Lord of the Wings (37 page)

“Wish we'd thought of that a day or so ago,” the chief said. “Ah, well.”

“What about Mrs. Griswald?” I asked.

“Now that we're sure she had nothing to do with the murder, I've released her on her own recognizance,” the chief said. “She wasn't happy when I told her we'd be hanging on to the brooch as evidence for the time being, until I pointed out that as long as it was in our custody, her husband can't get his hands on it, either. I gather she's going to be staying with Reverend Smith for the time being, and Festus has promised to find her an excellent divorce lawyer.”

“Good,” I said. “She seems like a nice woman—at least when she's away from her husband.”

“Chief?” Jabba again, this time on the intercom. “Dr. Blake is here to see you.”

“Send him in.”

Grandfather appeared in the doorway, still clad in his wizard's cape, which looked as bedraggled as if he really had made a journey from the Shire to the gates of Mordor in it. He was wearing the fiercely triumphant expression that usually meant he'd succeeded in foiling some large corporation's efforts to despoil the environment.

“I've got your evidence back.” He threw his cloak open, patted the pockets of his safari vest, and eventually reached into one to pull out the object he was seeking. “Voilà!” he exclaimed. He tossed a ring onto the table—a familiar-looking ring.

“That's the ring that was stolen from the museum the night of the murder,” I said. I'd recognize that grape-sized cubic zirconia anywhere.

“One of the ravens picked it up somewhere and came back to the zoo with it,” Grandfather explained. “They're as bad as magpies with shiny objects. Silly bird flew up to his nest with it. Had to send one of the keepers up in a cherry picker to retrieve it. Nearly fell out of the tree and killed himself. Damned nuisance, but I figured apart from the monetary value, the thing could be an important clue in your case.”

I could tell from the look on the chief's face that he remembered the ring. But I could also tell that he wasn't going to deflate Grandfather's pride at having retrieved what he thought was a valuable artifact.

“I'm deeply grateful,” the chief said. “We probably won't need to introduce it at the trial, since it wasn't the killer's primary target, but if you hadn't found it, that could be just the sort of small unsolved mystery that a clever defense attorney could exploit. Thank you.”

“Happy to oblige,” Grandfather said. “Well, I've got to get back to the zoo. I'm taking the Brigade on a tour of the Creatures of the Night this morning.”

With that he strode out.

“Thank you,” I said.

“And what happens when he visits the museum and finds out that the ring's a fake?” the chief asked, with a sigh.

“I can't imagine him visiting the museum,” I said. “And we can ask Dr. Smoot to pull the ring from the exhibit. I'll figure out some excuse.”

“Perhaps that we have advised everyone not to entrust any valuable objects to the museum until Dr. Smoot has made substantial improvements in his security,” the chief suggested. “It will be the truth. Speaking of valuable objects in the museum, now that we know the Paltroon painting's not connected to the murders, I'm setting up a short meeting tomorrow to enable Dr. Cavendish to return it to its rightful owner. Would you be interested in attending? In your role as head of the Goblin Patrol.”

“This would be the meeting at which Dr. Cavendish breaks the news to Mrs. Paltroon that she's on thin ice as the local DAR president? I wouldn't miss it for the world. May I bring Mother along? Someone should be there to help console Mrs. Paltroon if she takes it badly.”

“We should sell tickets,” Randall said with a chuckle.

“Chief?” It was Vern, sticking his head in the door. “Got someone you might like to talk to.”

“Who?” From the chief's slight frown I deduced that he couldn't think of anyone else he particularly wanted to talk to just now.

“Lydia Van Meter.” Vern smirked. “I suppose we're no longer considering her as a murder suspect, but the BOLO was still out. Her car disappeared from the airport this morning, and we picked her up when she crossed the county line. If you ask me she has some explaining to do.”

“Bring her in,” the chief said.

“Mind if I give her a piece of my mind?” Randall muttered.

“Let me talk to her first,” the chief said. “There's still the possibility she's somehow mixed up in this.”

