “Hang on, dearie, till I can undo this blasted chain.”

  She left the door open an inch or so—enough for me to see that undoing the chain required her to fetch a stepping stool. I almost held my breath until she was safely on the ground again and opened the door the rest of the way.

  “Come in,” she said.

  She shooed us into the living room and apologized that the place was a mess—which it wasn’t at all. I wouldn’t have been all that worried if I had to eat off her spotless floor, and not just because it was such a contrast with Harvey the Hoarder’s hovel. We had a little difficulty persuading her that we didn’t need tea. Or coffee. Or hot chocolate. As soon as I could, I brought the conversation around to our reason for being there.

  “So I guess I see why you need the manure,” I said. “Best thing for roses, I hear.”

  “I don’t know whether I qualify for your program.” Her voice was curiously strong and vibrant—over the phone, I’d had no idea she was—how old? Eighty? Ninety? “I don’t belong to any of your churches, and I’m not broke, and I’m pretty spry for my age.”

  “None of that matters,” I said. “You just have to be a neighbor with something you’re having trouble getting done.”

  “Well, I certainly meet that qualification.” She sighed. “Ever since my husband died, the garden’s gone to H-E-double hockey sticks. When he could get around, he’d go off to some farm or other every fall and bring me a nice load of well-aged manure. Even after he stopped being able to drive, he’d arrange to have some delivered. I have no idea how. I made some calls a few years ago. I found places that would be happy to give me as much as I want if I come and shovel it myself—no way that’s possible. I couldn’t even get there, not having a car. I gave up driving twelve years ago, when I turned eight-five. And there’s places that will deliver, but what they charge—highway robbery! I hope Clyde wasn’t paying that much for it. And they keep asking me how many yards of manure I need, and I don’t even know what that means—do you?”

  “I have no idea either,” I said. “But my dad will. If I tell him how big your yard is, he can do the calculations. And he can supervise the spreading if you like.”

  “Well, I can probably manage to do that myself if I take it slowly.”

  “But unless you really want to, why wear yourself out?” Caroline said.

  “We can get it done in an afternoon,” I said. “And Dad will love it.”

  I wasn’t kidding. I’d grown up hearing Dad preach about the wonders of manure. Nothing made him happier than manuring someone’s garden—well, with the possible exception of manuring his own, which he did every winter. His own, and ours, and anyone else within hauling range.

  “That would be lovely,” she said. “If it’s really not too much trouble.”

  “Dad will have a blast. All you have to do is invite him back when the blooms come in, so he can see the results.”

  “He’d be very welcome.” She looked pleased. “I confess, I don’t get as many visitors as I used to. I’d enjoy the company.”

  I felt a little guilty about refusing her refreshments. I made a mental note to suggest to Dad that while he was here, he should recruit her to the Garden Club. And for that matter …

  “May I suggest one more thing?”

  S
he tilted her head slightly and her brow furrowed, as if expecting there to be a catch.

  “While the crew’s here to spread the manure, I could have one of them lower that door chain for you,” I suggested. “It would be a lot safer if you didn’t have to climb up on a stool every time you answered the door.”

  She blinked.

  “I never thought of that,” she said. “Yes, it would be more convenient.”

  “I’ll make sure one of the manure spreaders is handy at stuff like that, then.”

  I’d brought an industrial-sized tape measure with me to get the dimensions of her rose beds, but since the whole yard was pretty much a rose bed, I just paced out the width and length of her property and subtracted out the estimated size of her house. Then I texted Dad the dimensions and asked if he could locate some sources of nice organic manure—adding that our llama pen could probably supply at least some of what was needed.

  As I could have predicted, he reacted with delirious joy.

  “Is there any time that would be inconvenient to have the mulching done?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “I don’t go out much. The only day I have something on is Wednesday—that’s when the Caerphilly Market delivers my groceries. And that only takes half an hour.”

  “Great,” I said. “I’ll let you know when we’ve got it scheduled.”

  We said our good-byes, and Caroline and I went back to the car.

  “Nice lady,” she said.

  “And amazingly spry for ninety-seven,” I said. “I hope I’m half that lively if I live that long.”

  “So—where to now?”

  Chapter 6

  I glanced at my phone. I had several other errands I could do, but none of them was mission critical. Maybe now was a good time to take Caroline back to the house so she could put on her work clothes and we could get back to Mr. Dunlop’s. But before I could suggest it, Caroline spoke up.