"Eh," said Nancy with a shrug. "Just testing a theory." She looked at me. "FYI. Bad cop, bad cop usually doesn't work."
"Sit down," I said, putting a hand on his shoulder and pushing him back into his chair. "Put your head between your knees for a couple of seconds." He did as he was told, and a moment later looked back up.
"I would never, never have done anything to hurt Muffy. Sure, I got into trouble with the bank and I tried to get out of it by going to the casino. I had this Blackjack system that I bought on the internet. It couldn't fail, they said. Just keep at it, it'll pay off, they said."
"Listen Varmit. I'm inclined to believe you, as dumb as you are, messing with those thugs at the Friendly Gaming Club. We need to look around here anyway. That okay with you? We can wait for a warrant, if you want."
"No, go ahead."
"You have to come with us."
Varmit nodded sadly and got back to his feet. We walked outside, past the vehicles and toward the barns. Then Nancy said, "Hang on a sec. Is that Muffy's purse in your front seat?"
Varmit turned back. "Yeah. Mother P brought it with her to the funeral. Muffy left it in the sacristy."
"Can I look through it?" asked Nancy.
"Sure, whatever you want," said Varmit. "The door ain't locked." There was no fight in him now.
We waited for a minute while Nancy got the handbag out and dumped it onto the hood of the Land Rover. Then Varmit and I started back toward the first of the three barns.
"When does your crew come in?" I asked him.
"Eight o'clock. We're down to three guys now, plus Muffy and me. It's been a bad couple of years, but it takes that many just to take care of all the critters."
"Yeah," I agreed. "The economy. It's bad all over."
The barn was old and showed its age, one-inch-thick oaken planks over timber framing, mortise and tenon joints locked together with hand-cut oak pegs and a tin roof — probably built sometime in the 1930s, but kept in good repair by a few generations of dairymen. Varmit lifted the crossbar off the double doors.
"Hayden!" called Nancy from the car.
I turned away from the barn and saw her looking at something in her hand. She waved it at me.
"Yes, ma'am," I called back. "Find something?"
"Come on back here," she said. "You gotta see this."
"What?" said Varmit. He seemed suddenly nervous.
"Let's check it out. C'mon."
We walked back across the yard to the Land Rover where Nancy had poured out the contents of Muffy's purse.
"What did you find?" I asked.
She handed me a thin slip of paper. A store receipt. A Costco receipt. I silently read down the list of items.
Fairmont Bonded Leather Club Chair - $349.99
5 Light Pewter Chandelier - 159.99
Table lamp - 32.49
1 Set Custom Drapes - $259.99
There were fifteen or twenty other purchases on the list. Then, one from the bottom, right ahead of a Mahogany Side Table - $42.99, was a listing for Huggies Supreme Little Movers, Size 5 - $54.99. Diapers.
"Muffy?" I asked, trying to make sense of it.
"But why?" Nancy said. "Why would she do it?"
"For money, maybe. She knew about the bank note coming due."
"What?" said Varmit. "What is it?"
I looked at the cashier information on the receipt. Register 13. March 11, 11:07 a.m. Last Thursday.
"Varmit," I said. "Where's the stuff that Muffy bought at Costco last Thursday?"
"She took it to Mother P at the church," he answered, still confused. "There were some fake flowers. A ton of 'em. Some greenery, ferns, and a bunch of crap like that. A couple big loaves of bread. Some colored bottles. You know. Decorations."
"She didn't buy a Leather Club Chair?"
"Huh?"
"Didn't spend $1973.46?"
"Of course not!"
"Oh, man," I said, realization dawning. "Costco."
"What?" said Nancy.
"What?" echoed Varmit.
Just then Nancy's phone rang. She answered it. "Yeah, Dave. What?" Pause. "You're kidding! Okay, we're on the way." She snapped the phone shut and dropped it in her pocket.
"Noylene just got the call. The kidnapper wants another two thousand bucks."
Varmit looked very confused. "What kidnapper?"
"Noylene's baby was kidnapped again last night."
"And you think I did it?"
"Nope," I said. "Two reasons. First of all, you're here, so you couldn't have made the call just now."
