The Treble Wore Trouble (The Liturgical Mysteries) (22 page)

"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."

"So, he's the one who told Muffy to dip her hand into the water."

"Exactly."

"And why did Mr. Christopher kidnap Rahab a second time?" she asked.

"I'll bet that he still thinks Hog owes him, and, since
Welcome to Mitford
closed, the Little Theater won't be paying for the purchases he just made at Costco to finish his set. Right at two thousand bucks."

I pulled onto Main Street and a moment later we drove onto the downtown square.

"I thought we were going to Noylene's," said Nancy.

"We're going to Mr. Christopher Lloyd's house to get Rahab."

"Well, of course we are."

Chapter 28

Mr. Christopher lived in a two-story frame house on Maple Street. The clapboards were painted light gray. The shutters and trim were a darker gray. The wooden rail that surrounded the wraparound front porch was white. There was a Victorian-style turret decorated with painted shingles, and three chimneys were visible from the street. The house, like all the houses on this block, sat on about two acres, most of the property being behind the dwelling extending deep into the woods. The house was immaculate, stylish, and beautiful.

This was in contrast to the house of his neighbor, Pete Moss.

Pete also had a two-story house, but his was painted pink and trimmed in pale yellow. Why? No one knew. Cynthia didn't know. Pete didn't know. It had been painted a few years ago, and Pete had told the painter, "Just pick something." The flower-beds were unkempt (some unkind person might call them "weeds"), the grass unmown. There was a concrete birdbath filled with water that would scare algae. Pete reported that a bird landed in it once, but expired before it could struggle to the edge. Since Cynthia Johnsson had moved in, things had gotten better inside the house, but she was adamant that it was Pete's job to take care of the outside. It wasn't that Pete was lazy. He wasn't. He was just busy.

"Hire someone to take care of it," I told Pete. "You can afford it."

"Then I'd have to make decisions," he argued. "What color paint do we use? What kind of flowers do you want? What do we do with the dead kittens in the garden? I tell you, it's always something!"

We pulled up in front of Pete's house and got out of the truck. Pete and Cynthia were sitting on the front porch, both in rocking chairs, wearing bathrobes and sipping coffee. They waved at us and we walked up the ragged steps and onto the porch.

"Beautiful morning, isn't it?"

"Sure is," I said. "You seen Mr. Christopher this morning?"

"Nah. But it's only eight o'clock. He usually isn't up and about 'til ten or so."

We all heard screeching coming from behind the house. Kids.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"Moosey and Bernadette are back there playing with the pig."

"Shouldn't they be in school?" asked Nancy.

"Teacher workday," said Cynthia.

"There's a teacher workday every other week," said Nancy.

"At least," agreed Cynthia. "Not my problem. Nothing to do with the mayor's office."

"They showed up here at 7:30 and rang the doorbell," said Pete. "And this is my gol-danged day off."

"Tell 'em to go on home," said Nancy.

"Are you kidding?" said Pete. "That pig loves those kids. A happy pig is a hungry pig. We're going out later this morning."

"Who's minding the Slab?" I asked.

"Manuel and Rosa have it covered. Pauli Girl's helping with the tables."

"Why are you two here?" asked Cynthia.

"Mr. Christopher," I said. "He's got Rahab."

"He's the kidnapper?" said Pete. "You're kidding me!"

"Not only that," added Nancy, "he's a murderer."

"The little Indian?" asked Cynthia.

"No, Muffy," said Nancy.

"Oh, my God!"

"We're going over there now," I said. "If we don't make it out alive, tell Meg that I love her and was thinking about her at the end."

"What!?
" said Cynthia, then lowered her voice and glanced over at Mr. Christopher's house. "
Are you kidding?
"

"Yes, yes, I'm kidding."

* * *

We walked across Pete's yard, avoiding a beaver trap, an old tire, and part of a fence, then crossed onto Mr. Christopher's lawn, the winter rye still green and lush, and climbed the front steps to his porch. I rapped hard using the brass knocker that hung in the middle of the front door. No answer. I tried the knob. Locked.

