A Holly, Jolly Murder (4 page)

I dialed 911, explained as best I could what had happened and where the house was, and then returned to the kitchen in time to hear Gilda say, “I can't find a pulse.”

“Don't touch him,” I said. “I've called for an ambulance, and there's nothing we can do until the paramedics arrive. We need to wait outside.”

“Oh, dear,” groaned Malthea, the words bubbling from deep inside her. “This is dreadful. Nicholas was a stickler for propriety. It seems…blasphemous to leave him in this undignified position. Let me find a blanket to cover him.”

“No!” I said with such forcefulness that they all stopped staring at the body and looked at me. “The police will want the scene to remain exactly as we found it. They'll be upset as it is that the window's broken and everyone has trampled all over the floor. Now we need to move outside.”

After I'd repeated this several times, Gilda rose and we retreated to the flagstone patio. Morning Rose hauled Sullivan to his feet and steered him across the lawn to a bench beneath a bower covered with dried vines. Fern sank down in one of the chairs and plucked at the buttons of her coat. Gilda announced she would await the ambulance in the driveway. The sun was above the treetops and shining brightly, but no one seemed in the mood to herald the dawn of the winter solstice by embracing the primacy of the Earth Mother. I most assuredly was not.

Malthea drew me aside. “Do you think it was necessary to summon the police? Nicholas had a heart condition that forced him to retire last year. Isn't it likely that he had an attack and hit his head on the edge of the counter as he fell?”

“All I know is that the police have to be notified in this sort of situation,” I said. “If he had a heart attack, the autopsy will reveal it. Do you know who his next of kin might be?”

“You'll have to ask Fern. She's been renting from him ever since her husband passed away some ten years ago. I myself moved into the duplex only two years ago. I used to live in a little house of my own, but the maintenance became too much of a burden. It was a difficult decision, but I finally sacrificed my view of the cemetery and accepted Nicholas's offer.” Her gaze shifted to the kitchen door. “He was not the most assiduous landlord, but I tried to be tolerant because of his willingness to allow the grove on his property. I do miss my midnight strolls among the headstones and marble cherubim, however, and the ease in which I could join funeral parties during interments.”

I tried not to think how I would have reacted if a figure wrapped in a scarlet cape had appeared out of the fog as Carlton's casket was being lowered. “Did Nicholas live alone?”

“I believe so,” she said.

Roy, who'd disappeared during the transition to the patio, came around the far corner of the house. “I found a broken window in his study. There are footprints in the flower bed, but they're so jumbled I can't tell how many burglars there might have been.”

“Burglars?” said Malthea.

“Looks like it,” he said. “I told him he should have an alarm system put in or get a couple of dogs to patrol the grounds. I mean, a rich old guy living by himself in the middle of nowhere—that's asking for trouble.”

No one refuted his final statement, or did much of anything until Gilda came back to the patio in the company of two paramedics with a gurney and an equal number of uniformed police officers.

One of the officers followed the paramedics into the kitchen, but the other, a shiny-faced boy who looked as if he were Caron's age, stopped and stared at me. His plastic name tag identified him as Corporal B. Billsby.

“I know you, don't I?” he said.

As much as I wanted to resort to nothing more than name, rank, and serial number, I managed a nod. “I believe we encountered each other last summer on Willow Street,” I said coolly. “We were never formally introduced.”

He took off his hat and scratched his head for a moment. “Oh, yeah, you're Lieutenant Rosen's girlfriend—the one who keeps butting into his investigations and trying to get herself killed. One of the dispatchers is keeping a scrapbook.”

“Goodness,” murmured Malthea, sounding awed and to some degree, appalled.

The other officer came to the doorway. “The homicide team's on the way. Keep an eye on things while I go meet the sergeant and let him know what's going on.”

Corporal Billsby sized me up with such arrogance that I wanted to shove him into the nearest flower bed. “Are you some kind of magnet for murder, lady? I've been on the force for six years, and I've only seen two cases. Funny that you were in the immediate vicinity both times, isn't it?”

“I wasn't in the vicinity this time,” I said.

