A Holly, Jolly Murder (5 page)

He raised his eyebrows. “Does the lieutenant know you're a closet Druid?”

“I am no such thing,” I said. “Perhaps you don't need my cooperation after all. Start with the Arch Druid. The only thing you're liable to get out of her is a long-winded account of her mother's childhood among the cannibals. The boy in the black jacket, known around the high school as Mr. Mortician, has a reputation for refusing to speak to authority figures. Fern's snappish, but Morning Rose will be happy to share her skewed take on developmental psychology, and—”

“Okay,” he said, holding up his hand, “I get the point. Let's find a less leafy room where you can tell me who these people are and why”—he glanced into the living room—“they do whatever it is they do.”

“So that you can tell the lieutenant how deeply involved I am?”

“You are obligated to cooperate fully with us, Mrs. Malloy. Anything less could be construed as impeding an investigation.”

“Our definitions of ‘fully' may differ, Sergeant Jorgeson. I will certainly give a factual accounting of any interaction I may have had with those people. It won't take long.”

Peter would have had me hauled to an interrogation room and left me to ponder my transgressions over cold, oily coffee and a floor show featuring fleas.

Jorgeson grimaced. “All right, I won't say anything to Lieutenant Rosen, but I can't falsify the reports or drop your statement in the trash. When he gets back, he'll have to be briefed.”

But only if the investigation had not been concluded to the prosecutor's satisfaction, I told myself in a slightly optimistic voice. Otherwise, Peter would have plenty of ongoing cases that he'd temporarily abandoned. Someone in the police department might take a wicked pleasure in telling him all the details of the case. I might even do so myself—when time has blunted the impact.

I nodded at Jorgeson. “Shall we take a look at the broken window in the study?”

Jorgeson allowed me a quick look at Nicholas Chunder's study, but the room was unremarkable except for the broken shards of glass on the hardwood floor. It was all very masculine, as I'd expected. The desk was large, with a computer and printer protected by plastic covers, neat stacks of folders, and an expensive-looking gold pen and pencil on a block of marble. There were bookcases against three walls, an antique globe on a wooden stand, assorted leather chairs for visitors, and between the two windows behind the desk, a framed chart of a multilimbed family tree. Oak, no doubt, with lots of acorns.

“Six to eight hours ago,” I said as we walked toward the kitchen. “That would put the time of death between midnight and two. I suppose after they'd decorated the living room, the others left and Nicholas turned off the lights and went to bed. When he heard the window break, he went downstairs to investigate. Bad decision.”

“Could have happened that way,” Jorgeson commented.

“Which means,” I continued, “that the members of the grove had nothing to do with this.”

“Didn't say they did.”

I held in a growl of frustration. “They're not your basic Sunday-morning congregation, and their beliefs are out of sync with traditional theology, but that doesn't make them a gang of cold-blooded killers.”

Jorgeson toured the front rooms and made sure all of his men were busily dusting for fingerprints, taking photographs of the scene, and measuring pretty much everything in sight. The paramedics had put Nicholas's body in a bag and transferred it to the gurney. The medical examiner mumbled a promise to do a preliminary autopsy as soon as possible, then followed the squeaking gurney out the door. We continued into a dining room with wainscoting, drab wallpaper, and a somewhat menacing chandelier above a table that could accommodate two dozen guests without any bumping of elbows.

We sat down next to each other rather than at opposite ends of the table, where megaphones might be required to communicate. Before Jorgeson could open his notebook, however, one of the officers came into the room. “I checked out the broken window,” he said, shaking his head. “The dust on the sill hasn't been disturbed. Somebody broke the glass, but nobody came into the house that way.”

“What about the locks on the doors and windows?” said Jorgeson.

“All the windows on the ground floor are locked, and the dead bolts on the doors are sturdy. We're still looking for signs of a forced entry. I'll be damned surprised if we find anything, though.”

“The back door was locked when we arrived,” I volunteered.

Jorgeson sat back and eyed the chandelier. “So the victim either admitted the perp, or the perp stayed around after everybody else on the decorating committee left.”

For some odd reason, I was offended at his aspersion on the grove, since it was impossible not to share a sense of camaraderie with those with whom one rendezvoused before dawn. What's more, their potential as steady customers at the bookstore could not be easily dismissed.

“Isn't it more likely,” I said, “that someone came to the door, posing as a stranded motorist, and asked to use the telephone? Besides that, he knew plenty of other people who might have been invited for a late-night drink. I'm sure he was a member of all sorts of organizations, like the genealogy society and the historical society and the”—it was getting tougher—“the Sons of the Celtic Revolution. He used the Internet, too. There have been numerous stories in the newspaper about people who strike up an acquaintance and then discover they're electronic pen pals with inmates in prisons and serial killers.”

