Six Geese A-Slaying (19 page)

“But if that was his one big article, and that was ten years ago . . .”

“Yeah, go figure. I guess maybe the
Trib
made allowances for the fact that even the best reporters on a small-town weekly have limited opportunities for big exposés.
After his big story, he stayed with the same newspaper—the
Fluvanna Gazette
—until it folded last year. He did a few stories for the
Trib
as a stringer, and somehow he wangled a staff job—maybe he had something on someone in the
Trib
’s HR department. Or maybe someone liked his style—he can be pretty funny, in a mean, snarky way. But the grapevine says he’s
on thin ice, and the
Trib
’s had him doing way beyond the Beltway stuff, human interest stuff—not hard news. Maybe he figures your murder—sorry,
this
murder—is his last chance to make it big. No wonder he’s trying so hard.”

“Thanks,” I said. “It all makes more sense. I’ll keep my eyes open for those provable errors, and hope the
Trib
cans him before he commits any more errors at all.”

“Good,” she said. “Hey, if the roads get better tomorrow, I could maybe come down for Boxing Day. Will there be turkey left?”

“Probably,” I said. “Since right now neither Michael and I nor Mother and Dad have power, I doubt if anyone has even started
thawing the turkey. You might get to help us cook it on Boxing Day.”

“I’ll check with you before I head out, then,” she said. “Call me if you need any more scoop on Werzel. Or if you get any
scoop I can use.”

“Will do,” I said, and we hung up.

I sat back and thought about what I’d learned from Heather. I decided finding out Werzel was in the doghouse instead of being
the
Trib
’s golden boy didn’t make me like him any better. But maybe it would make it easier to put up with him in the short term.
He’d get his comeuppance.

“Meg?”

I nearly jumped out of the chair.

Chapter 28

Jorge Soto had opened the door very quietly and was peering in.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Not your fault,” I said. I glared at Spike, who could at least have barked or something when he heard someone approaching.

What was Jorge doing here?

“Enough to make anyone jumpy,” Jorge said, as he stepped into the room. “Knowing that the murderer’s still running around
loose.”

“Is he?” I said. “Chief Burke has arrested Norris Pruitt. So if you think he did it . . .”

“Do you?” he asked.

“Not really,” I said.

“You have someone else you think did it?”

“Not really,” I repeated.

He nodded.

I was suddenly acutely conscious of how tall Jorge was. Not quite as tall as Michael, but definitely well over six feet. Even
across the room, leaning against the wall, he seemed to loom over me. Having people loom over me didn’t usually bother me—in
fact, at five feet ten, I didn’t often get loomed over at all. But right now, anyone tall enough to loom over me was tall
enough to be the killer, and that made me nervous. Even worse, this was someone who might have been trying to hide evidence.
I eyed the room for possible weapons. I settled on a wrought iron fireplace set I’d made for Cousin Horace and had yet to
wrap. The poker would make a lovely club. I had to fight the temptation to stand up and grab it.

Or was that a good instinct?

“You didn’t tell the chief about Doleson trying to blackmail me, did you?” Jorge asked.

Would that question have made me quite as nervous under other circumstances? If we’d been in a public place instead of a small
office on a deserted floor of a building that would not begin to fill up with theatergoers for another hour or two?

“No, I didn’t,” I said. “But I think you should.”

He looked relieved.

“Michael and I both think so,” I added.

He frowned slightly in annoyance. Was he annoyed because I was nagging him to talk to the chief? Or because I had just reminded
him that I wasn’t the only person to know about Dole-son’s blackmail attempt?

“I know you think I’m being paranoid,” he said. “But you don’t get it. I’m not worried about Chief Burke. He’ll find the real
killer.”

“Even if people don’t tell him what could be vital information?”

“If he goes through Doleson’s papers, the chief will find whatever stuff Doleson’s got that he could use to blackmail people,”
Jorge said. “And if he’s got stuff on me, I’m sure the chief will see it’s bogus. Or he’ll talk to me and I’ll tell him.”

“But you’re hoping Doleson threw away whatever he’d been collecting on you when he found out you weren’t blackmail-able,”
I said. “Okay. Can’t you just tell the chief that you suspect Doleson of blackmail?”

“And say what—that there are guys living at the Pines who shouldn’t be as broke as they are? Guys who looked nervous every
time Doleson came around? And that Doleson lived pretty well, for someone whose sole source of income was a mostly empty storage
building and a run-down apartment building? You really think that would help?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But as you said yourself, there’s a killer out there.”

“And the chief would only think I was trying to divert suspicion away from myself.”

I stood up, and pretended to stretch my back, as if I’d been hunched over the computer too long. Maybe I could work my way
over to the poker.

“Why would he suspect you?” I asked.

