Lord of the Wings (21 page)

“Precisely,” the chief said. “Still, let's keep this to ourselves for the time being. Dr. Cavendish?”

He stepped into the dining room. Dr. Cavendish had donned a headlamp and was using its light to inspect the painting through a magnifying glass. He was bent almost double and resembled some kind of ungainly insect. He didn't appear to have heard the chief or noticed our entrance.

“Dr. Cavendish,” the chief repeated.

“This is fascinating!” Dr. Cavendish straightened up and beamed at us, not realizing that his powerful headlamp was shining straight into our eyes. “It will take extensive analysis to prove it, of course, but I can confidently predict that the paint used on these additions will turn out to be of a much later date—probably Victorian.”

The chief was normally a very patient man, but I could tell that Dr. Cavendish was getting on his nerves to the point where he was doing his equivalent of my counting to ten before reacting.

“This is fantastic,” I said. “And possibly a very important clue in the chief's murder case. Dr. Cavendish—I trust we can rely on your discretion?”

“Of course!” He drew himself up so straight that he knocked one of the hanging rubber bats askew with the top of his head.

“No one must know of this yet.” I dropped my voice into a low, conspiratorial tone. “Lives could be at stake—to say nothing of the safety of the painting.”

I could tell I'd won him over with that last bit.

“Of course!” he said. “I will keep my findings absolutely confidential until you tell me. And may I suggest that I could make arrangements to transport the painting to a safe location? A climate-controlled location?”

“Can you make it a location nobody but you and I know about?” the chief said. “Not even Dr. Smoot and the Paltroons, even though they originally hired you? Because if this painting is connected to the murder…”

The chief let his voice trail off. Dr. Cavendish's eyes grew very big.

“Yes,” he said. “I have good contacts at several museums that would have the proper climate controls, the facilities I'd need to continue my analysis, and more than adequate security.”

“Make an arrangement, then,” the chief said. “Of course, before we let you leave with the painting, we'll need to know that you have an alibi for the time of the murder. Where were you last night between midnight and three a.m.?”

“Somewhere over the Atlantic,” Dr. Cavendish said. “I just flew in from Venice, where I was consulting on the restoration of a Grigoletti.”

“Good.” The chief was scribbling in his notebook. “I'm sending a deputy over to guard you and the painting. He'll check out the details of your alibi. Just a formality, of course, but we can't take any chances.”

“Of course.” Dr. Cavendish nodded solemnly. “The safety of the painting is paramount.”

“And your safety,” the chief added. “I'll let you get back to your work.”

Was it just my imagination, or did Dr. Cavendish turn back to the portrait with renewed enthusiasm, now that he knew it was not only a professional puzzle but also a clue in a murder?

I followed the chief back into the foyer. He was wearing an expression that clearly showed that yes, he was capable of suffering fools, but he wasn't going to be glad about it.

“We may or may not be able to give you the Haunted House back by your normal opening time today,” he said. “I'll send Vern to interview the doctor and keep watch over him. It would help if you could play watchdog till Vern gets here. And can you brief Randall?”

“Of course.” I wondered if I should remind him that, technically, I wasn't in charge of the festival—just the volunteer security patrols.

“And that Ms. Van Meter, of course,” he added.

I nodded. But I as followed him to the front door, I wondered if it would be sufficient if I filled in Randall and asked him to brief Lydia.

We saw Randall standing outside, across the street from the Haunted House. The firefighters had gone, so the immediate area around the house was deserted except for Randall, the deputy guarding the front gate to the house, and two disheveled tourists in vampire costumes who were blinking against the rising sun. I suspected they were on their way to bed rather than already out of it.

“Meg's going to fill you in,” the chief said to Randall as he got into his car.

“Mind if we go back inside?” I said. “The chief asked me to keep an eye on Dr. Cavendish.”

“On who?”

I explained Dr. Cavendish's presence as we climbed the steps. Randall was listening, but also frowning as he watched the chief drive off.