“Very eloquently put,” said Jorgeson. “Tell you what, Mrs. Malloy—you go on home and write down anything you think might be helpful. Don't leave out any theories, including leprechauns, the CIA, and the Mafia. I'll send someone by later to pick up your notes.”

“What about the others?”

“They'll be home within an hour. Until we get some feedback from forensics and the medical examiner, we can't do much more than try to get an idea of what happened last night. The weapon may turn up and be covered with lovely, legible prints. One of the neighbors out on the road may have seen a hitchhiker—or better yet, disgruntled Boston basketball players.”

“Jorgeson,” I said as I stood up and buttoned my coat, “you've been working too long with Lieutenant Rosen. Your feeble attempt at humor is indicative of the depth of your neuroses. Caron's announced she's entering a convent. Shall I inquire if it's coeducational?”

“Good-bye, Mrs. Malloy. Drive safely.”

Vowing to order my own copy of
Applied Magick
so I could cast some ingenious curses, I went through the kitchen to the patio. The Druids were no longer present. I continued to my car and drove back to Farberville at an immodest speed, although I wasn't sure that ending up in a ditch would prove I'd climbed out of a rut.

I stopped by my apartment to change into dry shoes. Caron had left a note saying that—despite the indignity and source of further humiliation associated with the need to rely on public transportation—she'd taken the bus to the mall, and that she might linger after work to look at the Christmas decorations. Under no circumstances would she shop.

And I, of course, might get an apology from Jorgeson and a teary request to conduct the investigation into Nicholas Chunder's premature departure.

I drove to the store, started a pot of coffee, and sat down on a stool behind the counter to write down a few observations for Jorgeson. After nibbling the pencil and staring at a blank page, I concluded that I knew next to nothing about any of the Druids. I knew where Malthea, Fern, and Roy lived, but that information had already been recorded. All I really knew about Morning Rose and Sullivan was that they disagreed in matters of child rearing, curses, and skyclad performances in their backyard. Gilda rode a bicycle, worked at the hospital in some unspecified capacity, and trimmed her hair in the dark.

None of it seemed worth writing down, but I wrote a brief synopsis of what interactions I'd had on the slight chance that Jorgeson would keep his word, which meant Peter would not be immediately informed that I was involved in even the most minimal way. It would be best if the death turned out to be a suicide, but the team had not uncovered a weapon—and it was hard to envision Nicholas breaking the window, then beating his face on a kitchen counter before shooting himself with an invisible gun. He could have, I supposed, although my theory of a late-night visitor seemed more likely. Roy might have seen or heard something, including the shot; whether or not he'd share it with the police was debatable.

I paced up and down the aisles, pausing to rearrange paperbacks and tidy up the rows of thin yellow study guides that accounted for much of my income during final exams. When I realized I'd covered the territory more than once and was mindlessly tapping the edges of the same guides, I went into my cramped office and called Luanne Bradshaw, a divorcée of a comparable age who owns a secondhand clothing store and has been responsible for a couple of my forays into deduction.

“You'll never guess where I went this morning,” I began coyly.

“Then there's no point in trying, is there?” she said, not nearly as enthralled as I'd hoped. “I'm having a few people on Christmas Eve for nog and nonsense. Caron's welcome to come, but she'll probably go into a coma at the suggestion. Can you and Peter make it?”

I told her where he was and why, then said, “He sounded as though he'll stay there until either his mother stuffs a negligee in the pocket of her mink coat and vanishes, or Myron is exposed as a polygamist with weeping wives scattered across the country like fast-food franchises.”

Luanne chuckled. “Maybe this'll cause him to rethink his position on matrimony and stop bugging you to tie the knot and don the gay apparel of legirons and joint tax returns.”

“Maybe,” I said, then changed the subject by telling her about Caron's job at Santa's Workshop. “Do you want to go to the mall with me this evening?” I added. “For fifteen bucks you can sit on Santa's knee and whisper your kinkiest fantasies in his ear.”

“I might. What does he look like?”

“Well, Luanne, his nose is like a cherry and the beard on his chin is as white as the snow. When he laughs, his little round belly shakes like a bowlful of jelly. All in all, he's a right jolly old elf.”

“Ho, ho,” she said without inflection. “Pick me up at six and we'll check him out. Under all that fur and felt and excessive facial hair may well be a muscular bimboy who'll fill my stocking on Christmas Eve.”

