Authors: Donna Andrews
“Not that I’m happy the poor woman was killed, of course,” she said. “I mean it’s horrible. It’s just that … I mean…”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “We understand what you mean. There’s nothing cute or heartwarming about murder. My dad’s the same way. He’d rather the locals didn’t knock each other off, but if they must do it, he’d prefer they schedule their crimes when he’s around to help with the medical side of the investigation.”
“Right,” she said. “I mean, I thought it was a chance for me to report on some real news! I was here. I helped find the body. And they’re sending the crime reporter down to take over? Come on!”
“So you’re hoping we can tell you something that will allow you to scoop your colleague, prove to the
Star-Trib
that you do belong on a serious news beat, and keep your byline on the story.”
“Well—yeah,” she said.
“I might be able to help you,” I said. “If you help us.”
She frowned and pursed her lips.
“I’m not asking you to do anything that would compromise your journalistic ethics,” I said. “In fact, all I want you to do is what you want to do—follow the story. Using one tiny but important bit of information.”
“What’s that?” She had her skeptical reporter face on now.
“Phineas Throckmorton didn’t do it,” I said,
“I know you all think he’s innocent—” she began.
“I know he’s innocent,” I said. “There’s proof.”
“What proof?”
“Proof that I’ll share with you as soon as I can,” I said. “With you—not any of the other reporters swarming into town even as we speak. Assuming you help us.”
“Help you do what?”
“Find the real killer.”
She rolled her eyes.
“It’s not impossible,” I said. “There’s a limited pool of suspects.”
“People who aren’t friends of yours?” she said.
“People with access to the courthouse. Did we just stroll in yesterday?”
“You think it’s one of the guards?” Her eyes had grown wide.
“Or someone the guards wouldn’t think twice about letting into the courthouse.”
“Like someone who works for First Progressive Financial?”
I nodded, and waited a few moments while she digested this.
“And of course you realize why you can’t even share this with your management yet, right?” I asked.
I could tell this was uncomfortably reminiscent of her all-too-recent days in journalism school. She considered it, clearly suspecting a trick question, and then shook her head slightly.
“First Progressive Financial—large corporation.” I said. She nodded.
“Star-Tribune
—large corporation. These days, more and more large corporations are getting snapped up by enormous multinational corporations. Or they have overlapping board members. Or one is a big advertiser with the other. Do you know for sure whether or not the
Star-Tribune
and our Evil Lender are connected in some way?”
“I have no idea,” she said.
“Neither do we,” I said. “So until we find out—let’s not tell one large corporation that we suspect the other.”
“That makes sense,” she said. “But unless I can tell them I have a scoop, they’re going to send me home.”
“Not when you tell them how well you’ve insinuated yourself into the town,” Michael said. “Why don’t you stay here? Invited to stay with your new, well-connected local sources—that would certainly impress your paper. And we’ve got plenty of room, and it will be a lot more comfortable than sleeping in the back of your car.”
“How did you— What makes you think I’m sleeping in my car?”
“You’ve got that little dent from the door handle in your left cheek,” Rob said.
Her hand flew up to the cheek in question.
“He’s kidding,” Michael said. “Actually, one of the deputies spotted your car in the lot behind the Quick Mart. The chief scheduled increased patrols of the lot to make sure you were safe, but it must have been rather uncomfortable. Horace told me last night,” he added, in response to my puzzled look.
“I couldn’t get a room at the Caerphilly Inn,” she said. “And that seems to be the only hotel in town. If you’re serious, then yes.”
“Let me help you with your luggage,” Rob said. He drained his cup and leaped up with a great deal more enthusiasm than he usually showed for being up at this time of day.
“And then we can fix you some breakfast,” Michael said.
“You realize that you haven’t really given me any proof,” Kate said.
“What do you think will happen if the killer finds out that there’s one bit of evidence that can overturn the case against Mr. Throckmorton?”
“He’ll go after that evidence,” she said.
“And while we’d like to believe you’re trustworthy, we don’t really know you that well yet. So you can understand why we’re keeping the evidence under wraps for the time being. Rob, get her settled in the room next to Caroline’s.”
