The Gift of the Magpie

by Donna Andrews

  “I can probably find work for everyone here if I have to,” I said. “But I won’t complain if you whisk a few of them off for another good deed.”

  Minerva strode off, calling the names of various choir members as she went. The rest of the volunteers seemed to be gathering around me.

  Including Josh, Jamie, and Michael. I was touched at how disappointed the boys looked.

  “So I guess we don’t get to pack any more boxes for Mr. Dunlop,” Josh said.

  “Not today,” I said.

  “Won’t he still want his stuff packed up when he gets better?” Jamie asked.

  “I’m sure he will,” I said, trying to project an optimism I didn’t feel. “But we can’t go ahead without him. So in the meantime, anyone who wants to can help with other Helping Hands projects.”

  Although I was speaking to the boys, I said it loudly enough that the rest of the waiting volunteers could hear us. I turned back to the crowd.

  “Okay, who here knows how to sew?” I asked. Most of the women and two of the men raised their hands. “How would you like to help with a quilting project?”

  I spun out the tale of Mrs. Dinwiddie, whose grandmother, a legendary local quilter, had died leaving one last ambitious project unfinished. And the fact that even if Mrs. Dinwiddie had been a quilter, she was living in an efficiency apartment so small she didn’t have room to spread out a bath towel, much less a queen-sized quilt. As I talked, I texted Robyn to ask if we could use the parish hall for the quilting project. Luckily she was by her phone and quickly texted back that it would be fine, and she could meet the volunteers there within the half hour.

  “So, does anyone know Mrs. Dinwiddie?” Two women raised their hands. “Great! You two can go over to her apartment and fetch all the quilt pieces. Actually, you might want to take another person or two with you to carry everything. And the rest of you, go fetch your sewing baskets and assemble in the Trinity Episcopal parish hall for a big quilting bee!”

  Amid a buzz of excited chatter, about half the crowd streamed off in the direction of their cars—except for half a dozen who were already forming an ad hoc refreshments committee. Their faces showed that for most, their new assignment was arguably an improvement over clutter busting. The rest of the volunteers, about three-fourths of them men, crowded closer. I glanced up at Randall.

  “Can you use a work crew for that handicapped ramp?” I asked.

  “Sure can,” he said. “We were thinking that might have to wait till poor Harvey’s situation was sorted.”

  “Next project,” I said to the crowd. “Anyone with carpentry skills—Randall could use you on a crew to build a wheelchair ramp.” I rattled off the address. “If you’re nearby, go home and fetch your toolboxes. If you’re not, just meet Randall there.”

  “Roger,” Randall said, and strode off. Most of the men and at least half of the remaining women followed.

  We were down to a scant dozen volunteers. Including Michael—who was probably a better carpenter than many of the men, thanks to years of building sets. For that matter, he’d probably spent enough time on costume crews that he could have done just fine helping with the quilts. But I suspected he was planning to volunteer on whatever the boys would be working on.

  “The rest of you are probably going to want to take lessons in sewing or carpentry sometime soon,” I said. “At least you will once you hear the project I have for you. We’re going to fertilize Mrs. Diamandis’s rose garden.”

  Expressions of relief crossed a few faces, and even a few chuckles.

  “Michael, why don’t you start them off with that nice pile of well-aged llama manure behind our barn? And when that runs out, Dad’s been collecting a list of the local organic farmers who’d be glad to let us haul away a few truckloads of the stuff.”

  Much laughter. A few people winced. But they all copied down Mrs. Diamandis’s address, and most of them dashed off to their cars.

  “Here, you’re going to need this.” Michael handed me a foil-wrapped breakfast burrito. “Seth’s giving me a ride.” He nodded at where our neighbor from across the street was pulling up in his pickup truck. “So I can leave you the Twinmobile. I’ll just move it a little closer before we take off.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “The way the sky looks, you might not get more than one load of manure in before the rain starts. And I’m not sure anyone will want to shovel manure in the middle of a rainstorm.”