"Let's go around back," I said to Nancy.

We walked around the side of the house, taking care to stay on Mr. Christopher's property. Pete's side yard was home to blackberry bushes four feet high. Yes, we could eke our way through, carefully avoiding the thorns, but why bother?

Nancy went up the back steps and pounded on the back door that led to the porch. In the meantime, I'd been calling Mr. Christopher's home number. We could hear the phone ringing inside. No answer.

"Hey, Chief!" hollered Moosey. "If you're looking for Mr. Christopher, he left about fifteen minutes ago."

"What? Where did he go?"

Bernadette pointed back into the woods that stretched across the entire length of the block. "He went back there. Into the woods. He had a big ol' bundle with him."

* * *

I'd called Dave and he'd joined us in just a few minutes. Nancy was on the phone calling Helen Pigeon about her two bloodhounds, Buford and Flash.

"They're in Asheville," she reported. "Both dogs are down there for a dog show." Helen sent them with a handler.

"Too bad," I said. I'd gotten both the blanket and the hat — the things Mr. Christopher had dressed Rahab in the first time he took him — out of the back of the truck where I'd left them. I figured that the bloodhounds would be available. The two items were in a rolled-up, brown paper grocery bag sitting on the ground.

"How about one of those Indians?" said Dave. "They can track people in the woods, can't they?"

"Shut up, Dave," said Nancy.

Pete and Cynthia had gotten dressed quickly and now joined us in the back yard.

"Well, let's get going," I said.

"You want me to call Noylene and Hog?" asked Nancy. "Before we start out? Let them know what's going on?"

"Yeah, might as well."

"How about us?" asked Moosey, suddenly appearing. "We can help."

"Nope," I said. "Stay here."

"But we can help," insisted Bernadette.

"Oink," said Portia.

"What she's doing out?" said Pete.

"She wanted to come over and see everyone, so we put on her harness," said Bernadette. "Then she went right for that paper bag."

We all looked over just in time to see Portia the Truffle Pig rip open the paper bag, and start chewing on the hat.

"Hey!" shouted Nancy. "Stop that, you stupid pig!" She ran over and tried to pull the stocking cap out of the pig's mouth, but Portia had a good grip on it. She took a couple of more chews, then decided that it wasn't for her and let Nancy take it away. The blanket would have been next, but Cynthia scooped it up and held it out of reach. Portia sat on her back haunches, pointed her face up at Cynthia and squealed in frustration.

"What on earth?" said Cynthia. "What's wrong with that pig?"

"She's truffling," said Pete. "I don't know why."

"Because she smells truffles, of course," I said.

"What truffles?" said Dave.

"Rahab's truffles," I said. "She smells Rahab's truffle-milk. That pig's nose is ubersensitive. Even better than a dog's. Moosey, Bernadette, get that pig moving. Rahab's in the woods."

* * *

Either there were no other truffles worth finding in these woods, or the scent of Rahab's truffle-milk was so strong that Portia had no problem in following the trail. With grunts, oinks, and snorts, she led us down barely discernible paths. Every once in a while, one of us would find a broken stick or a footprint or some other sign that we were on the right track, but Portia led the way with Moosey and Bernadette in tow.

"Where is he going?" asked Cynthia. "I should have put on hiking shoes."

"I don't think he knows where he's going," Pete said. "He's just going."

"He knew we were onto him," Nancy said. "But how did he know?"

"Varmit must have called," I said. "He's the only one who had an inkling that we were headed his way."

"But why would Varmit call?" asked Cynthia.

"Probably to threaten him. Mr. Christopher did kill Muffy, after all. Once we found the receipts, it didn't take Varmit long to figure it out."

"And now Mr. Christopher's running," said Pete.

"He's got a half-hour head start on us, but he's carrying a thirty pound two-year-old. Eventually that kid's going to start wriggling and want to get down."

"For sure," said Cynthia.

"And when he does," said Dave, "he's ours!"

"Thank you, Joe Friday," said Nancy snidely.

