Lord of the Wings (14 page)

The brooch, as opposed to the cat. I deduced that Mr. Griswald was the one who had called Lydia. And had I misremembered his name, or did she call him Harris to his face and Harry behind his back?

“Nonsense, Rebecca,” Mr. Griswald said. “The brooch is worth four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I think we need to find out whether the festival management is taking proper care of it.”

“I can't speak for festival management,” I said. “I'm only in charge of the volunteer security force. But as far as I know, the festival management isn't taking care of the brooch at all. It's not our job.”

“What do you mean, not your job?” Mr. Griswald snapped.

“The festival made an arrangement with Dr. Smoot to use his land to house the Fun Fair, and he agreed to provide the Haunted House free of charge to fairgoers,” I said. “The fact that Dr. Smoot is also running a town museum in the basement has nothing to do with the festival.”

“But it's in the same building as the Haunted House,” Mr. Griswald said.

“So are Dr. Smoot's living quarters,” I said. “And they're none of the festival's business either.”

“The museum is open to anyone who comes to the festival,” Mr. Griswald began.

“But it's not a part of the festival,” I said. “If you're concerned about the safety of your property, talk to Dr. Smoot. I have no idea what kind of arrangements you made when you agreed to lend him the brooch, but surely you included some provisions to cover insurance and proper security.”

Mr. Griswald was sputtering in outrage. I wasn't sure if he was upset because he hadn't thought about insurance and security or merely because he wasn't used to people crossing him.

“Frankly,” I went on, “if you're worried, I'd have Dr. Smoot bring the brooch back until the festival's over. And for that matter, I'm going to recommend to Mayor Shiffley that we require Dr. Smoot to do so. Even though the brooch is not the festival's responsibility, if there's a possibility that it's adding to our security problems at the Haunted House, we need to resolve that.”

“This is outrageous!” Mr. Griswald bellowed. “I'm calling my attorney immediately!”

With that he stormed out.

“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Griswald was shaking her head. “Would you like some tea? I never got the chance to offer you any before Harris pounced.”

I couldn't help smiling at that.

“Thanks,” I said. “But I should probably be going. Busy day. Unless you think Mr. Griswald expects me to wait while he talks to his attorney.”

“Heavens, no.” She grimaced. “He'll be shouting on the phone for hours. At upwards of five hundred dollars an hour. He always feels much better afterward. I suppose it's like therapy. Of course, real therapy might be rather cheaper and produce a more long-lasting effect, but Harris wouldn't hear of it. Are you really going to make us take the brooch back?”

“Sorry, but I think it would be a good idea,” I said. “At least until the festival's over. It was very nice of you to lend it—”

“I didn't lend it,” she said. “Harris did. I wasn't keen on the idea one bit, and after all, it's supposed to be my brooch, isn't it? He gave it to me for our twenty-fifth anniversary. Then a couple of months later, he goes and lends it to a museum. And the Caerphilly Museum, of all places. Of course, I happen to know the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts wouldn't take it. Why should they? They've got all those fabulous Fabergé eggs—what would they want with that ugly old thing?”

“Then you're not overly fond of your brooch?” I asked.

“I loathe it,” she said. “I think it's supremely ugly, and the fact that it once belonged to the Duchess of Windsor doesn't mean much to me. I don't approve of her, if you must know. And when I think of what we could have done with all the money he spent on it, I'm almost sick.”

“At least as long as it's in the museum, he can't expect you to wear it,” I said.

“Thank goodness,” she muttered. “But I don't want it down at the museum, either. People must be laughing at us, spending so much money for something that looks like cheap, ugly costume jewelry. No, I want it back here—or rather, back in our safe-deposit box down at the bank, where I don't have to look at it and no one else can either.”

She looked anxious. Very anxious, considering that she hated the brooch. But then there was all that money. And maybe she wasn't so much anxious about the brooch or its cost but about having to disagree with her husband. I got the feeling she didn't do that very often.