  “We’ll at least make a start,” he said. “After that I’ll see if they can use a few more hands on the wheelchair ramp.”

  And then everything stopped for a few minutes as the EMTs came dashing out with Harvey. Their rolling cart was hung with medical gadgets—an IV bag and other things I couldn’t name. Dad was running along behind. Remembering that huge pool of blood on the garage floor, I avoided trying to get a better look.

  The grim look on Dad’s face told me all I needed to know.

  Once the ambulance had raced off, Beau Street saw what was probably the first traffic jam in its existence. Then the road cleared and police vehicles outnumbered civilian ones, and something that looked deceptively like peace and quiet settled over the neighborhood.

  A few people had stayed to rubberneck, which I knew the chief would find annoying. Cordelia and Rose Noire had seated themselves on the front steps of Harvey’s house and seemed to be keeping an eye on the stragglers. And at least enough people had taken off that there was a clear space for Horace to park when he drove up.

  He stepped out of his car and stood, looking at Mr. Dunlop’s house with a stricken look on his face.

  “Oh, God,” he muttered. “Please tell me it’s not so.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know you were that close to Harvey. Should we call in someone else to work the crime scene?”

  “What? No, I barely knew him. It’s this house. It’s my recurring nightmare, having to work a crime scene in a place like this. Do you know how hard this is going to be? How long it’s going to take? How impossible it will be to do it well?”

  “Oh, right,” I said. “Would it make you feel better if I told you that we don’t even know for sure that it is a crime scene? Could be just an accident. And whatever happened didn’t happen in the house anyway.”

  “It didn’t?” A condemned man getting a reprieve on the steps of the gallows would have worn the kind of expression that was now spreading over his face. “Then where did it happen?”

  “In the garage.”

  “So smaller, at least,” he said.

  “And a lot less cluttered. Almost normal, in fact. Follow me.”

  I led him over to where Aida was standing, talking to Chief Burke as she guarded the garage doors.

  “Hey, Horace,” she said. “They took Harvey away, but I got some photos while the EMTs were working on him.”

  “What does it look like?” Horace asked.

  “The garage’s not nearly as cluttered as the house,” Aida said. “But there was a lot of random stuff stored up on the joists. Looks as if a honking big brass vase fell down and hit him on the head.”

  “Ouch.” Horace winced.

  “A spittoon, actually,” I said.

  “Ick,” Aida said. “And here I was, thinking if there’s an estate—er, a yard sale later, how nice the thing would look holding flowers on the altar if only folks could get past the fact that it had almost taken Harvey out of this world.”

  “I think even if they didn’t know its bloodthirsty history they’d have a hard time getting past the fact that it was a spittoon,” I said.

  “Would anyone even know that?” Aida asked. “I didn’t.”

  “Old folks would,” the chief said. “And according to Dr. Langslow, the spittoon didn’t fall on him.”

  “Oh, no,” I muttered. I had a feeling I knew what he was about to say.

  “Someone tried to murder Mr. Dunlop.”

  Chapter 15

  “Murder him?” Aida winced slightly. “You’re sure? I mean, it
sure looked like an accident—like the vase—er, spittoon—fell down from the rafters and hit his head.”

  “He was hit over the head by the spittoon,” the chief said. “And yes, it could have fallen on him from above. But only once. No way it could jump back up into the rafters and tumble down to whack him again.”

  “Ah,” Aida said.

  “It couldn’t have … um … rebounded?” I asked. I’d have said “bounced,” but it sounded too frivolous.

  “Three blows of roughly equal force,” the chief said. “So no. It’s attempted homicide. And with all due respect to Dr. Langslow, I’ll be astonished if poor Mr. Dunlop pulls through. So let’s get Horace in to start working the crime scene. Meg, can you find someone reliable to guard the door while he’s working? I’d like for Aida to start interviewing some of those blasted volunteers to see if anyone saw anything suspicious.”

  “I could stand guard,” I said. “Assuming I qualify as reliable.”