“Any particular reason why the chief's in such an all-fired hurry to get back to town?” he asked, pausing just outside the front door.

“He's probably eager to find out if this new murder has anything to do with the first one,” I said.

“New murder!” Randall looked shaken. “I only heard about the fire. Not Dr. Smoot?”

“No,” I said. “Not yet, anyway, and let's hope not at all. Tourist. Possible burglar. Also possible arsonist and attempted murderer of Dr. Smoot, for that matter. And shot in the head, just like the guy from yesterday—although this time in the back of the head. And he was dressed a lot like yesterday's guy, which might not mean much, because half the tourists in town are dressed the same way.”

“Damn,” Randall said. “This is going to take some dealing with.”

We stood in silence for a few moments, gazing at the house.

“Okay, first of all, he wasn't just a tourist,” I said. “As I said, he might be a burglar and an arsonist, and at the very least, he was playing a dangerous illegal game.”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “We need to get that message out.”

“And encourage anyone else who's playing the game to talk to the chief.”

“I should get back to the office and start writing a statement. Actually, maybe I should go down to the police station and work from there. In case any reporters show up. At least I can take the heat off the chief. Let him work.”

He had pulled out his phone and was staring at it.

“Lydia again?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Just checking to see if she responded to the e-mail I sent her when I heard about the fire. Or the text I sent after I got here.”

“Maybe she's a late sleeper,” I suggested.

“Not usually.” He punched some buttons on his phone and held it to his ear. After a few moments an expression of mixed concern and annoyance crossed his face.

“Her voice mail's full,” he said. “Which means she probably hasn't even listened to the couple of messages I left her yesterday.”

“Annoying as I find Lydia,” I said. “I'm starting to worry.”

“Me too.”

Randall punched a few more buttons while I digested the fact that I'd finally admitted aloud to my dislike for Lydia and Randall hadn't even batted an eye.

“Hey, Branson,” he said. “Sorry to bother you so early … you're right, but it is pretty early for me now that I'm a city dweller. Look, has my assistant, Lydia, been leaving messages with you by mistake again?… Okay, just checking. Haven't heard from her since sometime yesterday afternoon and that seems too good to be true.… Yeah, I'd appreciate it.”

He hung up.

“She hasn't been calling the feed store by mistake?”

Randall shook his head.

“When was the last time you heard from her?”

He looked down at his phone.

“Two thirteen p.m. yesterday,” he said.

We looked at each other for a few minutes.

“Let's go check on her,” I said.

“Right,” he said. “Mind if we take your car? I rode out with one of the deputies.”

“What about Dr. Cavendish?”

“The deputy can watch him till Vern gets here.”

We relocated the deputy into the front hall so he could watch both the gate and Dr. Cavendish and hurried out to my car.

“Where to?” I asked. “Town hall?”

“I already know she's not there,” he said. “I just came from there. Head for 1510 Pruitt Avenue. You know where that is?”

I nodded and started the car.

I was slightly surprised when we reached 1510 Pruitt Avenue. The street, named after the family who had developed it, was mostly lined with cheaply built townhouses. But the townhouses ended at the 1400s, and the 1500 block was lined with tiny bungalows from the 1940s.

“Here we are,” I said, pulling up in front of 1510. It was almost identical to the houses beside and across the street from it, except for being painted blue instead of beige or green.

“Her car's not there,” Randall said.

“And unless it's well camouflaged, there's no garage.”

“Let's go check on her.”

Randall strode up the front walk to the front door and punched the doorbell a couple of times. We stood in silence listening, but we heard nothing and the door remained closed.

“If her car's not here…” I said.

“Maybe it's in the shop or something.” He punched the doorbell again.

“We could go around and peek in the windows.”

“The hell with that.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a massive key ring. He picked through the keys until the found the one he was looking for.

So Randall had a key to Lydia's house. Interesting.

My reaction must have shown on my face.