“Maybe because they’re going to find my fingerprints inside the shed where Doleson was killed.”

I couldn’t keep my mouth from falling open in shock.

“What are your fingerprints doing there?” I asked.

“From when I was helping clean it up—the night before the parade. Don’t tell me you don’t remember.”

He looked stricken. I shook my head slightly.

“There were a lot of people helping out the night before the parade,” I said. “I don’t specifically remember seeing you.”

“I was helping Rob—remember?”

I remembered that Rob had made a half-hearted effort at cleaning the shed out in the morning, and that when I’d inspected
it, I’d immediately rolled up my sleeves and done it right. But if Rob had had anyone helping him, I hadn’t noticed.

“Not really,” I said.

Jorge groaned, and buried his face in his hands.

“But I was pretty busy, you know,” I said. “I’m sure some of the other people there will remember you. Rob, for example.”

“It’d be so much better if you remembered it,” he said. Was that a plea to lie for him? Or maybe a threat? Or just an accurate
assessment of Rob’s potential value as an alibi?

“I’ll think about it,” I said. “Maybe something will jog my memory. But don’t you have something else that’s going to need
explaining?”

He looked puzzled.

“The sweatshirt you threw away after the parade? The one the police now have?” I decided it would be better not to mention
the part I’d played in getting it to the police.

“Oh, damn,” he said. He closed his eyes and slumped against the wall.

“Are they going to find bloodstains on it?”

“Maybe,” he said. “I don’t know. And if those are bloodstains, I don’t know whose blood. Could be Doleson’s. I helped Rob
put Spike in his crate after he bit Doleson, remember? I figured maybe he had some blood on his muzzle and it rubbed off on
my shirt. I can’t think of any other way I could have gotten blood on it. But do you really think the chief’s going to believe
that? Especially if—”

“Aunt Meg?”

I jumped, even though I recognized the voice. Jorge jumped too. My nephew, Eric, was standing in the doorway.

“Sorry,” Eric said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s okay,” Jorge said. “I was just going. Look,” he added, to me, “we need to talk later. Think about it.”

About what? Whether I’d seen Jorge helping out with the shed and with Spike? The bloodstained sweatshirt? Or the fact that
Jorge had just become a really serious suspect?

“I hear you,” I said.

Jorge gave me one more pleading look, then nodded and left.

“Sorry,” Eric said again. “I didn’t mean to chase him off.”

“He really was about to leave,” I said. I didn’t think Eric needed to hear about my suspicions of Jorge, or how overjoyed
I was that my conversation with Jorge was interrupted by a twelve-year-old who, in spite of his recent growth spurt, was still
not nearly big enough to be the murderer.

Eric looked anxious. He seemed so young and vulnerable.

Not just vulnerable—upset.

“Did you get through to your parents?” My sister, Pam, her Australian-born husband, and Eric’s five siblings were spending
the holiday in Melbourne, with the other side of their family. Eric, thanks to severe and persistent airsickness, was staying
with my parents, as he usually did when the rest of the McReady clan made one of their frequent trips down under.

He nodded.

“They’re fine,” he said. “They all send their love.”

“So what’s wrong?”

“Why do grownups always assume there’s something wrong?” he said. He tried to assume a look of bored exasperation that he’d
copied from his older siblings during the worst of their teen years, but he hadn’t quite mastered it yet, thank goodness.

“Why do teenagers always lump grownups together in that stereotypical us and them way?” I countered. “You’re starting it a
few months early.”

He grinned at that, and looked about six again. But the grin vanished too quickly.

“Besides,” I went on. “After everything else that’s gone wrong in the last day or so, I’ve gotten out of the habit of expecting
anything but bad news. If you’ve got good news, my apologies, and bring it on.”

He nodded, but didn’t blurt out any glad tidings.

“Kind of a weird Christmas,” he said.

Okay, we’d go the indirect route.

“Weird, yeah,” I said. “Which makes it normal for our family, right? Remember the Christmas when your grandfather fell off
the roof?”

He grinned at that.

“How about the Christmas when Natasha gave everyone live goldfish?” he said.

“The Christmas your uncle Rob set the house on fire?”

“How about—” he began. Then he took a deep breath. “How about the Christmas when I thought we’d all really blown it? When
Santa didn’t bring anybody anything?”

“I remember,” I said. Eric had been six or seven, and absolutely obsessed with some toy he’d asked Santa for. So obsessed,
in fact, that when he woke up at four A.M., he’d crept down to the living room to see if Santa had come through. Our family
tradition was to put all the wrapped presents between family members under the tree in the days leading up to Christmas, while
Santa deposited his bounty, unwrapped, after we’d gone to bed on Christmas Eve. And we maintained a strict rule that no one
was allowed to go into the living room until the whole family was up. Then Dad would fling open the French doors and everyone
would exclaim with delight and surprise at all the wonderful things Santa had brought.