  “Maybe later,” the chief said. “Right now, we’re going to find a quiet place, and you’re going to tell me exactly how you found Mr. Dunlop, and then after that, everything else you can think of about him and what went on here yesterday. Maybe your grandmother could stand guard for a bit.”

  Horace hoisted the heavy bag containing his crime scene kit. I heard him utter an audible sigh of relief when he saw the relatively uncluttered garage interior.

  I went to fetch Cordelia. She and Rose Noire were on the porch, talking to a Shiffley carrying a tool bag. I didn’t recognize him, but I spotted the Shiffley Lock & Key truck parked by the front walk. They turned to me.

  “You still need the door opened?” he said.

  “You should probably ask the chief.” I pointed toward the garage.

  He nodded and strode over.

  I turned to Cordelia. “The chief would like you to keep an eye on the garage door, if you’re willing.”

  She nodded, and dragged over a chair from Harvey’s porch so she had a place to sit.

  When I got back to the garage, the chief and the locksmith were both standing, gazing at the door.

  “If it’s not on him he didn’t drop it in here,” Horace called back.

  “Blast,” the chief said. “Yes, we’ll need you to unlock the house. Can we wait until Horace has had a chance to examine the locks? And then, if we don’t locate those keys, I may need you to change the locks on the doors. I don’t like the idea that whoever tried to kill Mr. Dunlop may be running around with access to my crime scene.”

  “Front and back doors?” the locksmith asked.

  “Yes,” the chief said. “And the garage.”

  “And the furniture store,” I said. Seeing their surprised looks, I went on. “We’ve been moving all of Harvey’s stuff into the old Furniture World building on Scott Street. I gave him a key last night so he could feel … I don’t know. More in control of his stuff.”

  “The furniture store, too, then,” the chief said. “Too early yet to tell what’s relevant. But not till after Horace has seen them.”

  “I’ll do a visual inspection now, figure out what kind of locks I’ll need, and then fetch them,” the locksmith said.

  The chief and I paced back and forth in Mr. Dunlop’s backyard while I told him everything I could remember that seemed at all relevant. The morning visit yesterday, when Cordelia and Caroline and I had seen the inside of the garage—which yes, had looked very much then as it did now. What we’d accomplished in the decluttering. The various interactions I’d had with his neighbors and his cousins. Our trip to the concert and the party at the furniture store. How I’d dropped him off just before midnight, full of ham and scalloped potatoes and chocolate cake, just a little merry from the wine, and guardedly optimistic about the next day’s work.

  When he’d finished asking me what felt like several million questions, he thanked me.

  “One more thing,” he said.

  Just then his phone rang.

  “It’s your father.” He turned slightly aside as he answered. “How is he?”

  His face hardened slightly, and I knew it wasn’t good news.

  “You did what you could,” he said. “I’ll notify the family. And see if you can get the autopsy scheduled as soon as possible.”

  He hung up and stared into space for a moment or two.

  “So now we have a murder investigation.” He turned and went back to the garage. He said a few words to Aida, then went inside to see what Horace was doing.

  Poor Harvey. I looked around for something to do—anything to distract myself. There were still a few gawkers lurking nearby, but none of them were my volunteers. Which meant they were the chief’s problem, not mine. Or, more immediately, Aida’s problem, since he’d put her in charge of keeping people away from the crime scene. The locksmith had scoped out all the doors and departed. Cordelia and Rose Noire, relieved of guard duty, had gone off to one of the other Helping Hands projects in progress. Probably about time I did the same thing myself.

  I was about to get into the Twinmobile and make good my escape when a battered van drove up and parked crookedly just opposite Harvey’s house. Not a car I recognized. In fact, definitely not from around here—it had North Carolina license plates.

  I’ve never denied being curious. I paused, car keys in hand, to see what this new arrival was up to.