“Call Dr. Smoot, then,” I said. “And in case either he or your husband drags their feet, I'll ask Randall to issue a formal request.”

“Thank you, Meg.” She still looked a little anxious, but her smile was warm and genuine. “How's the Trinity food tent in the town square doing?”

“Business is booming,” I said. “And the pie is as good as ever.”

“Of course,” she said. “It's your family's famous recipe, isn't it? I wish I could go down and help, but Harris won't hear of it.”

“If you ever feel like sneaking away and pitching in informally, they'd love to see you,” I said. “Or just drop by for lunch sometime.”

“I just might,” she said. “Are you sure you don't have time for that tea?”

“How about a rain check?” I said. “Assuming Mr. Griswald's continued absence means he's finished with me for now, I should get back to my job.”

“I'll hold you to that rain check.” She rose from the sofa and walked with me back to the front door. “And if you want to meet someplace other than this mausoleum, that would be fine.” And then seeing the curiosity on my face, she added, “Harris picked the designer and gives her all her instructions. Not my idea of homey.”

“How about lunch at Muriel's Diner after the festival's over and things calm down,” I suggested.

“You're on!” she exclaimed. “I love the diner. Let me give you my number—I'm not in the parish directory. Harris disapproves.”

I added her number to my cell phone and said good-bye. As I walked down their front walk, I found myself wondering how Mrs. Griswald had put up with her husband all these years—how, and even more, why? When I reached my car, I made a note to call her for lunch, and another note to see what Mother knew about her.

I waited until I was out of Westlake before pulling over to call Randall.

“So I mouthed off and probably made an enemy of Mr. Griswald,” I said, after I'd explained that the stolen cat was actually the brooch in the museum.

“He's hard to like and easy to offend,” Randall said.

“But I think we should make good on something I suggested to him,” I said. “I think it's a bad idea having such a valuable piece of jewelry down at the museum. Dr. Smoot has some security, but I'm not sure it's up to repelling serious jewel thieves. And even if it is, just having it in the museum exacerbates our already serious security problems down at the Haunted House.”

“The chief said the body was moved,” Randall said. “What if it was moved a couple of miles down the road from the museum? Even an ugly piece of jewelry worth half a million would be worth killing someone over. Though blessed if I know how the article about Arabella fits into it. She and Billy were highfliers in their day, but I doubt if they had anything to do with the Duchess or her jewels.”

“The chief knows about Arabella's connection to the museum,” I said. “I'm sure he'll check it out. And I'm not going to ask if he's showed Dr. Smoot pictures of Justin Klapcroft and the dead guy, to see if he recognizes either of them as people he had to shoo away from the museum. I'm sure he already has.” I wasn't going to ask, because doing so would annoy the chief. But I was curious to know if Dr. Smoot had recognized them, and Randall, in his role as mayor, could probably ask without getting his head bit off.

“I'll look into it,” Randall said. “How about if we just ask Smoot to send the brooch back for the time being? It's only common sense.”

“Not something Dr. Smoot has a surplus of,” I pointed out.

“True. But we can start by asking. And I'll also talk to the county attorney. Must be some kind of legal grounds she can think of for making him do it. Threat to public order or some such thing.”

“Sounds good,” I said. “Can you go talk to Dr. Smoot as soon as possible? Come down all official on him?”

“Yes'm,” he said. “I'll head over right now.”

“And we should start thinking about issuing a public statement,” I said. “Warn the tourists.”

Randall didn't say anything for a few long moments. Then he sighed.

“Better if it comes from us,” I said. “Before the press gets hold of it.”

“You're right,” he said. “It'd be nice if we could say we have a suspect in custody.”

“Not if Justin Klapcroft turns out to be innocent and sues us.”

“Good point. I'll talk to the chief and the county attorney.” He hung up.

As long as I was stopped anyway, I called Rob.

“Hold your horses,” he said. “We're still just getting started.”

“No problem,” I said. “I just wanted to add one small search item to your list. Can you see if it's widely known over the Internet that Dr. Smoot's museum contains a piece of jewelry worth half a million dollars?”