Vern returned, escorting Lydia. Was it mean of me to be amused by the fact that he had her in handcuffs? She was at least a head shorter than Vern, and probably half his weight. Then again, the other deputies were still giving Sammy a hard time about letting Mrs. Griswald escape, so I'm sure Vern didn't want to follow in his footsteps.

“What's going on?” Lydia demanded. “Why am I being treated like a common criminal?”

“Because up until a few hours ago, that's precisely what we thought you were,” the chief said. “I think we can dispense with the restraints for the time being,” he added to Vern.

Vern nodded, took out a key, and unlocked the cuffs. The chief leaned back in his chair and studied Lydia for a few moments before speaking. She sat down in his guest chair, and from the look on her face, I was pretty sure she was preparing herself to accept an apology.

“At approximately five a.m. Friday morning,” the chief began, “you left Caerphilly, drove to the Richmond International Airport, left your car in Economy Lot B, and took a United Airlines flight to New Orleans by way of Atlanta. Mind telling me why?”

“You've been spying on me!” she exclaimed. “What business is it of yours what I do?”

“Immediately prior to your departure, a man was murdered at the zoo, another at the Haunted House, and Dr. Smoot was very severely injured,” the chief said.

“Oh, my God! But I had nothing to do with any of that!” Either she was genuinely surprised or she was a much better actress than I'd thought. “Randall, why didn't you tell them why I was going?”

“I might have if you'd had the common courtesy to tell me,” Randall said.

“I left a voice mail.” She sounded highly indignant.

“Not on my phone,” Randall said.

Lydia uttered the kind of sigh that suggested that she was tired of dealing with idiots. Then she looked at our stern faces and decided maybe she'd better explain.

“My best friend from college needed me,” she said. “She was trying to throw this killer Halloween party, and her caterer folded—two days before the party. I figured since the festival was already pretty much planned, I'd fly down and help her out.”

She sat back in her folding chair, and from the expression on her face, she clearly thought she'd explained everything quite satisfactorily.

“You ran out on your responsibilities here to help a friend throw a party?” Randall said.

“All the planning here was done,” Lydia said.

“The planning may have been done,” Randall said. “But plans fall apart, and you need someone on hand to make new ones. If you'd asked me if you could go, I'd have said no. You didn't even notify me.”

“But I left you a voice mail,” Lydia said. “It's not my fault you didn't get it.”

Randall, Vern, the chief, and I all exchanged looks.

“Yes, it is your fault,” Randall said. “You ran out in the middle of an event for which you had major responsibilities.”

“When you disappeared,” the chief said, “we didn't know if you were the killer, an accomplice, or maybe another victim, so we used up a lot of valuable time and resources that could have been better spent trying to catch the real killer.”

“You never liked me,” Lydia said, turning to me. The chief and Randall had been doing most of the talking. Why was Lydia lashing out at me? “You resent me because I took what used to be your job.”

“Resent you?” I said. “I was thrilled to be off the hook. No, I resent you for doing such a lousy job on my old volunteer position and then expecting to be paid for it.”

“Randall, I won't stand for this,” she said. “I won't be treated like … like … a kindergartener.”

Randall had closed his eyes and was taking deep breaths. Then he opened them again.

“Sorry, Meg,” he said. “This counting-to-ten thing may work for you, but it just gives me time to get madder. Lydia, you're fired. I'm going to ask the chief to send a deputy to escort you while you clean out your desk, and when you get back to my Aunt Bessie's house, you can start packing. I'll have a moving truck waiting in the driveway, and I'll be there to make sure none of Bessie's antiques leave with you.”

Lydia's mouth fell open in astonishment, and she stared at Randall for a good thirty seconds. Then she shut her mouth firmly, stood up, and put her hands on her hips.

“Well,” she said. “I'm not going to stay around where I'm not appreciated.”

She flounced out, head high, as if she'd just resigned over some issue of principle instead of being fired.

“Good riddance,” Randall muttered.

“Amen,” the chief said. “Vern, you go do the desk cleaning detail.”