"Joe who?" said Dave.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, the hunt was over. We'd followed our truffle pig through about three miles of forest, up a ridge, across a couple small streams, up another higher ridge, past a waterfall, across several outcroppings with stunning views, and finally to an overlook — a huge boulder that jutted out into space decorated by a single, spindly pine tree clinging to life with roots that inched into every fissure and crevice they could find. The view was breathtaking: mountains to the left and the right, covered in blooming mountain laurel, and in front of us, just past the edge of the boulder, a gorge. We could see peak after peak in the early morning sun and the clouds were hanging like smoke. They'd dissipate in a few hours, but right now they hugged the floor of the valley.

Standing at the far edge of the rock was Mr. Christopher, his bald head glistening with sweat. He was wearing a cream-colored velour sweat suit and white Reeboks and had Rahab by the hand, the boy chewing happily on a carrot. In Rahab's other hand was his bottle. When Mr. Christopher saw us, he bent down and scooped Rahab up into his arms.

"I'm coming out to get the boy," I said. "It's over."

"No," said Mr. Christopher. "Stay where you are." Pause, then, "How did you find me?"

"Truffle-milk," I said.

If the answer confused Mr. Christopher, he didn't show it. "Truffle-milk," he said, "I should have known." Then he said, "I need a deal."

"The deal is that you send my boy back over here and I won't kill you like the pig you are," said Noylene from behind us.

"Oink," said Portia.

"Sorry, pig. Nothing personal," said Noylene. She had a .38 revolver in her right hand and it was pointed right at Mr. Christopher. She pulled back the hammer. The ominous click echoed off the sides of the rock.

"Noylene, how did you get here?" Nancy asked. She wisely had not drawn her weapon. I didn't have mine with me.

"You called me," answered Noylene. "You're not exactly the fastest group of trackers in the mountains."

"Where's Hog?" I asked.

"Coming. He's fat, you know."

I pointed at Moosey and Bernadette. "You kids go on, now. I'm not joking around. Take Portia and go back down the trail the way we came." It must have been my tone, coupled with the obvious seriousness of the situation. I got no argument from either of them and they, for once in their lives, did what they were told. Noylene watched them leave out of the corner of her eye, then focused on Mr. Christopher.

"Now send my boy over here and I won't kill you."

"Chief," said Mr. Christopher nervously, "make her put the gun down."

"Send the child over here to us," I said. "Noylene won't shoot you. Will you, Noylene?"

"Hard to say," said Noylene. "I'm getting itchy and I'm a crack shot. I could hit him right between the eyes, no problem. I just don't want him to fall off the edge hanging on to Rahab. I could shoot him in the kneecap, I guess."

"Mr. Christopher," I said again, "put Rahab down and send him on over."

He decided quickly. "Yeah, okay," he said, his eyes never leaving Noylene. "You put your gun down at the same time." Noylene nodded, and, as Mr. Christopher bent to put Rahab down on the rock, she lowered her gun. The baby's feet found the slab and he toddled happily toward his mother. She tucked the pistol into her waistband, knelt down and held out both arms to her little boy, gathered him up, turned her back on the crowd, and walked up toward the path leading back into the woods. At that moment Brother Hog came crashing out of the forest like a wildebeest.

"Mr. Christopher Lloyd," said Nancy, moving toward our suspect, "you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to ..."

Ka-pow!
The sound of a gunshot split the air and made us all jump. Mr. Christopher looked puzzled for a long moment, then stared down at the dark, red stain spreading across his chest. Without a sound, he took a step back and disappeared over the edge.

All of us spun around to look at the shooter. We were fairly sure that we knew what had happened and that Brother Hog, or maybe even Noylene, had taken matters into his or her own hands. We were wrong. Noylene hadn't turned around and was still walking back up the path into the woods, Rahab in her arms. Brother Hog, red in the face, was standing on the boulder, off to one side, both his hands on his knees, puffing with exertion. Neither of them had a gun. Then, on a large rock about a hundred yards up the hill, we saw Varmit, lowering his deer rifle. Without a word, he turned and disappeared into the woods.