Six Geese A-Slaying (14 page)

Chapter 21

I knocked on the dining room door.

“Yes?”

The chief sounded tired and cranky. I didn’t blame him. I peeked in.

“They haven’t found a chain saw,” I said. “So we’re making up beds for everyone.”

He nodded.

“I’m putting you in Rob’s room,” I said. “It’s the most comfy, aside from the official guest room, which we thought Caroline
should have.”

A faint smile.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” I asked.

He nodded again and leaned back, looking more tired than wary. I came in and closed the door.

“I can tell you what you’re going to find when you finish inventorying the contents of Norris Pruitt’s storage bin,” I said.

“Not another body, I hope.” He sat upright again and suddenly looked much more awake.

“No, of course not,” I exclaimed. “Only a whole bunch of bright baubles that don’t belong to Norris, and would have been returned
to their rightful owners if Caroline and Clarence had gotten away with their burglary. Norris is a magpie.”

“A chronic shoplifter, you mean?”

“A kleptomaniac, I imagine. And one of Ralph Doleson’s blackmail victims. You did know he was a blackmailer, right?”

“Well, I do now,” he said. “I don’t suppose you know any more of his victims?”

“Not yet,” I said. “I mean, I heard rumors, but—”

I decided to shut up and hope he hadn’t noticed the “not yet.” He sighed, but didn’t give me his usual lecture about not interfering
with police business. That alone proved he was exhausted.

I thought of steering him toward Jorge, but decided against it. After all, the chief was investigating all the residents of
the Whispering Pines. He’d have talked to Jorge already. And if Jorge turned out to be innocent, he wouldn’t appreciate my
singling him out. He seemed paranoid—perhaps justifiably so—about coming to the attention of law enforcement. Maybe I’d have
a word with Jorge privately, urging him to tell what he knew about Doleson’s blackmailing operations.

Then again—Jorge was looking more like a suspect all the time. Maybe I didn’t want to have too private a word with him. Not
until Horace had had time to test that discarded sweatshirt.

I’d worry about all that later.

“You’ll probably find the photos or documents or whatever he uses to blackmail people with when you finish searching the Pines
and the Spare Attic,” I said aloud.

“Pretty broad area to search,” the chief said. “You got any more specific suggestions?”

“They say Doleson has a large and very private bin at the Attic,” I said.

“With a big old padlock on it. We’ll be looking into that. Of course, we have to deal with Mrs. Willner and Mr. Rutledge first.
At least now I understand why they both tried to confess to the murder.”

“They didn’t,” I said, with a wince.

“Separately.”

“I thought Clarence wasn’t talking,”

“This was in the heat of the moment, when we apprehended them. Now, he’s keeping his mouth shut, except to say that as soon
as his lawyer is available, he’ll confess everything he knows about today’s events, and not to listen to a thing Caroline
says, because she’ll just try to cover for him.”

“If you ever arrest me, that won’t be my definition of not talking.”

“And Caroline keeps saying it was all her idea, and we shouldn’t blame poor Clarence. Not that either one of them makes that
plausible a suspect. Caroline’s too short, and Clarence too well al-ibied. Thanks to those fool amateur videographers, we
can prove he was giving the tourists elephant rides during the whole window of opportunity. But this puts a new light on it.”

“It does?” My stomach tightened. I’d thought I was helping get Caroline and Clarence out of trouble. Was my attempt going
to backfire?

“They could both be covering for Norris Pruitt,” the chief said. “Which could make them accessories after the fact.”

“
If
Norris is guilty,” I said. “You haven’t even talked to him yet—he could have an ironclad alibi.”

“We’ve already talked to him,” the chief said. “He was one of your blasted parade geese. One of the ones who’s tall enough—I
suppose your father told you what he and Horace figured out from the stake’s angle of entry.”

Dad hadn’t, but only because I hadn’t talked to him since the parade began.

“Exactly how tall did they decide the killer has to be, anyway?” I asked.

“At least six feet two. That narrows our suspect list down a bit.”

“Still a lot of people who qualify.”

“Yes, but the list of tall folks with a motive is considerably shorter,” the chief said. “And Norris Pruitt has the same blasted
lack of an alibi as most of the geese, and what’s more, his costume has a noticeable shortage of tailfeathers.”

“Oh, dear.” Perhaps I shouldn’t have repeated what Caroline told me.

Then again, if she and Clarence were helping Norris. . . .

“Just one thing,” the chief asked. “Were you the ones who reported the burglary?”