"Oh, yeah. That's a good alibi, huh?"
"The best."
"What's the second reason?"
"I know who the kidnapper is. The murderer, too."
Chapter 27
"Should we go rescue Rahab?" asked Nancy.
"He's fine for the moment," I answered. "I know where he is. We need to go look in the warehouse."
"Which one?" asked Varmit.
"The one that Mr. Christopher was using for the set of his TV show."
"The one on the end, then," said Varmit, pointing to the building farthest from us. He's been moving stuff in all week, ever since he cancelled Welcome to Mitford."
"All the sets from the play. That's what he told us," I said.
"Yeah," said Varmit, as we walked across the compound. "Me and Muffy were helping him with his TV show. He was gonna film it here since we had this empty warehouse now. Then, if he hit it big, we'd charge him rent on the space, plus we'd have an interest in his show."
"Sounds like a good plan," I said.
"Costs a lot of money," Varmit said. "Not to film. That's pretty cheap what with these new cameras and all. But the buy-in for the partnership at the Home and Handgun Network wasn't chicken feed. And if you wanted any guarantees to get your show on and keep it on, you had to be a partner. That's what Mr. Christopher told us."
We'd reached the warehouse. Varmit pulled out a ring of keys, fumbled through them, then chose one and opened a side door. Once inside, he clicked the switch for the overhead lights and they flickered on, one at a time, down the length of the building. Forty feet wide by one hundred feet long, the two warehouses had been constructed to give Blueridge Furs plenty of room to grow. At the close end was a roll-up garage door, closed and locked, that looked to be ten feet tall by twelve wide. There was a small forklift parked beside the door and five wooden pallets stacked with loaded burlap sacks.
Varmit saw me looking at them. "Minque chow," he said. "High protein, high fat. Fish oil. Has some hormones mixed in as well. We have it made specially in Nebraska. It brings the Minques to full harvesting size in a year and keeps their coats lustrous."
There were no windows in the building and no air-conditioning ducts that I could see. The floor was concrete and looked hardly used. The metal framework went all the way up to the top of the twelve-foot-high gable roof, crisscrossing beams and crosspieces taking up most of the last two feet. The roof was corrugated metal. The electrical system was encased in silver conduit and fastened to the large side beams located every eight feet, then strung across the ceiling joists to power the lights. At the far end of the warehouse was Mr. Christopher's production studio, and it was in that direction that we headed.
* * *
The clouds loomed darkly and undulated ominousness as they filled the parish hall while lightning bolts crashed around us, as if Zeus was wiggling his fingers, trying out his new cubic zirconia mood rings. The dancing had reached a fevered pitch and the Praise Band in the corner was playing "Carmina Burana" for all they were worth.
"Oh, man," said Pedro, "I wish it was 2010 again."
Suddenly everything stopped. The Praise Band froze in the middle of "O Fortuna," the lightning blinked out, the clouds, although still hovering intensely and uncasually, no longer loomed.
"What did you say?" sputtered Fluffernutter O'Brannigan.
"I said, I wish it was 2010 again."
"Keeeee!" howled the winkle. "How did you kno
w?"
"How did I know what?"
"How did you know that I had to give you one wish?"
Pedro shrugged.
"The Big Brickle didn't know she had a wish and I wasn't obliged to tell her. When she passed me over to you, she passed the wish as well."
"Sure," said Pedro. "Everyone knows that."
"That's what you want?" the leprechaun asked. "You could have anything ... all the burritos you could eat with Santa Hortensia Vaca Cara feeding them to you for all eternity."
"No, thanks," said Pedro. "I do like burritos, though."
"The wish doesn't change events," warned the leprechaun. "Everything stays the same. The year just becomes 2010."
"Fine," said Pedro.
"And I'm free," said Fluffernutter, shaking a bargaining finger. "My servitude is over."
"Fine," said Pedro again. "I never liked you, anyway."
* * *
"This is a nice stage set," said Nancy. "I feel like I'm in Martha Stewart's living room."
"Don't let Mr. Christopher hear you say that," I said. "He and Martha do not get along. Not since that Home Show in New Hampshire back in '99."
