Percival opened one eye and peered at me. No, not at me—over my shoulder. A few seconds later someone knocked at the door.
“Owls have good hearing, right?” I asked as I stood up.
“Oh, yes.” Being asked an ornithological question seemed to cheer Grandfather up. “Nearly all of them have very highly developed auditory processing systems—helps them hunt at night, you know. And in many of them—barn owls, for example—the shape of the face acts as a sort of funnel to channel sounds more effectively to the ears.”
I headed for the door to see who was visiting.
“And they have excellent directional hearing,” Grandfather was saying behind me. “They compare the difference between when a sound hits their left and right ears—they’re sensitive to a difference of as little as thirty millionths of a second. Then they swivel their heads until the sound hits both ears at the same time, and bingo! They know where to go to catch their prey.”
I opened the door and wasn’t thrilled to see Grandfather’s visitor.
“Hello, Dr. Czerny,” I said, loudly enough for Grandfather to hear.
“I came to see Dr. Blake,” he said.
“It’s really late, you know,” I said. “Are you sure—”
“Let him in, Meg,” Grandfather said.
“Are you sure?” I said. “You should be in bed.”
“Never put off till tomorrow what you can get over with today.”
“I’m not sure that’s how the saying goes.” I stood aside to let Dr. Czerny in.
Czerny scurried into the living room and sat on the sofa opposite Grandfather. Perched on the edge of it, really. With his stoop-shouldered, hunch-necked posture, he looked more than ever like a buzzard. I saw him glance at the stacks of papers and then back at Grandfather.
I came over and leaned on the arm of Grandfather’s sofa.
“So?” Dr. Czerny gave a bright smile. “What do you think? Any suggestions about where I should apply?”
Grandfather was rubbing his temples again, eyes closed. Then he sighed and opened his eyes again. I could spot the precise moment he came to his decision.
“Tell me,” he said. “Did Dr. Frogmore know when he hired you that you’d stolen your dissertation from Julia Taylor? Or did he find that out later?”
Czerny’s mouth fell open, and all the color drained from his face.
“Or was it the falsified data in your subsequent publications that he found out about?” Grandfather went on. “Either way, he made you pay, didn’t he? Turned you into his flunky. Kept you so busy doing his administrative scut work that you hardly had time to do any research. Although it was probably pretty easy to be philosophical about that, since he’d have stolen anything worthwhile you came up with anyway. So no, I haven’t yet had any ideas about where you should apply. It’s going to take a while to think of a place that’d be willing to hire a plagiarist. A plagiarist who might soon have his Ph.D. revoked.”
“You’re crazy.” Czerny stared at Grandfather for a few moments, then looked up at me. “He’s losing it. Dementia. I have no idea why he’s saying this.”
“Grandfather’s brain is just fine. But he’s missing the most important point, isn’t he?” I asked. Both Grandfather and Czerny looked at me, puzzled. “The part about you killing off Dr. Frogmore.”
“You’re crazy, too,” Czerny said.
“I thought that lunatic lumberjack killed Frogmore,” Grandfather said.
“Lunatic lumber baron,” I corrected. “And no, Dr. Czerny did. Didn’t you?” I turned to Czerny. “We blew it. You had the same means and opportunity as any of the prime suspects. Better than most—you were sitting by him at dinner. But we all kept counting you out because we couldn’t figure out a motive for you to kill him. Because we thought you had the strongest possible motive to keep him alive. You’d be killing the mentor who protected you, got you tenure, shielded you from being found out as incompetent. Killing the goose that was laying all those golden eggs for you. We couldn’t imagine that you’d have any reason to kill Frogmore. But you did. He’d been blackmailing you. And you wanted out. Now that the chief is here at the hotel—”
“Now that the chief is here, I think I’ll be making my exit,” Czerny said. “As soon as I figure out where the hell he parked his snowmobile.”
He took his hands out of his coat pockets. He was holding a gun. I have never liked having guns pointed at me or my family to begin with, and this was the second time tonight.