“No,” I said. “We didn’t know about it until we saw the police cars going by. And our phones have been out for hours. Didn’t
someone out at the Pines report it?”

“No,” the chief said. “Their phones probably went out about the same time yours did. And you know what cell phone reception
is like out here at the best of times.”

“Don’t you have some kind of caller ID on your 911 line?” I asked.

“It shows the burglary was reported from Geraldine’s Tea Room.”

“That’s only two blocks from the police station. And Geraldine closes at six.”

“Someone jimmied the lock on her back door and used the phone in her office to call in the report.”

“Debbie Anne didn’t recognize the voice?”

“Debbie Anne said the caller was deliberately disguising his voice,” the chief said. “Or her voice. She couldn’t rule out
a female caller.”

“And you thought it was me? No way. Do you really think I’m that shy and self-effacing?”

The chief sighed, took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes.

“I thought maybe you were snooping around there, saw something suspicious, came into town to report it, and got cold feet
at the last minute. Afraid I’d chew you out for interfering. And finagled the lock at Geraldine’s so you could report it without
being identified.”

“Sorry,” I said. “But it wasn’t me, and I have no idea who it was. Must have been some other bashful good Samaritan.”

Someone knocked on the dining room door.

“Chief?” Sammy Wendell opened the door far enough to stick his head in.

“What now?” the chief asked. He sounded more tired than grumpy.

“We’ve finished inventorying the contents of Mr. Pruitt’s bin,” Sammy said. He looked as if about to say more, then glanced
over at me and fell silent.

“Well?” the chief said. “Read it.”

Sammy glanced over at me again, then shook his head and held up a sheaf of papers.

“It’s a long list,” he said. “Do you want the details or the summary?”

“Start with the summary.”

“Okay,” Sammy said. “Electronics: seventeen assorted cameras, six iPods, nine cell phones, three portable DVD players . .
.”

I closed my eyes in dismay as Sammy droned on. The list also included jewelry, silverware, purses and wallets—many with the
identification still in place—small bits of decorative china and glassware, items of clothing.

Norris Pruitt had been busy. If he’d accumulated this much stuff in just a few months, Caroline and Clarence must have been
rather busy, too, after their previous visits to the bin.

Busy covering up for him. Were they still covering up, this time for murder?

I slipped out of the dining room. Sammy was still reading as I closed the door behind me.

“Seven dog collars. Three squeaky toys. Two rawhide bones, partially chewed . . .”

Even without murder charges, Norris Pruitt was in a lot of trouble.

I heard the front door open and turned around to see who it was.

Ainsley Werzel.

“No way back to town tonight,” he said. “Haven’t you people out here in the sticks heard about snowplows yet?”

“We’ve heard about them, yes,” I said. “But considering how few big snows we get here in Virginia, the county wisely doesn’t
buy a lot of expensive equipment that would spend most of its time rusting in a garage. And it’s not the snow blocking the
road; it’s a giant tree that—”

“Whatever,” he said. “Mind if I sleep in your barn?”

Chapter 22

Better the barn than the house, I supposed, and I was about to give permission when I remembered what else was currently in
the barn.

“You’d better bunk here in the living room,” I said. “The barn’s unheated and—”

“It’s okay,” he said. “I don’t mind. I’m sure you’ve got a full house. Don’t want to be a bother. No room at the inn and all
that.”

“Yes, but as I was about to say, the police are using the barn right now,” I went on. “And I don’t think they’d be too happy
about civilians being in it.”

“Well, if it’s no trouble,” he said. “I’ll take you up on that living room spot.”

I had the feeling he could be all kinds of trouble if he tried. His small, restless eyes barely met mine before taking off
to examine every detail of the hall, and his fingers twitched slightly, as if he were already mentally composing some kind
of sordid exposé. I hoped he knew nothing of Michael’s long-ago career as a soap opera heartthrob and his more recent stint
as an evil but sexy wizard on a cult hit TV show. Not that there was anything wrong with the fact that, unlike many actors,
he’d earned a living during his New York years, but the college was more easily embarrassed. For that matter, any number of
my family members had colorful pasts—or presents—that I would rather not see turning up in the
Star-Tribune.
Why couldn’t the man have been stranded on the other side of that blasted fallen tree?

I waved him into the living room and was reaching to bolt the door when I heard a timid knock and opened it again.

Horace.

“Hey, Meg,” he said. “The chief still up?”

“In the dining room.”

Horace nodded and trudged toward the dining room. What was he so glum about?