"Ah, yes," said Nancy. "I remember seeing the video and thinking, 'How on earth did Martha Stewart manage to get Mr. Christopher on the floor in a headlock while wearing pearls?'"
"She's very clever," I said. "I've seen her make a shrimp cocktail out of three dead fishing minnows, a used plastic specimen cup, and a pack of McDonald's ketchup."
Mr. Christopher's set looked exactly like every other set on HGTV with the added benefit of his signature "Fourteen-pared-to-nine Layers of Style." As I remembered from our frequent one-sided conversations, the layers included paint, flooring, high-ticket upholstered items, accent fabrics, furnishings, accessories, plants, lighting, and a couple of other things. He'd laid down a bamboo laminate floor that would show up well on camera, and the flats that had, just the other day, provided the illusion of walls at the Little Theater were in place and enhanced by a lovely front door, crown molding, and a large window. The Mitford furniture had also found its way to the set. Plants, lamps, cushions, the two upholstered chairs, the end table — all had their specific space. Added to these was a leather club chair, a large desk, and a set of drapes that I hadn't seen in the theater. Hanging from a cable in the middle of the room, so it would be visible to the camera's eye, was a sparkling chandelier.
Facing the front of the set, about six feet back and ten feet off the floor, were three theater lights attached to a black bar. They were plugged up with a yellow extension cord that ran across the ceiling, down one of the side beams and dangled just below the outlet. I walked over, plugged the cord in, and the stage area lit up.
"I'll check the desk drawers," said Nancy, snapping on a pair of latex gloves that she always seemed to have stashed in one of her pockets. "Any idea what we're looking for?"
"Nope," I said, and walked back to the stage. I got down on my hands and knees, put my cheek near the floor and scanned underneath the furniture for something, anything.
"This one's locked," said Nancy, tugging on the bottom left drawer.
"Pop it," I said. I got up and walked to the door on the set, opened it, and looked backstage, such as it was. Only one thing there. A Costco tote — a big vinyl bag displaying a couple of nature photos, the Costco logo, and adorned with dark green straps. It wasn't empty. I picked it up and walked back onto the set.
"That's Muffy's," said Varmit. "At least, it looks like hers."
I opened it and looked in. There was a set of ornamental lights on a string, some speaker wire, and a ten pack of recordable CDs. There was also a slip of paper in the bottom. A receipt. I looked it over. On the paper was a list that included an American flag, artificial flowers, designer bottles in different colors, some bread, greenery, and a few other things. The information was listed as Register 13, March 11, 10:59 a.m.
"I don't think it's Muffy's," I said. "I think it's Mr. Christopher's." I pulled out the other receipt, the one we found in Muffy's purse, and compared them.
"They were both at the same Costco in Winston-Salem at the same time. Same check-out register. One right behind the other."
Nancy looked up from the desk. "They switched receipts."
"They sure did." I walked over to where Nancy was worrying the lock. "Don't worry about damaging it," I said. "Bust it open." My foot kicked something resting behind one of the legs of the oversized desk and it skittered loudly across the wooden floor.
"What was that?" asked Varmit.
"I don't know," I said, following the metal object. I reached down and picked it up just as Nancy levered the drawer open with the sound of splintering wood.
"Holy smokes!" exclaimed Nancy, reaching into the drawer.
"Holy smokes!" I said, looking at the conical, silver object in my hand.
Nancy held up a Neumann German-made taser in her latex-gloved hand.
I held up the silver tip from a cowboy boot.
* * *
"You wait here for those Indians," I told Varmit. "You don't leave here 'til you take care of it. Pay them what you owe them. No more, no less."
"But ..." started Varmit.
"Then you tell them that I already know about their extortion attempt, and if I ever see them in St. Germaine again, I will personally contact the gaming commission and see that the Friendly Gaming Club is shut down. Their bosses will not be happy with them." I gave Varmit a hard look. "You think you can do that?"
"Yeah, I can do that."
* * *
"So, what do you think happened?" asked Nancy, once we were in the truck and headed back to town.
"Three different crimes. Three motives."