Malthea nudged me aside and opened her coat to expose her white robe with its colorful yoke. “Claire merely asked to participate in our winter-solstice ritual across the pasture in the Sacred Grove of Keltria.” She raised her arms as if indicating a touchdown had been scored. “‘The geese fly high this solstice morn, the woods are bare, the snow is deep. We wait for Herne to sound his horn to wake his children up from sleep.' Isn't that lovely?”

“Yeah,” he said as he pulled a notebook out of his pocket. “Is this one of those oddball cults where you all get naked and have orgies?”

Malthea swept across the patio in a bustle of white ripples and stuck her finger perilously close to his nose. “Your ignorance is shocking, young man. Druids worship nature, and we gather on holidays to invoke the inspirational presence of the Spirit. We chant, we dance, we meditate, and we offer benedictions to all the deities. We do
not
get naked, as you so crudely put it.”

“And Wiccans rarely have orgies,” said Gilda.

Corporal Billsby stared at her. “I thought she said you were Druids—whatever the hell that means.”

“Well, I'm not, and if I could find a coven, I wouldn't be here. I prefer the structure and exclusivity of the Wiccan religion.” She glanced at me. “We never allow gawkers to intrude on our ceremonies, and in particular, our initiation rites.”

“Which are orgies?” said Billsby, visibly confused.

Gilda smiled. “That's an oversimplification of a religio-magical tradition that goes back more than five thousand years to the clay goddesses and cave paintings of the Neolithic era. Within the divine is a duality that is both male and female, and when the Great Mother Goddess and her consort, the Horned God, are reconciled ultimately in a divinity which is one, we achieve transcendency. It's as much spiritual as it is sexual. Want to give it a try some time, big boy? You can wear a mask and a cute little fur codpiece.”

I wondered if Corporal Billsby might shoot me in the back if I attempted to dash around the house. It seemed likely, I concluded. His expression was that of someone awakening from a coma surrounded not by loved ones, but by large, green, tentacled creatures. Regrettably, I could tell he'd placed me in the latter group.

“Listen up,” he said, backing toward the kitchen door. “No one moves till the sergeant gets here. Don't talk to each other, either.” His eyes swiveled nervously toward Gilda. “And don't go taking off any clothes. The sergeant won't like it, and he'll already be pissed on account of getting a call at this hour.”

I felt a wave of relief as I realized Peter would not be arriving momentarily to take charge of the crime scene. My presence at past crime scenes had never made his eyes light up and his lips curl into a smile of delight. One would think he'd appreciate the observations of an intelligent, perceptive witness, but that hadn't happened to date. On more than one occasion, he'd visibly bristled like a hedgehog. This time, I thought, I'd be spared the lecture and admonishments to mind my own business.

And there was no reason for me to involve myself in this investigation. I barely knew any of the Druids, and had met the victim only briefly. The winter solstice had arrived without dramatic fanfare, and all I wanted to do was to depart in the same fashion. However, Corporal Billsby had recognized me, so there was little hope my name would slip through a crack in the reports. The media would lapse into an unattractive feeding frenzy when details were made known to them; words such as “witches” and “pagan rituals” would dominate the headlines. The dispatcher could anticipate several new pages in the infamous scrapbook.

As soon as Billsby was safely inside the house, I sat down next to Malthea and gave her an encouraging smile. “Don't worry too much about this. The medical examiner is the only person qualified to attest to the cause of death. He'll probably determine that Nicholas had a heart attack and there was nothing unnatural about his death.”

“But there was,” she said.

My eyes instinctively widened. “Why do you say that? Does it have to do with whatever happened last night that resulted in what you referred to as a ‘calamity'?”

“No one ever forgets where the hatchet is buried.”

“I suppose not,” I said carefully. “What exactly took place last night?”

“We gathered in Nicholas's living room to decorate for the climactic finale of our celebration to be held this morning. Fern and I brought bushel baskets of holly, ivy, and whatever greenery we could procure at this time of year. Morning Rose and Sullivan brought tinsel and string. Roy had cut down mistletoe from the oak trees surrounding the grove. We draped all the furniture with sheets, then hung garlands everywhere. It looked so peaceful, like a secluded glen on a snowy morning. I could sense the approval of the deities and the blessing of Mother Earth.”