  A young woman got out of the van, pulled a key ring out of her pocket to lock the door, then stood up and looked around as if to get her bearings. She wore a baggy black men’s overcoat, black leggings, and clunky black ankle boots. The only note of color was a blood-red scarf wrapped several times around her neck with the ends trailing down her back—presumably for decorative purposes rather than warmth, since it was made of some kind of delicate open lacework. Her eyes were hidden behind enormous sunglasses, in spite of the fact that the day was becoming increasingly overcast, and there was something lost and waiflike about her.

  She started down the walkway to Harvey’s house, and then froze in place, like a rabbit who has spotted a hawk overhead. I suspected once she passed the boxwoods that flanked the opening she’d spotted the bright yellow crime scene tape.

  I strolled over.

  “Can I help you?” I asked.

  She started, uttered a small yelp, and stared at me, as frozen as if I’d said, “Stick ’em up!”

  My first impression had been off—she wasn’t young. In her mid-thirties, probably. I could tell better if I saw her eyes. And not all that waiflike—that was a fleeting impression created by the oversized coat. She was maybe a hair on the plump side of average. And also on the short side, about five two without the thick-soled boots.

  “Are you looking for someone?” I asked.

  “Is this Mr. Harvey Dunlop’s residence?” Her voice was high, almost squeaky, with a faint almost lisp. And curiously mannered. I suddenly wondered if she’d cultivated that voice in her teens, in an attempt to seem arch and sophisticated, and never realized that she’d outgrown any charm it had ever had.

  “Yes, it is,” I said. “Are you a friend of his?”

  “Yes, I— Who are you, anyway?” I liked her the better for this tiny burst of spirit. And when she took off her sunglasses to give me the benefit of her indignant gaze, I revised my estimate of her age upward. At least forty.

  “My name is Meg Langslow.” I held out my hand. She reluctantly pulled hers out of her coat pocket and barely touched mine by way of a handshake before shoving it back in her pocket.

  “Oh!” She suddenly looked alarmed. “You’re the one who’s making Harvey clear out his stuff!”

  Okay, she probably did know Harvey.

  “Actually, it was the county building inspector making him declutter,” I said. “I only came to help him get through it as painlessly as possible.”

  Just then Aida, who’d been patrolling the perimeter, came around from the back of the house and spotted us. She strode over in our direction.

  The woman in black froze. Was it mer
ely shyness, or had Aida’s uniform spooked her?

  “Let me introduce you to Deputy Aida Butler,” I said to the woman. “Aida, this is a friend of Mr. Dunlop’s. Ms.—Sorry, I don’t know your name.”

  “Tabitha,” she whispered. “Tabitha Fillmore. Why can’t I just go in to see Harvey?”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Fillmore,” Aida said. “Mr. Dunlop passed over this morning.”

  I winced slightly. To Mother’s despair, I deliberately avoided euphemisms, and I thought “passed over” was a particularly odd one to use if you were talking about someone who’d been bashed over the head three times with brass spittoon. I’d have just said “he’s dead.” But maybe it was a good thing I wasn’t the one breaking the news to anyone. Even “passed over” hit Tabitha hard. She gasped and staggered slightly, as if about to faint under the shock of the news.

  “Are you all right, Ms. Fillmore?” Aida had slipped a protective hand under Tabitha’s arm. I was braced to catch her in case she keeled over completely—she was already listing in my direction.

  “If I could just sit down for a minute,” Tabitha said.

  “Of course,” Aida said. “Meg, maybe we could use your car?”

  I unlocked the Twinmobile and opened the back door, and then we helped Tabitha into the seat. From her glance at the house and the slightly peeved expression on her face, I suspected she had been expecting—even hoping—to do her sitting down in the house. I rummaged in the back of the car, found the water jug and plastic cups I kept there, and poured her a glass.

  “It’s such a shock,” she said as she took the proffered water. “How did it happen? Was it the hoard? Ever since he told me how bad it had gotten, I’ve been expecting him to go like the Collyer brothers.”

  “Collyer brothers?” Aida looked puzzled.

  “Famous hoarders,” I explained. “Lived in a brownstone in New York City. One of them died when some of their stuff fell down and crushed him, and after that happened the other one was trapped inside and died of starvation.”