“It does? Holy cow—what kind of idiot would trust Smoot with anything worth half a mil?”

“Good question,” I said.

“Hey, maybe the owner's planning to have someone steal it and collect the insurance,” he said.

“Possible,” I said. “Or maybe the owner's an idiot who has no idea how little security Dr. Smoot has. Just let me know whether it's likely that any enterprising cat burglars could have found out online that the jewelry's there. I'll send you a picture of it.”

“We're on it.”

I hunted down my best picture of the cat brooch and sent it to Rob. Then, before starting off again, I finished tallying my list of Goblin Patrol members. Only two had failed to respond to my e-mail. I called and talked to one. My call to the other went to voice mail, so I left a detailed message.

I debated for a few moments. Did leaving a voice mail for the final goblin allow me to check off “confirm that all goblins are watching for pranksters” in my notebook? It didn't quite feel done. But it was so tantalizingly close.

I created a new, much smaller task: “confirm that Nelson Dandridge listened to my voice mail.” And then I checked off the bigger task as done and went back to my patrolling. I could start by dropping by the New Life Baptist Church, where Mr. Dandridge was supposed to be patrolling.

My phone rang a minute or so after I began driving. I let it go to voice mail, with the idea that I'd call back when I got to the church. Of course it was Lydia. She left a cryptic voice mail: “Meg—have you called Mr. Brimfield yet? Can you call him ASAP?”

And of course her phone went to voice mail when I called back.

“Lydia,” I said. “This is Meg Langslow. No, I haven't called Mr. Brimfield; I have no idea what you want me to call about, and I don't even have his phone number.”

I hung up and sat in the church parking lot for a few minutes, fuming. Maybe I should have left a more polite message.

No. Hell, no. Lydia needed to learn how to do her job.

And maybe I was particularly annoyed at her because Mr. Brimfield was almost certainly part of the family from whom Dr. Smoot was trying to get funding for his museum and anything having to do with the museum or the zoo could have something to do with the murder. I'd be happy to call Mr. Brimfield if I could.

I mentally called Lydia a few unkind names. Then I shoved her out of my mind and climbed out of my car to look for Mr. Dandridge.

It turned out that Mr. Dandridge hadn't yet gotten my message because he'd been letting his grandson play
Minecraft
on his phone for the past several hours. But someone else had told him about the pranksters and the murder, and he'd been staking out the cemetery, watching for possible makers of tombstone rubbings.

“And what were you going to do if you caught one?” I asked. “It's not illegal to do tombstone rubbings.”

“I planned to take their picture—well, actually that's why I brought along Colby—four years old and he already knows how to do more with this confounded phone than I do. And then I'd send the photos to the police. And then I'd engage them in polite conversation, to see if I could get any information.”

“Good idea, on all counts,” I said. “Which reminds me that I need to recruit watchers for the rest of the town cemeteries.”

I made a few phone calls and steered reliable goblins to each of the town's cemeteries. It temporarily reduced the number on patrol, but Caroline had e-mailed me to report that she'd be arriving in town by two and would start deploying the Blake's Brigade volunteers around the zoo, so by the time we flipped over to the Night Side we'd be fully staffed again.

And after that flurry of activity, I felt momentarily blue. I started my car and headed back for the center of town, but my mind wasn't on the road. Was any of this going to do any good? And was there anything else I could do to help solve the murder, keep the townspeople and tourists safe, and keep the bad news from undermining the success of the festival?

An idea occurred to me—though I couldn't decide if it was a good idea or a terrible one. The brooch was the most valuable thing in the museum—but it wasn't the only valuable thing. I flipped through the photos on my phone. Arabella's dress? Dr. Smoot probably wouldn't want to contact the parents of the modern-day Arabella, but maybe he'd let me? Or at least move it to safety. I should go and ask him who owned the inaugural gown. And Mrs. Paltroon's painting was probably valuable. I couldn't imagine anyone bothering to haul away any of the museum's other contents.