Rob saluted—which I hoped indicated not just that he knew where to put the reporter but also that he knew better than to spill the beans to her just yet about his being Phineas Throckmorton’s alibi. Then he bowed to the reporter and gestured to the doorway.
“Is having her stay here really a good idea?” I asked Michael, when I’d heard the front door shut behind them.
“Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer,” he said.
“By which you mean that it will make it easier to keep tabs on what she’s doing,” I said.
“And easier for her to get to know us and come over to our way of thinking,” he added.
“We should warn Festus’s legal team that she’ll be around,” I said.
“Will do.” He pulled out his phone and began texting. Not his typical way of communicating with people, but I supposed he wanted to make sure he wasn’t overheard if Kate came back in.
“What a lovely morning!” Caroline Willner bounced in. Clearly she, too, was a lot more of a morning person than I was. Maybe it was a generational thing. I didn’t know Caroline’s precise age, but she and my ninety-something grandfather were not only good friends but approximate contemporaries. And they both seemed to consider getting up at dawn a virtue on a par with kindness to animals. Or maybe they’d just gotten used to doing it because the animals did. Caroline ran a wildlife sanctuary near Caerphilly, and my grandfather, an eminent zoologist and environmentalist, now spent much of his time with his new toy, Caerphilly’s small but rapidly expanding private zoo.
Caroline’s small, round figure was already neatly clad in sensible slacks and a lime-green polo shirt with the Willner Wildlife Sanctuary logo on the pocket. I smiled back at her and wondered if I should add “Buy new, less ragged bathrobe” to the errand list in my notebook.
“Morning,” I managed to reply.
“Meg, can you give me a ride?” she asked.
“Into town, sure,” I said.
“Well, into town, yes,” she said. “I need to take my animals in for the show this afternoon—but I also need to pick up Mr. Throckmorton’s pigeons and take them out to your grandfather’s zoo. They can stay in the aviary until the coast is clear. And we might make another little stop along the way.”
I was about to beg off when I realized that this might be a useful trip. Stanley Denton was staying at the Caerphilly Inn, which was directly on the road to the zoo. I doubted Caroline would object to dropping by there on our way back. I could look for Denton in person, and even if I didn’t find him, perhaps I’d learn how recently he’d been seen. And maybe some of the Inn staff would have insights on what he’d been up to and how far we should trust him.
Rob and the reporter reappeared.
“So will that be okay?” Caroline was asking.
“Will that work for you?” I asked Michael.
“Sure,” he said. “I plan to stay here this morning and splash in the pool with the boys. Unless you need me down at the tent?”
“Rose Noire can handle it,” I said. “Okay, you’ve got a chauffeur,” I added, turning to Caroline. “By the way, have you met Kate? She’s the reporter who was there when we found Colleen Brown’s body.”
“You poor thing!” Caroline exclaimed. “Are you all right? If it had been me, I’d probably have fainted. But I suppose in your line of work you get hardened to gore and violence.”
“Oh, yes,” Kate said, assuming a blasé look. Since, from her own description, the most gore and violence she’d previously encountered was probably a spat between two Siamese at the cat show, I had to struggle not to laugh.
“Maybe you’d like to come with us, dear,” Caroline said. “Meg and I are going to take poor Mr. Throckmorton’s racing pigeons to a new foster home out at Dr. Blake’s zoo. They’ll be safe from that nasty hawk there. Dr. Blake is donating the space and picking up the cost of their care—it should be a nice, heartwarming human interest story.”
Kate visibly suppressed a shudder.
“Thanks,” she said. “But I’m afraid I’m going to be awfully busy covering the murder.”
“Well, if you change your mind, let me know,” Caroline said. “Come on, Meg. Time’s a-wasting.”
Of course, before we could take off we had to load all of Caroline’s baggage onto the ancient van I normally used to haul my blacksmithing equipment. Under normal circumstances, I might have wondered why she was traveling with an African Grey parrot, a brace of small monkeys, an adolescent hyena, a three-legged wolf, and an eight-foot boa constrictor. But I assumed they were props for her appearance on the bandstand this afternoon. She’d be giving a talk on the important work the Willner Wildlife Sanctuary did by rescuing wild and exotic animals. I only hoped she made her presentation noisy, and that none of the exhibits ate any tourists.