Vern saluted and hurried after Lydia.

“Randall,” the chief went on. “You can tell me to mind my own business if you like, but when you start hiring Lydia's replacement, why don't you let Meg help you interview the candidates? I think she probably has a pretty good idea what the job requires.”

“I have an even better idea,” Randall said. “Why don't I just hire Meg?”

“Sounds good to me,” the chief said.

“Me?” I squeaked.

“You're better at this job than anyone,” Randall said. “Nobody was badgering me to hire someone to do it because they weren't satisfied with your work. They just thought I was exploiting you because I was dumping so much on a volunteer. So how about if I pay you for it?”

“I'm trying to get back into my blacksmithing, now that the boys are in school,” I protested.

“But having the boys in school doesn't solve the whole problem, does it?” he said. “I heard you say so yourself the other day—you're finding more time to do the iron work now, but to sell it properly you'd have to spend your weekends at craft fairs when you'd rather be spending them with your family. If you take Lydia's job, you can make your own hours.”

“Except when events like the festival are happening,” I pointed out.

“Yeah, but what are the odds that anything big like this is going to happen without you volunteering for some kind of job anyway?” he said. “Heck, you put in more hours as Chief Goblin than Lydia ever did as my assistant. Isn't it better to be the boss? And any old time you find someone you think can take your place, you just tell me and I'll hire her.”

I was tempted. Getting paid for doing things that I would probably end up doing anyway sounded sweet.

“If you like, I can install a forge and an anvil in your office,” Randall said. “You can blacksmith whenever things get slow.”

“I'm not making any decisions until I've talked to Michael,” I said. “And had a full night's sleep.”

“Let's talk tomorrow,” Randall said. “We've got to start planning the Christmas festivities right away.”

I was about to answer when I heard shouting outside. The chief got up and walked over to the window to look out.

“I'll let you know,” I said. “Meanwhile—”

“Where is she?” bellowed a powerful voice.

We turned to see Ragnar Ragnarsen bursting through the door. He raced over to stand in front of me.

“I have found you!” Ragnar shouted. “You are my blacksmith!”

“I am?” I wasn't quite sure why Ragnar needed a blacksmith—though my imagination conjured up the vision of a horse large enough to carry him with ease, an enormous draft horse with shaggy fetlocks and hooves the size of hubcaps. Time to give my explanation of the difference between an ornamental blacksmith and a farrier. But then I noticed that Ragnar was holding a copy of the
Vampire Colonies II
poster.

“You made this?” He was pointing to the intricate dagger with the bat-shaped hilt. “And this?” The candelabra that appeared to be made from blackened fingerbones. “And this?” The iron balcony, with its bats, gargoyles, claws, teeth, and eyes. “Rob tells me that these are not made with Photoshop but with real iron?”

“I made all of it,” I said. “I'd be the first to admit that some of the ideas came from Rob and his art staff, but Rob wanted real ironwork for the cover, so he could hold contests to give away reproductions as part of the publicity campaign.”

“Fantastic!” Ragnar exclaimed. “My house needs you! It needs candelabra! Chandeliers! Railings! Andirons! Sconces! I travel everywhere looking for the perfect ironwork for my house, and I find it here in Caerphilly! This is wonderful! You are my blacksmith!”

He seized me in an embrace that would probably have broken bones if he'd tried it on a smaller, frailer person. Fortunately, being a blacksmith has toughened me up more than most people.

“You must come to the house so we can make plans!” he said when he'd finally released me.

“After we recover from the festival,” I said.

“Of course, of course,” he said. “You are tired. And I still have many vampires infesting the house, recovering from the revelries of last night. But when the house is quiet again, we will begin! Please, I beg of you—do not take on any other commissions until you see my house. I think perhaps I will keep you busy for years.”

With that he beamed at me and strode off.

I'd heard worse offers.

“There you are,” Randall said. “No reason why you can't run the special events for me and still do commissions for Ragnar.”

“I'll talk to Michael,” I said. “Because—”