“Don’t be an idiot, man,” Grandfather said. “You can only go so far on a snowmobile. Just turn yourself in and tell them you have no recollection of poisoning Frogmore. They do it all the time on television.”
“I don’t think it’s that easy.” He turned to me. “You know where the snowmobile is, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t. No idea.” I didn’t want to tell him that the snowmobile had only dropped the chief off and headed back to town. He might do something crazy. Crazier than what he was already doing.
“I don’t buy that,” he said. “A busybody like you—you always have to know everything that’s going on. Tell me where the snowmobile is or I’ll shoot him.”
He pointed the gun at Grandfather.
“Okay,” I said. “It’s— Wait. Just one question—how the Dickens did you manage to get the nitro spray on his food without anyone noticing?”
“I wasn’t going to do it till after the banquet. Thought I’d slip it into an after-dinner drink. But when those idiots in owl costumes began doing their can-can dance, everyone in the place was watching them and laughing their eyes out. I pulled out the little bottle I was keeping it in and dumped it in his Scotch and water.”
“Hell of a thing to do to your mentor,” Grandfather growled.
“Mentor!” Czerny shrieked so loudly that both Percival and I startled. Grandfather didn’t seem the least bit upset. “Frogmore was my jailer. Yeah, when the Taylor woman abandoned her research, I picked it up and carried it through. Why not? She wasn’t going to use it. But I never should have let Frogmore find out. He made my life a living hell. I should have killed him years ago. I’d do it again. But I should have picked something that would work slower. I didn’t realize he’d go that fast. I wanted him to suffer. And by the way, I know what you’re doing, Blake, and I’m not falling for it.”
“I’m not doing anything,” Grandfather said.
“Flicking your eyes over at the door to the terrace,” Czerny said. “I know damn well there’s three, four feet of snow piled up out there. Nobody’s going to come dashing in from the terrace to rescue you.”
“I was looking at the damned owl,” Grandfather said. “You seem to have startled him.”
Grandfather was right. Percival was wide awake and staring out toward the terrace.
“He’s already been shot once,” Grandfather continued. “Try not to take him out too when you start blasting.”
“Oh, very funny.” After a brief glance at Percival, Czerny focused back on me. “I mean it. Where’s the snowmobile?”
“I don’t know, but maybe I can figure it out—let me think a sec.” I frowned as if thinking hard enough to bring on a headache. “The chief came in the front door. He probably parked it right outside.” I was trying very hard not to look over in the direction of the door to the terrace, because my peripheral vision told me it was slowly sliding open. What in the world could—no! It had to be the boys, coming in through their tunnels. Were they trying to sneak in to play a prank on their great-grandfather? Or were they attempting some kind of foolhardy rescue? In either case, I had to get Czerny out of the room before they came in.
“Yes, I’m pretty sure it’s right outside the front door.” I was having a hard time keeping my voice steady. And keeping my eyes away from the sliding glass door. The cold air was coming in through the opening. Any second now Czerny would notice. How could I get a message to the boys to stay safely outside—or, better yet, to run away and get help? I heard a slight metal snick—what
were they doing?
“Maybe you and I should go out there and look for it, then,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Suddenly a live mouse sailed over the top of the cage and landed on Czerny’s head. He yelped, dropped the gun, and slapped at his head with both hands. I dived for the gun, and then shrieked as the mouse leaped off Czerny and onto my shoulders. Luckily I managed not to drop the gun in my surprise, and the mouse quickly scuttled away. I heard a squeaking noise and another mouse landed on Czerny. Followed by another.
And then Percival rose up. He uttered an unearthly screech and dived toward the latest airborne mouse—which had just landed on Czerny’s head.
Czerny screamed and dived for the floor, which reduced the damage Percival’s talons did when he seized the mouse. Percival landed on the mantel with the mouse in his talons, dislodging the evergreen garland draped over it and knocking several small breakable things to the floor in a tinkling crash. He leaned down to pluck the mouse from his talons, and it disappeared into his bill. Except for the tail, which dangled down for a few seconds until Percival took another gulp and sucked it in.