"Here's what I think," said Nancy. "You stop me if you think I'm off."
"Go," I said.
"I think that Mr. Christopher killed Johnny Talltrees. That was first."
"Okay," I said. "We'll probably get a fingerprint or some DNA off the taser to confirm."
"So, Johnny Talltrees comes out to the farm to shake down Varmit for the cash he owes. He wanders into Mr. Christopher's studio since he's just looking around. There's Mr. Christopher setting up his living room." She looked out the window and thought for a moment. "There's an altercation and Mr. Christopher nails him with the taser. Little guy probably never saw it coming."
"That'd be fair to say."
"He dies of a heart attack," continued Nancy. "Probably not what Mr. Christopher expected, but he cleans up, puts the body in his trunk and drops it off in the alley behind the Beautifery where the garbage man finds it the next morning. How's that?"
"Almost perfect," I said.
"What do you mean, almost?"
"It wasn't Mr. Christopher. We found the body on Ash Wednesday. That means, according to Kent, he was killed on Tuesday between noon and four p.m."
"So?" said Nancy.
"So, Mr. Christopher was in Columbia all day Tuesday. He had a meeting with the Home and Handgun Network. Didn't get home 'til midnight."
"What? No fair! I didn't know about that!" argued Nancy.
"Police work," I said with a grin. "It never takes a lunch break."
Nancy looked irked. "Well, if he didn't do it, and Varmit didn't do it ..." She thought for a second. "Aw, crap! It was Muffy."
"I believe so. Like I said, we'll probably find a fingerprint or some DNA."
We turned off Old Chambers and onto Oak Street heading back toward town.
"Then I guess it was Muffy who kidnapped Rahab the first time," she said. "Of course! To help out with Varmit's gambling debt. Exactly seventy-five thousand dollars." She nodded to herself, making sense of it in her head. "She found out about it, and decided she could help. We always thought it was a woman."
"Nope. She didn't do it. That was Mr. Christopher."
"Aw, man!" said Nancy and slumped in her seat in disgust.
"Muffy was in the office when we got the call from the kidnapper. Remember Dave drooling all over
her?"
"I remember someone drooling," said Nancy. "I don't recall exactly if it was Dave."
"Well ..."
"Yes, yes, I remember. So Mr. Christopher kidnapped Rahab." It wasn't a question this time.
"Yeah. No reason to buy diapers for set dressing in a play that has no babies."
"Why did Mr. Christopher kidnap Rahab?"
"He blamed someone for the failure of his last TV show."
"That was no secret," said Nancy. "He told anyone who would listen, but he never said who."
"He told us that it was a case of religious bigotry."
"So it was Brother Hog," Nancy said. "Hog turned him in to the HGTV execs."
"I don't know how the old preacher did it, but somehow he was responsible and Mr. Christopher found out. He believed that Hog should pay for his buy-in to the HHN TV network. That amount was seventy-five thousand."
"How did you know that?"
"He offered me the same deal," I said.
"Again, not fair!" Nancy griped, then said, "You don't think that Muffy and Mr. Christopher were in it together?"
"If they were, there would have been no reason for Mr. Christopher to kill her."
"Dang it!" Nancy said. "I thought maybe she was killed by accident. You know, a series of unfortunate events."
"I might have bought that except for the receipts."
"Of course!" Nancy said. "They were right next to each other in the check-out line. Muffy saw the diapers!"
"Maybe. Or Mr. Christopher thought she saw the diapers. But you can't get out of Costco without showing the correct receipt to the door clerk. Mr. Christopher must have helped Muffy put her purchases in her car, and at some point they got their receipts mixed up. Muffy had Mr. Christopher's in her purse and he knew she'd look at it eventually. She's the only one who knew it was his. Plus, Mr. Christopher is a topnotch electrician. I heard him giving Varmit directions on rewiring a three-way switch."
"Sheesh! Anything else?"
"Well, since you asked, Mr. Christopher was the one who staged Muffy's last performance. Varmit told me she was working with an acting coach on that song. Only one of those in town. And dipping her fingers was a last-minute change. The lid to the font had only been taken off that morning."
The Treble Wore Trouble (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 20