“And have you been setting an example?” I asked. “Chitchatting with him yourself?”
“Far as I can, but I might be the one person he knows better than to trust,” Randall said. “What did he have to say?”
“Is this relevant to the case at hand?” the chief said.
“Maybe,” I said. “He asked if there was anyone in town who didn’t know he was the PI hired by the lender, and I told him no, we pretty much all knew. He didn’t seem surprised.”
Randall nodded.
“We sparred a bit. Then he said something odd.” I paused to recall his exact words. “He said he was beginning to think that this time he might not be playing on the side of the angels.”
Randall nodded eagerly.
“Yes,” he said. “He knows something.”
“Not about the tunnel, I hope,” I said.
“No, about the Evil Lender,” Randall said. “Something that’s making him wish he hadn’t taken the job.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe he’s just figured out that we’re not the raving lunatics the Evil Lender’s PR department has been trying to make us seem. That we’re a town of basically normal, mostly pretty nice people caught in a bad set of circumstances and trying to make the best of them. Maybe he realizes that even if what the lender is doing is legal, it’s not very nice.”
Chief Burke stirred slightly in his chair. He was probably exhausted and dying to go home to bed.
“And maybe none of this is relevant to the murder,” I said. “But maybe it is. Just what made him think he was on the wrong side? Did he figure it out by himself? Or was it something Colleen Brown told him?”
The chief had taken off his glasses and was rubbing his forehead as if feeling a headache coming on. Or maybe doing it helped him keep from dozing off.
“It’s an interesting theory,” he said. “At least it would be if we knew of any connection between Mr. Denton and Ms. Brown. Apart from the fact that they both worked for the Evil Lender.”
“And were seen privately arguing and behaving furtively when discovered,” I said. “According to Muriel Slattery,” I added, preempting what I knew would be the chief’s next question. “Who does have a bee in her bonnet about wanting to be hypnotized in case there’s more useful information lurking in her subconscious, but is in general a pretty astute observer.”
“So that’s what she was going on about.” The chief grimaced slightly. “When she talked to me, she was so focused on the hypnosis part that she failed to mention those bits of useful information that she actually did remember.”
“Hypnotized?” Dad said. “I could probably find someone who could hypnotize her if she really wants to be hypnotized. In fact—”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” the chief said. “Juries tend to mistrust hypnotism, and a sharp attorney would have a field day with a witness who’s been hypnotized. I will explain to Ms. Slattery tomorrow that for now we prefer to preserve the integrity of her potentially valuable testimony. And maybe then I can actually get her to tell me what it is.”
“You should confront Denton with this,” Randall said.
“I plan to,” the chief said. “But Mr. Denton has already told me that his relationship with Ms. Brown, and for that matter with the several other FPF employees stationed here, has grown increasingly testy during the three weeks of his employment.”
“Let me guess,” Randall said. “They kept pressuring him to come up with some information they could use, and didn’t believe him when he said he couldn’t find any.”
The chief nodded slightly.
“Speaking of pressure, Fisher’s been asking me when they can get their building back,” Randall said.
“It’s a crime scene,” the chief said.
“That’s what I keep telling him. And when I do, he says that the crime scene is in the basement, and can’t they have the rest of the building back.”
The chief glowered.
“Are you instructing me to release the rest of the building to FPF?” he began. “Because—”
“Not what I was getting at,” Randall said, holding up his hands as if in surrender. “I’m just telling you they seem to want back in pretty badly. Don’t know about you, but it raises a red flag in my mind. Makes me want to keep ’em out another day or two until we can figure out what they’re up to.”
The chief relaxed again and smiled ever so slightly.
“I’ll have it checked out. And make sure the deputies on guard there are aware that FPF may be trying to regain access. Horace, how long can you stay tomorrow?”
“Depends on the crime lab,” Horace said. “I’ll call first thing tomorrow to make sure they’re not closing early for the holiday.”
“In other words, the Fourth could add even more than a day to our wait for results,” the chief said, with a sigh.
“If anyone asks why it’s taking so long, send them to me,” Randall said. “I’ll give them my speech about the difference between TV and real-life forensics.”
“As I said, I’ll call and make sure someone at least stays to receive the evidence tomorrow afternoon,” Horace said. “If I can make it sound interesting enough, I might get someone to come in over the holiday and work on it. No guarantees, though.”
“Do as much as you can at the courthouse before you take off,” the chief said.
“What about Phinny’s house?” Horace asked. “Don’t you want me to work on that, too? “
“Yes,” the chief said. He was rubbing his forehead as if all of this wasn’t helping his head. “We did a basic search after Rob reported the vandalism, of course,”
“But that was before you realized the vandalism was actually a burglary,” Horace said. “And that the burglar stole a gun that later became a murder weapon.”
“It calls for a whole new level of effort,” the chief said. “But I think we need to seal Mr. Throckmorton’s house so you can focus on the courthouse. Phinny’s not moving home anytime soon—at least we hope he isn’t—and we need to turn the courthouse inside out before we let FPF back in. Or perhaps I can ask the SBI for some help. Anything else?”