A few moments later, Sammy came out and went into the living room. I tagged along. Clarence sat staring into the fire.

“Clarence?” Sammy said. “Chief wants to know if he can see you for a moment.”

“I’m not talking without my attorney,” Clarence said.

“He just wants to show you something.”

Clarence thought for a moment, then heaved himself to his feet and followed Sammy. I tagged along again, but hung back just
inside the dining room door.

Horace and the chief were staring down at something on the table. I couldn’t see what without getting so close that the chief
would notice me and kick me out.

“I’m not talking without my attorney,” Clarence repeated.

“You don’t have to talk,” the chief said. “I’m going to talk to you. Do you recognize those?”

He pointed to Horace, who picked up a set of keys in one latex-gloved hand.

Clarence peered, then shook his head, clearly puzzled.

“You don’t recognize them? Never seen them before in your life?”

Clarence tilted his head, perhaps sensing that there was a trap behind the words.

“Yeah, I know you’re not talking now,” the chief said. “But when we can finally get you and your attorney together, we’re
doing to do some talking together. And you can explain to me how Ralph Doleson’s keys ended up in your motorcycle saddlebags.”

“What?” Clarence jumped to his feet. “That can’t be! I’ve—”

Then he remembered that he wasn’t talking and clamped his mouth shut. Clearly he was tempted, though. Points to Clarence,
not only for smarts, but for self-control.

“How do you know they’re Doleson’s keys,” he asked finally.

“We suspected they might be, from this,” Horace said. With one gloved finger he singled out and held up a small metal disk
with “RAD” engraved on it. “And several of them fit his apartment, his office, and the Spare Attic’s front door.”

“Someone could have put those in my saddlebags anytime,” Clarence pointed out. “The motorcycle was just sitting around parked
at Meg and Michael’s house for hours before the parade, and then again for hours in town after the parade. And if I’d had
his keys, why would we have broken into the Spare Attic? And—sorry. I’m not supposed to be talking.”

“You’re not forbidden to talk,” the chief said. “You’re just not required to. Of course, if you want to clear this up tonight.
. . .”

“I’ll wait for my lawyer,” Clarence said.

“Tomorrow, then,” the chief went on. “Once you’ve talked to that blasted attorney of yours. In the meantime, I think we could
all use some rest.”

Clarence, Horace, and Sammy shuffled out. I lingered and watched for a few moments as the chief gathered up his papers.

“Of course, now Clarence has all night to invent an innocent explanation for the keys being in his saddlebags,” I said.

He stood up.

“I prefer to think that he has all night to come to his senses and tell the truth,” he said. “You still have a room left for
me?”

“Room at the inn? Of course.”

I led him up to Rob’s room, on the third floor. I could see Deputy Shiffley laying out a sleeping bag outside the door of
a bedroom at the other end of the hall, so I deduced that Clarence had opted for privacy over warmth and taken refuge there.
I wished them all a good night and went down to see what Michael was up to.

I found him sipping the last of his martini and putting the steaks back in the freezer.

“‘Scrooge took his melancholy dinner,’” he quoted. “And so forth.”

“Does that mean you’ve already eaten?” I asked. I’d grown used to Michael’s habit of speaking in scraps of dialogue when he
was directing or acting in plays, but tonight I was too tired to puzzle out his meaning.

He cocked his head for a moment, as if hunting for a bit of Dickens that fit the occasion, and then shrugged.

“Sorry,” he said. “I know it’s an annoying habit, all this quoting.”

“It’s interesting,” I said. “And this is much nicer than when you were quoting
Who’s Afraid ofVirginia Woolf?
”

“I’m also too tired to eat now, and I’m even too tired to think of a Dickens quote to say so.”

“ ‘And being much in need of repose,’ ” I quoted—though not, I suspect, with complete accuracy—“ ‘Scrooge went straight to
bed, without undressing, and fell asleep upon the instant.’ ”

“Oh, well done!” he said. “Though I think I can manage the undressing part. And since I expect to be in much more congenial
company than Scrooge was, maybe we should rethink that falling asleep upon the instant part, too.”

“You’re on,” I said. “We’ll see if you’re too tired to remember anything from
Romeo and Juliet
.”

I peered into the living room on the way upstairs. The fire was dying down. Everyone was asleep, or at least huddled motionless
in a sleeping bag, except for Ainsley Werzel. He was standing in a corner, muttering curses as he waved his cell phone around
in what I could have told him was a fruitless quest for a signal.