I stood up, still a little shaky, and pointed the gun at Czerny, who was still cowering on the floor.
“Freeze, you scum-sucking plagiarist.” I hoped my voice didn’t sound as shaky as I felt.
“Hey, Mom,” Josh said. “Should I throw another mouse?”
“Stand by,” I said. “Percival still has to catch two of the ones you’ve already thrown.” At least I hoped the owl could manage it. I wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news to Ekaterina if he didn’t.
The cottage door slammed open. I kept my eyes on Czerny.
“Police! Freeze!” The chief. “Meg? Dr. Blake.”
“We’re both fine,” I called over my shoulder. “And I have Dr. Czerny’s gun and am pointing it at him so he doesn’t try anything else stupid.”
“Chief,” Grandfather bellowed. “Give us a minute to secure the owl before you enter.”
“Secure the owl?” the chief echoed. “Do I even want to know?”
“Jamie, we need to lure Percival back into the cage,” Grandfather said. “Toss me a mouse.”
“It’s Josh. Jamie went to fetch the cops.” But another mouse came flying over the cage. Grandfather caught it deftly.
I fixed my eyes on Czerny so I wouldn’t have to watch. Although I deduced from their comments that between them, Josh and Grandfather used one of the mice to lure Percival back into his cage.
“All clear,” Grandfather called. “Safe to come in now, Chief.”
The chief and Horace raced in. The chief kept his gun trained on Dr. Czerny, who didn’t put up any resistance when Horace secured his arms behind him. Then Horace scrambled to his feet, pulled a gold-embossed evidence bag out of one of his pockets, and held it open so I could drop in the gun.
“Let’s hope we’ve got the real killer this time,” I said. “Dealing with all these gun-waving loonies is really taking a toll on my Christmas spirit.”
“These people attacked me!” Czerny shouted. “I came here to retrieve some papers I lent Dr. Blake, and they pointed a gun at me and sicced their vicious owl on me. They’ll probably tell some wild story about me killing Dr. Frogmore—they’re crazy.”
He looked around with an expression that really did look like outraged innocence.
Grandfather held up his phone and pressed something. Czerny’s recorded voice picked up in mid-sentence.
“… life a living hell. I should have killed him years ago. I’d do it again. But I should have picked something that would work slower. I didn’t realize he’d go that fast. I wanted him to suffer.”
Grandfather clicked the phone off.
“Meg,” he said. “When you get a chance, remind me to thank whoever set up that dictation software on my phone. Turned out to be pretty useful after all.”
Chapter 33
Monday, December 23, 10:30 A.M.
“Careful! You almost knocked the head off one of the wise men!”
“Take it slowly, then. I can’t see where I’m going, and there’s a pointy little glass star that nearly puts my eye out whenever you stop suddenly like that.”
I was standing on the Inn’s front walk, sipping a cup of hot chocolate and watching as several tall, lanky workmen from the Shiffley Construction Company loaded our Christmas tree onto a flatbed truck. After extensive discussions about how long it would take to undecorate the tree Mother had set up in the Madison Cottage and return all the ornaments to our almost completely denuded tree at home, Randall Shiffley had offered to have the tree moved as is.
Moving a fully decorated twenty-foot fir tree is no small project. I wasn’t the only person standing on the sidewalk watching.
“Amazing!” Lachlan Pearce was documenting the whole ordeal on video with his cell phone’s camera. And would probably be sharing it with his friends and family, once the Wi-Fi was back. I rather enjoyed imagining a flock of swimsuit-clad, flip-flop-shod Australians, sitting on a beach somewhere, taking a break from prawns and cricket to watch how the crazy Americans celebrated Christmas.
A little farther down the sidewalk a burgundy-and-gold bus with “New Life Baptist Church Choir” painted along the sides was slowly filling up with departing scientists and their suitcases. Although flights were beginning to take off from Dulles Airport, long-distance shuttles and taxis were still hard to come by, so the Reverend Wilson had offered the use of the bus—and Deacon Petrie, its seasoned driver—to transport anyone determined to make the attempt to get home for Christmas.