“Not what you think,” he said, with a slightly embarrassed laugh. “Believe me, she is not my type. I'm her landlord.”

He punched the doorbell button again, five or six times, then pounded on the door.

“Lydia!” he shouted. “We're coming in.”

He unlocked the door and we stepped in.

The interior surprised me. We stepped into a tiny foyer area that was open to the rest of the living room. I wouldn't have thought Lydia had such nice, if old-fashioned, taste. The furniture was Victorian mahogany. The sofa and chairs were upholstered in faded but attractive green velvet. There was a tiny fireplace. Lace curtains at the window. Lamps that looked like antique oil lamps converted to electricity. The whole thing would have been charming if not for the layer of clutter and trash covering everything. Piles of newspapers. Pizza boxes. Coffee cups. Dirty dishes. Discarded pantyhose.

Randall and I surveyed it with frowns on our faces.

“I wonder what she did with the antimacassars,” he said.

“Antimacassars?” I echoed.

“You know—those old-fashioned crocheted things people used to put on their furniture to keep men's hair oil from staining it.”

“I know what they are,” I said. “I just don't understand why you're worried about their absence.”

“Aunt Bessie had antimacassars on all her upholstered furniture,” he said. “That's who actually owns this place. And the furniture. Aunt Bessie's ninety-seven, and gone to live with her daughter out on their farm, so I offered to rent this place as a furnished house to Lydia. Aunt Bessie would have my hide if she saw the state it's in. I know I keep Lydia busy, but it wouldn't take five minutes to tidy this place up.”

“If you like, I'll come back and help you tidy later,” I said. “But for now, let's forget the mess and look for Lydia.”

It didn't take long to search the rest of the bungalow. A tiny kitchen, full of dirty dishes and food debris. A tiny bathroom packed with at least ten times as many cosmetics as I'd ever owned. A tiny bedroom set up as a home office and strewn with paper. Another tiny bedroom almost completely filled with a queen-sized bed that was unmade and covered with clothes.

“It almost looks as if someone tossed the place.” Randall was wrinkling his nose in distaste.

“Only here in the bedroom,” I said. “Everywhere else, it's just bad housekeeping, but here, yeah. I can't be sure, but it's possible she was packing.”

“Packing as in carrying a gun?” Randall sounded startled.

“No, packing as in dragging half her wardrobe out of the closet and throwing it on the bed,” I said, pointing. “And trying to fit all of it into that small suitcase.” I indicated a suitcase that had been thrown aside. “And then maybe getting out a bigger one and filling that with as much as it would hold, and not bothering to hang up anything she wasn't taking.”

Randall nodded.

“We need to call the chief,” he said. “Maybe there's some innocent explanation for all this, but it sure as heck looks suspicious to me.”

I was already dialing 911.

 

Chapter 17

“I appreciate your calling so fast,” the chief said when we had filled him in on what we'd found. “Any chance you two can stay there until I can get a deputy over there to secure the place?”

“No problem,” I said.

“We'll hold down the fort,” Randall added.

“Deputy Butler will be there in about ten minutes,” the chief said. “When she gets there, both of you come down to the station so I can take your statements.”

He hung up without waiting for an answer. Not that either of us wanted to refuse.

“Speaking of holding down the fort,” Randall said. “Until and unless Lydia gets back on the job, I could use some help dealing with all of this.”

He waved his hand as if indicating the clutter in the living room, where we had returned to await Aida Butler's arrival. But I suspected he meant “all this” in a larger sense.

“The festival,” I said.

“And whatever we need to do to help the chief solve the murder before it torpedoes the festival,” he said.

“I'll do whatever I can.”

“And whatever the chief allows.” He grinned at that, and I couldn't help grinning back. “I know he doesn't like having civilians interfering in his investigations, but … his department's already working to the limit and beyond, thanks to the festival. The festival I pushed the town and the county into. Maybe I should have listened better when he expressed some doubts over the wisdom of holding it. But that's water over the bridge now.”