A Holly, Jolly Murder

by JOAN HESSS

  Sullivan stood up. “No, and I don’t care. He’s a nasty piece of work, Mrs. Malloy. I was opposed to allowing him to join our grove, and nothing he’s done has convinced me to change my mind. There are so few of us who consider ourselves to be pagans that we have to form some uncomfortable alliances. This one has proved to be an unholy one as well.”

  I could think of no rebuttal, so I settled for a nod and headed for my car. As I opened the door, I heard a child shriek, “Look, Daddy! I found a dead squirrel in the backyard! Did he eat poison?”

  I opted to pass up the opportunity to conduct a spontaneous autopsy of the corpse and drove up the hill, trying to convince myself that someone else would deal with the Roy Tate problem. So what if he didn’t want to be taken into temporary custody? No teenager would, especially when savoring the specter of living alone and doing whatever he wanted day and night. Caron might not enjoy the isolation, but I had a feeling it was precisely Roy’s cup of Herbal Ecstasy tea.

  I intended to go straight back to the store and immerse myself in paperwork until it was time to pick up Luanne. At the fateful moment, however, I failed to turn on Thurber Street and headed for the road that led to Nicholas Chunder’s estate.

  Clearly, the Druids were getting to me.

  Chapter 5

  This did not constitute meddling, I assured myself. I’d had more experience with teenagers than any of the others; I was the most likely contender to convince Roy that he could survive a few months in a group home without, as Malthea had predicted, becoming warped, bitter, and the victim of unspeakable abuse. I could also make it very clear that he would not be staying in the back of the bookstore or—I shuddered—at my apartment. Afterward, my conscience clear and my hands washed in true Herodian fashion, I could devote my energies to filing invoices, updating sales-tax figures, deciding which books to return to the publishers, and dusting the front window display of calendars and novels with Christmas-related artwork.

  This all seemed so admirable that I was smiling as I turned down the driveway to Nicholas’s manor house. Earlier in the day I’d failed to spot the brass plaque that identified the property as Primrose Hill. It had a pleasant ring to it, although it may have taken its name from some infamous Druid sacrificial site. Nicholas had hardly evinced a sense of humor, but I’d learned that Druids were a wily lot.

  The front door of the house had been sealed by the police, and a cardboard sign threatened would-be trespassers with retribution. The murder was Jorgeson’s arena, not mine, I told myself as I parked. The hearse was not in sight, but it might be inside the carriage house beside whatever more conventional vehicle Nicholas had driven.

  At one end of the stone building was a flight of stairs. I was a bit breathless by the time I arrived on the landing and knocked on the door without allowing myself to question the shrewdness of my action. If Roy was gone, fine. If he was there and amiable, fine. If he was there but unwilling to talk, fine. The only option that did not fall into the ‘fine’ category would be if he was so angered by my visit that he shoved me over the railing. That would definitely be un-fine, as well as painful.

  I was pondering this ultimate possibility when the door opened and I was met with a blast of noise from unseen speakers. I swallowed a gurgle and said, “I’d like to speak to you for a moment.”

  Roy was wearing his standard monochromatic apparel: black on black, and his T-shirt for the day was emblazoned with a fire-spitting skull. He scowled at me for a long moment, then said, “I’m kinda busy.”

  “Aren’t we all?” I said as I squeezed past him and went into his living room. The furniture was cheap and utilitarian, the walls adorned with posters of bands with names like “Putrid Stench” and “Ebola.” The music, to use the term loosely, was so loud that my skin crawled as if it were being pelted with sleet.

  “Turn that off!” I said to my involuntary host.

  He picked up a remote control and aimed it at an elaborate stereo system, cutting off a particularly graphic bellow of anguish. “Whatta you want?”

  “Well,” I said as I sat down and did my best to come across like a sanctioned social worker, “we need to discuss your plans for the immediate future. Malthea doesn’t think you should stay out here by yourself.”

  “So?”