The Vosses were among the bus passengers, so I enlisted Mrs. Voss to make sure Reverend Wilson’s kindness didn’t go unrewarded.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ve already started taking up a collection. We’ll tell Mr. Petrie that it’s to cover gas, and if there’s any left over he should use it for that lovely choir. And there will be plenty left over. Meanwhile, this is for you.”
She handed me a long cylindrical package wrapped in what I recognized as one of the papers Mother had brought along for her package-wrapping nook.
“You shouldn’t have,” I said. “Should I open it now or save it for Christmas Day?”
“Open it now if you like,” she said. “Or I can tell you what it is so if you don’t like it you can regift it without having to rewrap it. It’s my crewelwork owl. Remember, George drew Ned Czerny in the Secret Santa, but you can’t expect us to go ahead and give him a present after he tried to shoot your grandfather.”
“That’s wonderful.” I hope she realized I meant it. “I love crewelwork, and your owl’s one of the most impressive examples of it I’ve ever seen.”
“Enjoy it.”
“Am I the only one who thinks it a little odd that Dr. Czerny even signed up for the Secret Santa?” I asked.
“George and I figure he was hoping he’d draw someone important so he could ingratiate himself.” She laughed. “And when we’d exchanged all the other presents, we figured out he’d drawn Jeff Whitmore. There was a bottle of wine wrapped up with poor Jeff’s name on it. He turned it over to your cousin Horace for forensic testing. Didn’t look as if it had been opened, but Jeff didn’t want to take any chances. I’m going to get on board and stake out a good seat. Thanks for everything!”
She gave me a quick hug and trotted over to the bus.
In addition to the bus, there were eight or ten cars either parked in the long loading zone or double-parked beside it, as people who’d driven to the conference prepared to make their trek home. The lobby was crowded with people watching the Weather Channel on the Inn’s TV, listening to various radios, and taking turns using the available satellite phones to call relatives and friends to ask about road conditions along their routes. Ekaterina had set up a huge map of the eastern half of the country behind a sheet of glass, and Sami was kept busy with his dry-erase markers, updating the map as reports came in about conditions along various major routes.
And Ekaterina ha
d waived the usual checkout times so guests wouldn’t have to worry about that when making their decisions about whether to go or stay.
“It’s not as if we expect a great many people to arrive today,” she said, in a philosophical tone. “And if some of the departing guests encounter difficulties and turn back, we will take care of them.”
Although I sensed she wouldn’t be unduly distressed if none of them boomeranged back and she was left with only the fifty or so guests who’d either chosen to stay on or resigned themselves to the fact that travel to their ultimate destinations was impossible. She and the entire Inn staff could use a little relative peace and quiet.
From what I could learn, the roads in Caerphilly were in pretty good shape compared with most places east of the Mississippi. Our governor had declared a state of emergency, and in some parts of Virginia the National Guard was hauling first responders around in Humvees and trucks, and dispatching debris-reduction teams with chainsaws to clear away the thousands of fallen trees that would otherwise interfere with the snowplows. But Caerphilly probably boasted more chainsaws per capita than your typical county, and since a great many of those chainsaws belonged to members of the Shiffley clan, who would turn out in force when Randall gave the word, our recovery was proceeding with lightning speed.
“So there’s no need for us to trouble the National Guard,” Randall had said with more than a touch of pride when he dropped by early in the morning to run the chief back to town. “In fact, we’ll probably be reaching out tomorrow to see what we can do for less fortunate neighboring counties.”
I could tell the idea of playing Good Samaritan to neighboring counties really psyched him. I wondered if he was actually going to follow through with his idea of sending a couple of Shiffley cousins with chainsaws on the New Life Baptist bus, in case it ran into difficulties with downed trees in one of the less fortunate counties that lay along the route from Caerphilly to Dulles Airport.
I was distracted from that thought by the arrival of another vehicle—still a sufficiently rare occurrence that nearly everyone in the loading zone stopped to see what it was and a few people from the hotel came running outside to join in the gawking.
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