Randall shook his head. So did Ms. Ellie and Rob.
I realized there was just one thing bothering me. I kept thinking, “Why now?”
Chapter 21
“What do you mean ‘why now?’” Randall asked.
I started slightly. I hadn’t realized that I’d said it aloud. They were all looking at me.
“Mr. Throckmorton has been in the basement for over a year,” I said. “And the Evil Lender in possession of the courthouse for the whole of that time. Why wait till now to frame him for murder?”
“Somebody high up got tired of waiting?” Rob suggested.
“Maybe,” I said. “But there have been a lot of other things lately. They hire a new security service. They hire a PI. They bring in a hawk to attack Mr. Throckmorton’s pigeons. They maybe even burgle his house. From what I can see they’ve sent down quite a few more FPF personnel. Colleen Brown hadn’t been here that long, had she?”
“About a month,” Randall said. “And yeah, they do have more suits in town now. You saying you know what they’re up to?”
“No, just that it seems a lot’s going on all of a sudden. I’m not sure we should just assume somebody got fed up. Why now? What happened?”
“Maybe it’s something that’s going to happen,” Randall said. “There’s a big court date coming up that has Festus and his legal team working long hours.”
“Tell me about it,” I said. “They’re up on the third floor, you know. Their lights are already on when I get up, and still on when I stagger off to bed, so I figured something big was coming up. Is it in our suit against the ex-mayor or the ongoing battle with the Evil Lender?”
Randall looked sheepish.
“I’ll ask Festus,” he said.
“It’s a good question, actually,” the chief said. He was leaning back in his chair with his fingers steepled, looking noticeably
more awake than a few minutes ago. “All of you, give it some thought. What’s happened recently, and what’s happening soon.”
We all nodded.
“And if you think of anything, don’t try to act on it,” he said. “Come and tell me.”
“Any objection if Meg tries to use her friendly contact with that PI fellow to pick his brains?” Randall asked.
The chief winced, but he shook his head. Suddenly he looked tired again. And then he set his jaw and stood up.
“I’m so beat I can’t think straight,” he said. “Yes, if you run across information that might help me solve this case, I want to know it. I’d be happier if you’d all stick to running the festival and doing legal battle against FPF and leave me to solve the murder, but I’m not hoping for miracles here. Just try not to do anything illegal or anything that’s going to paint a bull’s-eye on your back if the killer notices you doing it.”
He nodded good-bye and strode out of the room.
A few moments of silence followed his departure.
“So, Meg,” Randall said. “You’ll track down the PI and see what he has to say.”
“Assuming Rose Noire can wrangle the festival in my absence,” I said.
“I’ll do some data mining to see if I can come up with any more answers to that ‘why now?’ question,” Ms. Ellie went on.
“I’ll talk to Festus,” Randall said. “And I’m going to check out this new guard company a little more carefully.”
“Why?” Ms. Ellie asked.
“Those clowns don’t behave like any normal guard service I’ve ever heard of,” he said. “All this saluting and siring.”
“Seems a little over the top,” I agreed.
“Couple of my cousins have worked as guards, unarmed or armed,” Randall said. “Talked to one of them earlier today, and he also thinks they sound pretty bogus. More like some kind of nutcase paramilitary group than a professional security outfit. He recommended I check with the Department of Criminal Justice Services—that’s the state agency that regulates security companies. See if they’re really operating legitimately.”
“I’ll see what I can find out about their management in the public records,” Ms. Ellie said. “It would be interesting to know if there’s any history of suspicious deaths at other properties where they’ve been working.”
“It’s all kind of futile, isn’t it?” Horace said.
We all turned to look at him. Normally the prospect of a day spent microscopically examining a crime scene would have cheered Horace up, but he looked tired and discouraged.
“Futile in what way?” I asked.
“What can we really do?” he asked. “It’s pretty obvious the killer’s either a Flying Monkey or someone else who works for the Evil Lender—and we don’t have any inside knowledge about them. In fact, just the opposite—we’ve been trying to avoid all contact with them, and they with us. It’s like … like … like expecting the Montagues to know what the Capulets are up to.”
“Hey, it’s not that bad,” Rob said. “Montagues and Capulets really isn’t a good metaphor. It’s more like…”
“Like the American colonists against the occupying Redcoats,” I suggested.
“Precisely,” Ms. Ellie said. “We outnumber them. And we may have been trying to avoid them, but let’s not pretend we haven’t been keeping an eye on everything they’ve done since the minute they arrived here.”
“And they’re not from around here,” Randall put in. “That puts them at a disadvantage. We know the lay of the land—they don’t.”
“We know the character of the locals—they don’t,” Ms. Ellie added.
“And most of them are doing this because it’s their job,” I added. “We’re doing this to protect our homes.”
Horace looked surprised.
“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” he said. “It doesn’t sound as discouraging when you put it like that.”
“Way cool,” Rob said. “I’m getting chills. Makes me want to go and throw a truckload of tea into Caerphilly Creek.”