“But Nicholas was not happy?”

“I think he'd been exasperated by certain members of the grove for quite some time. He fancied himself to be a purist in matters of Druidry, although he based his interpretation on the nineteenth-century revival. That was absurd, of course, since they were heavily influenced by Freemasonry—and attracted some unsavory occult practitioners as well. ‘Balderdash!' I said to him time and again. ‘Rosicrucians and cabalists were no more Druids than the poets who frequented Mumsy's salon in Budapest.'”

I heard voices from the front of the house and made an effort to steer her back to the subject at hand. “What did Nicholas do that upset you and the others?”

“I was not upset, dearie,” she said chidingly. “I was concerned. Fern, on the other hand, did seem agitated as we drove out here this morning. I clutched my crystal all the way so that its healing power might soothe her. It's so important to conduct rituals with the proper attitude, you know.”

The voices were growing louder. I gave up trying to get a coherent response from her and moved across the patio to a neutral, and I hoped inconspicuous, spot. The first person to come around the corner was a rabbity little man with a medical bag. He went into the kitchen as Sergeant Jorgeson and several other men arrived on the patio.

Jorgeson was Peter's minion, which no doubt explained his dyspeptic nature. He gave me a discouraged look, then gestured at the rest of the crime-scene team to follow him into the house. I tagged along, and despite a scowl from Corporal Billsby, squeezed my way into the room.

“From the looks of it, I'd say he died maybe six to eight hours ago from a bullet wound to the chest,” said the man I assumed was the medical examiner. “The shot was fired from less than three feet away. Any sign of a weapon?”

“No, sir,” said the other uniformed officer.

Jorgeson squatted down to study the bloodied face. “He was beaten before he was shot.” He looked up at the officer. “Anybody else live here?”

“No, sir. Only one bedroom appears to be occupied; the others are kinda dusty. But you ought to take a look at the front room. I don't know what this dude was into, but it sure wasn't interior decorating. It's spooky, if you ask me.”

Jorgeson stood up. “Rather than asking you, why don't I take a look? Would you like to join me, Mrs. Malloy? You'll undoubtedly do it anyway unless I have you handcuffed to a tree.”

“I did not come in here in order to interfere, Jorgeson. I simply want to ask that the people outside be allowed to wait someplace warm. Two of the women are elderly and beginning to turn a bit blue. Hypothermia is not conducive to cooperating in an investigation.”

He gave me a dry smile, then said, “Billsby, you and Cliffern get their names and addresses, then send them to the station to give statements. I want all of them to be available the rest of the day if I have questions. Mrs. Malloy, why don't we have a look at the living room?”

As we went down the hall, I said, “Roy said there's a broken window in Nicholas's study. Have there been other burglaries in the area?”

Jorgeson stopped so abruptly that I almost bumped my nose on his shoulder. Without turning, he said, “Mrs. Malloy, the only reason I've allowed you this much leeway is because you seem to have some idea of who these people are. Once you have shared that with me, you will be free to go home and have a nice hot cup of coffee. I'll need to get your statement when we have time. God knows I'd pay big bucks to be able to see the lieutenant's expression when he hears you were here. His nose will light up like that reindeer's.”

“He's terribly worried that his mother is going to elope with a gigolo named Myron. There's really no reason to add to his troubles.”

“I'm not going to lie to him,” Jorgeson said as he resumed walking.

I caught up with him in the doorway to the living room. I'd planned on an insightful comment about the subtle difference between sins of commission and those of omission, but I found myself speechless. The room had been decorated as Malthea had said, and it did bear some resemblance to a forest glen—if said glen had been seized by hyperactive elves obsessed with pine-scented disinfectant.

“What's the deal?” Jorgeson asked me.

I told him about the aborted celebration in the clearing, stressing that my presence was motivated solely by my adventurous spirit and openness to novel experiences.