  “I spoke to Sullivan Sawyer. He’s not comfortable with the idea of you returning to his house until your parents can make more permanent—”

  “You’ve got a daughter, don’t you?” he interrupted. “Red hair, loudmouthed, a real snob.”

  “My daughter’s a sophomore at the high school. Her name is Caron and she’s not a snob.”

  “Right,” he drawled, then took a cigarette out of a pack and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. “What’d she say about me?”

  “Nothing much,” I said.

  “She tell you what they call me?”

  “I seem to recall something,” I said, moistening my lips, “but we need to talk about where you’re going to stay. I assume your parents have a house in Farberville. Can you stay there?”

  “It’s rented out.” He scraped a wooden match across the tabletop, lit the cigarette, and sat back, clearly amused by my discomfort. “I don’t think the Baptist minister and his wife would want me to move into my old bedroom.”

  “Do you have any friends you might stay with?”

  “What do you think?” he said with a harsh laugh. “I’ve only been here four months. I used to live with my mom, but she got all freaked and sent me to live with my father and that bitch he married.” He blew a stream of smoke at me. “Why’s this any of your business?”

  “Malthea thinks it’s her business and asked for my help. You really shouldn’t stay out here by yourself, especially after what happened to Nicholas Chunder. Whoever broke into his house may still be in the vicinity.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  Dealing with teenagers can be like building a castle with dry sand. I pretended to consider his response, then said, “Nicholas was shot. Do you have a gun?”

  “I can get one.”

  “It may be more difficult than—” I stopped as someone banged on the door. “Who’s that?”

  He gave me a contemptuous look as he went across the room and opened the door. Corporal Billsby stood on the landing, his expression leery and one hand resting on his sidearm.

  “The sergeant wants you to come back to the station.”

  Roy flipped his cigarette over the railing. “What for?”

  “The statement you gave wasn’t adequate. Sergeant Jorgeson wants you to add some details, like what you might have seen and heard in the middle of the night.”

  “I didn’t see a burglar lurking in the shadows outside the study—okay?”

  “It’s looking less and less like a burglary. Somebody broke the window to try to make it look like one, but the officers on the homicide team didn’t just get off the turnip truck. The sergeant wants to know if maybe you heard the glass break and forgot to mention it.”

  I went to the doorway, nodded politely at Corporal Billsby, and then said to Roy, “You have to cooperate with the police.”

  Corporal Billsby did not seem to appreciate my well-intentioned support. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Is there a body in his kitchen, too?”

  “I haven’t looked.” I put my hand on Roy’s arm. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, making a weak effort to shrug off my hand. “I’ve never been in trouble before. Should I get a lawyer?”

  Corporal Billsby crossed his arms and sighed as though the rigors of law enforcement were giving him an ulcer. “This is not some idiotic cop show. All the sergeant wants to do is go over your statement and ask a couple more questions like what time you went to sleep and if you saw anything out of the ordinary this morning on your way to that—that orgy or whatever it was. If you’d been more talkative in the first place, you wouldn’t have to be doing this.”

  Instead of looki
ng reassured, Roy turned pale and began to sway unsteadily. “I went to bed at midnight,” he said numbly, “and I didn’t see anything or anybody before dawn when I cut across the pasture.”

  “Are you okay?” I asked him.

  He shook his head. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”

  Billsby retreated until he bumped into the railing. “Don’t do it on me, punk. I just got my uniform back from the dry cleaner’s yesterday.”

  I was no more inclined than he to be splattered with the dregs of Roy’s breakfast, but I was in my maternal mode and unable to loosen my grip on his arm. “Can you make it to the bathroom?”

  “Yeah, I think so.” As soon as I released him, Roy turned around and stumbled across the room.

  My maternal mode did not extend to holding anyone’s head over a commode. I waited until a door slammed, then said, “Has Sergeant Jorgeson made any progress in the investigation?”

  “No weapon’s been found,” Billsby said. “We searched the house and the grounds, but it could be anywhere by now.”

  “Was anything stolen?”

  He squinted at me. “Why are you asking?”