We all chuckled, and wished each other good night. But my own good humor evaporated as I made my way up the dimly lit staircase. In spite of my brave words, I was feeling discouraged. Almost defeated. The tunnel crawling, on top of my blacksmithing, had made every bone in my body ache, and I kept seeing visions of Mr. Throckmorton and the chief led away in handcuffs, the Evil Lender triumphing in court, and the county board sadly telling me and Michael, “We’re sorry. We don’t want to seize your land. But we’re dead broke and we owe the lender so much money and there’s nothing else we can do.”
As I trudged upstairs, I could see the light spilling down from the third floor, where Festus’s staff was apparently still hard at it. Since our enormous old Victorian house was much larger than we needed, Michael and I had been happy to offer Festus the third floor for his support staff. Most of the time I found it comforting to know they were all up there working so hard for our benefit. But lately we hardly saw them. Most of them had taken to sleeping up there on cots and sleeping bags, and subsisted entirely on pizza, Chinese carryout, and care packages from the church food tents. Was it only the long hours that made them look so anxious? Or did they know something about the case that we didn’t?
I was still in my gloomy mood when I peeked in again on the boys, both still sleeping peacefully. Jamie was clutching a stuffed boa constrictor longer than he was—a cherished Christmas present from my grandfather.
The sight filled me with a fierce determination to do anything necessary to make sure that the boys would be spending their next Christmas right here. Next Christmas and every Christmas after it, until Michael and I were little gray-haired senior citizens wrapping up stuffed boa constrictors for our own great-grandchildren.
Michael hardly stirred when I slipped into bed, or even when I slipped out again to remove the sippy cup that had gotten shoved down near the foot of the bed and brush the scattered Cheerios off the sheets.
Chapter 22
As usual, the boys woke us up long before I’d have gotten out of bed on my own. Michael put them in their high chairs with small helpings of whole-grain Cheerios. I gathered a selection of fruits and vegetables from the refrigerator and set them by the cutting board where Michael would be readying them for the boys, in accordance with our longstanding policy on keeping me away from sharp implements before 9 A.M.
As I was rinsing out the coffeemaker and making a resolution, for the hundredth time, to do a better job of cleaning up the kitchen at bedtime, the doorbell rang.
“At this hour?” Michael said, looking up from the cutting board.
I glanced at the clock. 7 A.M.
“Keep cutting,” I said. “I’ll take care of our visitor.”
“Good idea.” He waved the knife in the air. “I could easily be tempted to use this on someone who shows up at this hour.”
I dried my hands and headed for the door. The doorbell rang again before I reached it.
“This had better be important,” I muttered. There was a time when all our friends knew Michael and me better than to ring our doorbell at this hour. The arrival of children had changed things—especially since, to their parents’ great dismay, both boys appeared to be more lark than night owl. But even though we were up—just barely—7 A.M. was frightfully early for anyone to be ringing and pounding with such insistence.
I opened the door and found Kate Blake, the reporter from the Star-Tribune, raising her hand toward the doorbell.
“Finally,” she said. “I need to get into your library.”
“Around back,” I said, pointing to the brick path, clearly marked with a sign, that led to the library entrance. “And it doesn’t open till ten.”
“But I need to get in there now!” she said.
“Sorry,” I said. “I can’t help you.”
I started to close the door. She stuck her foot in the opening.
“Listen, lady,” she said, putting her hands on her almos
t nonexistent hips. “I’m on deadline. If you don’t let me into your wretched little library this instant I’ll be forced to mention you by name as one of the benighted denizens of this backwater town who have been misleading and stonewalling the press ever since we got here!”
“If you do that, then your editor will get a call from my attorney,” I said, in my most pleasant tone. “Or perhaps I’ll make the first call myself, and suggest to your editor that if he employed reporters who could ask civil questions, instead of whiny, entitled little brats, he might see more news and fewer defamation of character suits. Now move your foot, or you’ll be sorry when I slam this door.”
“Now see here—” she began.
“Look, kid,” I said. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that anyone capable of calling me a benighted denizen has some rudimentary grasp of the English language. Did you happen to notice that I didn’t say ‘I won’t help you’? I said ‘I can’t help you.’ I don’t have a key to the library.”
“But it’s in your house,” she said.
“And when the library moved in, we had the doors rekeyed. Ms. Ellie Draper has a set of keys, and I assume the other librarians who open do. But I don’t, nor does anyone else living here. So stop taking your impatience out on me.”
Her shoulders slumped.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have tried to browbeat you. It’s just that I’m under such stress because of this deadline.”
“Maybe you’re in the wrong business, then,” I said. “Your deadline can’t be all that pressing. Today’s Star-Trib is still being delivered. You must have at least a few hours before you have to turn in your story for tomorrow morning’s issue.”
“Yeah,” she said. “The paper’s deadline isn’t until about ten p.m. My deadline’s a lot shorter. My editor only sent me down here because he thought it would be a silly human interest story. He’s sending one of his crime reporters down to cover the murder. So unless I can prove I’ve got some kind of inside track or hot lead, I go back to D.C. as soon as the crime reporter gets here. My editor said something about sending me to a cat show. That’ll make the fourth one this year.”
Some Like It Hawk Page 15