Once the animals and all their accoutrements were on board, we took off for town. To avoid overworking the air-conditioning, I kept the van’s windows open, so all the way to town, passersby could hear the laughter of the hyena, the hooting of the monkeys, and the parrot’s occasional cries of “Danger, Will Robinson.”
Chapter 23
I always liked arriving at the town square before the crowds. I pulled up as close to the tent as possible, unloaded Caroline and her charges, and headed on to the college parking lot a few blocks away. I took my time strolling back to the town square, and as I had hoped, by the time I got there, Caroline and the cages had vanished. No doubt she had charmed someone into hauling them to the tent.
I spotted Rose Noire watering one of the growing number of planters scattered around the town square. Whenever we had to haul dirt out of the tunnel, after one of the few cave-ins or as part of the routine maintenance, the Caerphilly garden club would drop off a few more faux stone planters, which we’d fill with tunnel dirt topped off by an inch or two of topsoil. Then Rose Noire would plant geraniums and the Shiffley Movers would haul the planters to some part of the town square that didn’t already have planters. At first, they’d added a cheerful note of color, but the Shiffleys were having a hard time finding spots for the latest ones—at least spots where they wouldn’t block traffic. And Rose Noire now spent the first hour of her day hauling water to them all.
Two Shiffleys came ambling up. The two who’d slept in the crawl space.
“Mission accomplished,” one of them said to Rose Noire. “And we’ll keep an eye out in case he does it again.”
With that, they saluted and strolled off.
“Mission?” I asked.
“They’ve been rearranging the planters for me. Last night, someone moved all the ones over in the food tent area so they made a path leading directly to the Hamishburger stand. You couldn’t even get to any of the church tents without either climbing over geraniums or going a block out of your way.”
“What a jerk,” I said, shaking my head.
“Of course, we can’t prove Hamish did it,” Rose Noire said.
“Do we need proof?” I asked. “It’s obvious who did it.”
“We need proof if we’re going to kick him out of the town square,” Rose Noire said. “There’s a lot of sentiment in favor of it, but we can’t kick him out just because no one likes him and we suspect he’s been up to something sneaky. If we catch him in the act…”
“Brilliant,” I said. “Although I still say we should get rid of those damned things, too.” I paused beside her little cart, loaded with the gallon plastic milk jugs in which she carried the water, and waved at a line of planters.
“Don’t be negative,” she said, her hands fluttering over the geraniums as if she wanted to block my harsh words from their ears and couldn’t quite figure out how. “Plants are living creatures! How would you feel if someone walked up and told me we should get rid of you?”
“They’re annuals,” I said. “I’m sure they’re philosophical about their tiny roles in the great pageant of life. And actually I didn’t mean getting rid of the flowers. They’re very nice. What if you hauled them all someplace, dumped the dirt, returned the planters to the garden club, and planted the geraniums in a nice sunny place where someone could easily sprinkle them with a hose every day or two? They could live out the rest of their short lives in peace and quiet. I’d even volunteer our yard, and I’m sure Mother would say the same thing.”
“It’s a thought,” Rose Noire said. “But we don’t exactly have time to do that today, do we? Caroline’s waiting for you at the tent.”
Yes, Caroline would be waiting for me, and who knew when I’d have another moment to call my own. So I found a quiet, shady spot by the food tents, pulled out my cell phone, and fished Stanley Denton’s card out of my wallet.
When I called his cell phone, I got voice mail after four rings.
“Hi,” I said. “This is Meg Langslow. I wanted to ask you something.” I added my cell phone number and hung up.
Not the most informative message in the world, but I didn’t think any of the questions I wanted to ask him were ones he wanted to answer, so I thought vagueness would be my best tactic.
Then I left the same message on his office voice mail.
At least I got a live person at the Caerphilly Inn, although asking them to put me through to Denton produced, after seven rings, yet another voice mail. I called back and left my message at the desk instead. Now if I went looking for Denton at the Inn, I could honestly say I’d been trying very hard to reach him.