  I smiled sweetly. “Just passing the time while we wait, Corporal. Nicholas Chunder was obviously a wealthy man, and it seems likely that he had something worthy of being stolen. A coin collection, perhaps, or the family jewels. I guess he’d keep things like that at a bank, though. Was there any indication that any of the rooms had been searched?”

  “He’s the only one who could answer that. How long is it going to take for the punk to puke? I haven’t got all day, fer crissake. I never got any breakfast, and it’s getting on toward lunch.”

  “Feel free to check on him,” I said as I stepped out of the doorway and gestured (rather gracefully, I might add) at the interior of the apartment. “I don’t know where the bathroom is, but you can follow the sounds of retching. I’m sure a trained police officer can do that easily enough. We civilians lack your proficiency in such matters.”

  “Yeah, right.” He came into the living room, paused to stare at the posters, and then went into a hallway. Seconds later I heard him roar, “Goddamn it! When I catch that kid, I’m gonna bounce him against a wall!”

  This seemed to suggest Roy Tate was no longer available for a session at the police department. I picked up my purse and waited for Corporal Billsby to come storming back into the living room. His demeanor was not attractive when he did so; the blotches on his face did not flatter him, nor did the spittle on his chin.

  Nor, for that matter, did the glower that he aimed at me. “You’re in on this, aren’t you?” he said in a voice almost as loud as the music had been when I arrived. “You asked all those questions to give him time to escape out the bathroom window!”

  “I did no such thing,” I said indignantly. “You were the one who was worried about your uniform and terrified you might have to shine your shoes tonight. I didn’t hear you offer to escort him to the bathroom, either. That was really very negligent on your part, wasn’t it? I do hope Sergeant Jorgeson’s not too cross with you when he hears about this.”

  “Aw, hell,” the corporal said as he collapsed on the sofa. “I’ve already got one reprimand in my file for roughing up a junkie.”

  “Then you should consider tracking this witness, shouldn’t you?”

  “There are at least forty acres surrounding this house. I walked most of them earlier today.” Corporal Billsby stood up and slammed his hat back on his head. “Stay here, ma’am. I’m gonna call for backup.”

  “Roy Tate isn’t a suspect,” I said.

  “Now he is.”

  Corporal Billsby had a point, I thought as I listened to him call the police department and squirm through an explanation of why he needed additional officers on the scene. He banged down the receiver, gave me a final glower, and hurried down the exterior stairs. I followed at a more decorous pace, wondering if I ought to call Malthea and report the dismal outcome of my mission. Presuming Roy was on foot and eluded the police, he was likely to be sleeping in the woods in the future.

  I went onto the porch of the house and peered in the window at the shrouded living room. A strand of tinsel had come loose and hung like a thick silver snake. I tried to envision a blazing fire, tankards of mead, and a rousing rendition of a pagan hymn, but my thoughts kept returning to the bloodied corpse on the kitchen floor. Hardly convivial.

  I went to the double doors of the carriage house and dragged them open. Although I’d anticipated the sight of the hearse, it still jolted me. It was long and sleek, with polished chrome accents and fringed curtains in the back windows. I stuck my head in the window in case Roy was hunkered on the floor of the front seat; all I saw were paper cups and crumpled cigarette packs. The key was in the ignition, but I was not tempted to drive around Farberville and drum up a little extra income.

  Parked next to it was a burgundy Cadillac, indicative of Nicholas’s more conservative taste. I made sure Roy was not hiding under either vehicle, then opened the door of a small room with a tool bench, a headless marble statue draped in cobwebs, and shelves piled with oddments such as flowerpots and wicker baskets.

  Satisfied Roy had fled elsewhere, I emerged as a patrol car pulled up. Corporal Billsby came around the corner of the carriage house, unaccompanied by his errant witness.

  “How’d the sergeant take it?” he asked the driver.

  “About like you think he would, Billsby. Can you say ‘school crossing guard’?”

  Apparently Billsby couldn’t. He waited until his colleagues climbed out of the car, then gave them a rambling account that characterized me as a cross between Ma Barker and Bonnie Parker.