“No one could figure out what was wrong that Christmas morning,” I said. “Here you were, the youngest—the only one we were
absolutely sure still believed in Santa—and no one could find you.”

“When I saw that there was nothing under the tree, I knew I must have blown it, big time,” he said. “And not just me but all
of us. I figured whatever it was, Mom and Dad hadn’t guessed, but Santa knew. And as soon as Mom and Dad saw the empty stockings
and all, they’d start asking some pretty tough questions, till they found out whatever it was we did.”

“I told everyone it was a bad idea to wait until morning to put the presents out,” I said. “I knew, as late as we’d all been
up, that we’d be dragging if we had to get up early, and I suggested it was better just to stay up a little longer. But no
one listened to me. And even I didn’t expect the power to go out and knock out all the alarm clocks so we’d all oversleep.”

“And you knew just where to find me,” he said.

“The tree house wasn’t such a tough guess.”

“I always thought it was really nice the way you convinced me that you’d peeked too, just after dawn, and you guessed Yorktown
must be toward the end of Santa’s run.”

“I remember explaining that if we’d all really been wicked, we wouldn’t just have empty stockings but lumps of coal,” I said,
wondering if there was a point to this trip down memory lane. Not that there had to be, but most people looked a little more
cheerful when reminiscing about Christmases Past.

“And you never told anyone what I did,” he said.

“You told them yourself, a year or two later.”

“Yeah, but I was really glad you let me tell them,” he said. I quelled a momentary burst of impatience. Yes, I wanted to get
back to my online sleuthing, but something was bothering Eric. He stared down at the floor for a few long seconds, and then
looked up to meet my eyes. “I think I might be in trouble.”

“How?” I asked.

“You know that reporter?”

“Ainsley Werzel? All too well by now.”

“I sort of borrowed his camera.”

“Sort of borrowed? You mean you took his camera?”

“Well, when I first picked it up, I thought it was yours,” he said. “You have almost the same model. And when I realized whose
it was, I remembered that he’d been taking all these nasty pictures of people. Like trying to get them doing something silly
or not looking very good. I thought it was really rude.”

“I agree,” I said. “And I admit, it crossed my mind how much I’d like to steal his camera and erase all his photos.”

“But I didn’t steal it,” Eric protested. “He left it lying around, and I picked it up to give it to him—well, to you, till
I realized it wasn’t yours—and then I thought if I could just keep it for a few minutes and go someplace where no one would
see me, I could look through the pictures and delete any that would em barrass people, and then just put the camera back where
I found it. So I stuck it under my coat. And before I got a chance to look at the photos, he started making that big fuss
about losing it, and I was embarrassed to give it back.”

“I’d just have left it lying around someplace,” I said. “Let him think he’d forgotten where he’d left it.”

“Yeah, I thought of that,” he said. “But Mr. Pruitt was around—Mr. Norris Pruitt. And you know how he is.”

“I do now,” I said. “Okay, good call not leaving it around for Norris to pilfer. But you could have told the truth. At least
the part about finding it lying around. You could have said you picked it up for safekeeping and forgot.”

“Yeah, I realize that now,” he said. “But Mr. Werzel was so mad, and it all happened so fast and I didn’t think what to do
till later. And once he made that report to the chief, I was scared to. Mr. Werzel would have had me arrested.”

I shook my head, but he was right—Werzel probably would have tried. Probably still would, if he found out now. And stressed
as the chief was by the murder, he might well have been in the mood to teach Eric a lesson.

“What can I do?” Eric asked. “I can’t just give it back.”

“Maybe you can’t, but I can,” I said. “Have you got it here?”

He nodded and reached into his pocket to pull out the tiny silver camera. He handed it to me and then sighed as if I’d taken
a ton of rocks off his shoulders instead of a few ounces of metal and plastic from his hand.

“You can tell them what happened,” he said. “I know I should have brought it back sooner, but I was too scared to do it myself.
You can make them understand.”

I was going to miss that when he got a little older—that childish confidence that Auntie Meg could fix anything.

Then again, Rob still turned to me regularly to bail him out of scrapes with that same absolute trust that I could and would
rescue him.

“You really should have turned it over as soon as Mr. Werzel made that fuss,” I said. “You know that.”

“Yeah,” he said, looking down at the floor. “And if you think I should take it back myself, I will. I just don’t want to do
it all by myself.”

“No, I’ll take care of Mr. Werzel,” I said. “I’ll tell him about you thinking it was mine and giving it to me. Which is the
truth—I’ll just let him think I was the one who identified it as his camera.”