After I'd hung up, I realized I'd never told her about my early-morning activities. I was curious to find out what progress Jorgeson had made—if any—but I suspected he might not appreciate a telephone call any more than Peter would have. Malthea had not elaborated on her comment that Nicholas's death might not have resulted from natural causes, and had never really given me a clue as to the source of the friction the previous evening. Nicholas had objected to Gilda's desire to celebrate the winter solstice without “the artificial restrictions of clothing,” to use Morning Rose's phrase. The conflict, however, seemed more a matter of squabbling over policy than a calamity of measurable magnitude. What's more, the remarks in the grove seemed to imply Nicholas had emerged the victor.

I pushed aside the sparse notes and propped my face on my hands, wondering how I'd react if Peter came home and never again mentioned matrimony. Relieved—or rejected? Could our relationship continue indefinitely until the time came when we were more interested in sharing our beds with heating pads than with each other?

The telephone jangled me out of my thoughts. As soon as I'd picked up the receiver, Malthea said, “Would it be possible for you to come to my house? I just don't know what I should do, and Fern's no help whatsoever.”

“I might be able to come by tonight,” I said.

“That may be too late.”

“Why, Malthea? I have a business to operate, and I can't leave a note on the counter asking customers to write themselves a receipt and make change from the drawer. I'd come back to empty shelves and an emptier cash register.”

She snorted. “If that's your attitude, then I shall walk to the store. My arthritis will slow me down, but I should arrive there in an hour or so—unless, of course, it begins to rain. In that case, it may take much longer. At my age, I must be cautious about falling and breaking a hip. When that happened to a neighbor of mine, her husband put her in a nursing home and took up with a woman who allowed their Siamese cat to choke to death on a chicken bone.”

I looked out the window at the cloudless sky, sighed, and said, “I can't stay more than half an hour.”

“That should be adequate. I'll fix some sandwiches and we'll have lunch while we talk.”

At noon I hung the “closed” sign on the door and drove to Malthea's duplex. I again raised my hand to knock on the door on the right; this time it opened before I could make contact. Malthea pointed at Fern's door, put her finger on her lips, and pulled me inside.

“I don't want Fern to know you're here,” she whispered as she propelled me through the living room and into a cramped kitchen. “Sometimes I get very annoyed with her, as I'm sure her husband did before his excruciatingly painful demise.”

“Why did you call me?” I asked bluntly.

“Sit right here,” she said, gesturing at a dinette set with two place mats, forks, and paper napkins. “You do like tuna fish salad, don't you? Merlinda's very fond of it. I considered making deviled eggs, but it didn't seem right after what transpired this morning. The police officer assured me that he died instantaneously.”

I assumed she meant Nicholas had died instantaneously, as opposed to Corporal Billsby. “What else did he say?”

“Not very much.” She took a plate of sandwiches from the refrigerator and turned on the burner beneath an aluminum teapot. The telephone began to ring in the living room, but she seemed oblivious of the sound. “The young woman at the police department asked me a number of questions, but I couldn't really tell her anything useful. We finished putting up decorations shortly before nine o'clock, relaxed for a few minutes, and then said good-night and left. Fern's car was a bit balky, so we were still sitting there when Sullivan and Morning Rose drove away and Roy went up the stairs to his apartment.”

“Don't you need to answer the phone?” I asked.

“The caller will try again.”

The rings stopped as if on cue.

Somewhat nonplussed, I returned to the topic. “Was Gilda there?”

“She'd planned to come on her bicycle, but Morning Rose insisted she ride with them. Yes, we were all there—our happy little grove. The eve of a major holiday is always so invigorating to the spirits, isn't it? We sang ancient pagan songs like ‘The Holly and the Ivy' while we sat around the fire and had tankards of mead. Nicholas made his own every fall in preparation for Samhain, using honey from a very special apiary in Salisbury. I do hope I'll be able to find a recipe.”

I waited until she'd poured boiling water into teacups and brought them to the table. “I'm sure you had a lovely evening,” I said, grinding out the words as politely as I could, “but you and Fern alluded to some hostility that also took place. She was in tears this morning, and none of you looked the least bit like a ‘happy little grove.' If you don't want to tell me what happened, that's fine. Did you tell the officer who took your statement?”

“No, I don't seem to think I did. That doesn't mean someone else might not have mentioned it. I hope not, though. Nonbelievers often have difficulty understanding the dynamics of a group such as ours. I'm sorry to have to say this, but Wiccans can be a teensy bit stubborn.”