  “Look here,” I cut in before I was cuffed and thrown into the backseat, “I have no control over Roy’s past or present behavior. I came here out of concern for a minor whose parents are on the other side of the world. Sergeant Jorgeson should not have allowed him to continue to live here. Why weren’t suitable arrangements made?”

  “We aren’t in the baby-sitting business,” snapped Billsby. “Come on, guys—let’s scatter and see if we can find this punk.”

  No one bothered to commend me for my virtuous motives as they walked between the two buildings. I waited for a moment to see if Corporal Billsby might return to order me to sit in my car or go back upstairs, then decided I’d been dismissed and drove back to the bookstore.

  The telephone was ringing as I unlocked the door. In that there were many people with whom I did not wish to converse, including Peter, Jorgeson, and Malthea, I answered it with a guarded acknowledgment that this was indeed the Book Depot.

  I’d overlooked Gilda D’Orcher.

  “I need to talk to you,” she said over the background clamor of voices and machinery. “My shift’s over in an hour. Can we meet someplace?”

  I was beginning to feel as if I was beset by a parasitic vine that was curling around my limbs. “I’m busy the rest of the day. The person you need to talk to is Sergeant Jorgeson. Would you like the number?”

  “No, I need to talk to you, Mrs. Malloy. Can’t you please give me a few minutes?”

  “I’ll be here until six o’clock,” I said. “If you want to come by, you can.”

  She began to snuffle. “My bicycle’s out at Primrose Hill. Fern gave me a lift to the police station and then to the hospital so I wouldn’t be late. I meant to ask the Sawyers to bring it back to town in their van, but they left before I had a chance.” The distasteful snuffling increased in volume, if not sincerity. “There’s no way I can get to the bookstore before you leave. This is really important, Mrs. Malloy. I know you think I’m a crackpot, but please hear me out.”

  The metaphorical vine slithered up my back and twined around my neck. “I might be able to meet you at seven or eight tonight,” I said.

  “I guess that’ll have to do,” she said. “One of the orderlies lives in the trailer park, so I can get a ride home with him. It’s on Appleby Road, and I live in the last unit on the le
ft. I’ll put a candle in the window.”

  I admitted I could find the trailer park and hung up, all the while cursing myself for being such an easy mark. Lacking the proper Wiccan vocabulary, I employed old-fashioned Anglo-Saxon expletives.

  My only sale the rest of the afternoon was to my amiable science-fiction hippie, who was a relic of the sixties and a local institution. He ambled in and out of the store in his typical haze; I considered asking him if he knew anything about the local Druids, but his eyes were so unfocused that I was afraid my question might further bewilder him.

  No police officer appeared to drag me to the nearest dungeon for impeding an investigation, and at six o’clock I locked up and drove to Luanne’s store. She was waiting on the sidewalk, her hands buried in the pockets of a tatty fur coat.

  “Do you think it’ll impress him?” she said as she got into my car. “I realize that fur’s not politically correct, but neither is a guy who denigrates children’s self-esteem by categorizing them as naughty or nice.”

  “Get a grasp, Luanne,” I said as I eased into the stream of cars heading up Thurber Street. “Caron described the previous Santa as an old geezer who didn’t require makeup for his cherry-tinted nose. I doubt he’d have cared if your entire body was covered with fur.”

  “That attitude does not reflect the Christmas spirit of goodwill to men, especially the kind with admirable physical attributes and limitless financial resources. Speaking of which, anything more from Peter?”

  “No, and I don’t expect him to call anytime soon. Our last conversation did not go well. I suppose he deserves some credit for being concerned about his mother, but he’s so blinded with infantile jealousy that he’d object to the pope.”

  “The pope’s pretty old,” Luanne said, ogling a pedestrian who met at least one of her criteria. “Pull over, Claire—he winked at me.”

  I kept going. By the time we arrived at the mall, I’d told her the entire Druid saga, which she found more amusing that daring. It took nearly half an hour to find a parking space, and only then did I succeed by stalking a woman laden with shopping bags.