Toucan Keep a Secret

by Donna Andrews

  He added the file to the stack on top of the file cabinet and looked at me expectantly.

  “I’m looking for the John Doe,” I said. “Who is not under the D for Doe. I may have to go through from A to Z. Wait a sec.… aha!”

  Chapter 6

  “Under J for John, I presume?” the chief asked.

  “No, K,” I said. “For Known Only to God. Assuming this is the right file.”

  I glanced inside.

  “The dates are right,” I said, handing it to the chief. “It looks as if Dr. Womble donated the niche.”

  “But why?” The chief’s face bore a puzzled frown. “I mean, why here at Trinity? I could understand his making a donation to cover the funeral and burial expenses of a John Doe. Exactly the sort of thing Dr. Womble has done, more than once, without any fanfare. But to bury him in the church? How would he even know for sure the poor soul was Christian, much less Episcopalian?”

  “Found wearing a cross, maybe?” I suggested. “Or better yet, with a well-thumbed copy of the Book of Common Prayer in his pocket.”

  “Maybe,” the chief said. “Still seems very odd.”

  “Dr. Womble’s still around—you could ask him.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to.” The chief didn’t look overjoyed at the prospect. Not, I was sure, because he had any dislike for the former rector of Trinity. More likely he had a good idea how time consuming and ultimately futile it would be, trying to get Dr. Womble to answer his questions sensibly and succinctly. I’d spent an entire afternoon at the Wombles’ retirement cottage not long ago, trying to interview Dr. Womble for an article in the Trinity newsletter. I’d learned much about the Act of Uniformity of 1662, the cultivation of scented geraniums, and the most congenial pubs to relax in after a day of booking in the Welsh village of Hay-on-Wye, but had ended up crafting my article about Dr. Womble’s early days at Trinity by spending the following morning in the archives of the Caerphilly Clarion.

  “Since we’re in the midst of the church files, can you look up when Dr. Womble came to Trinity?” the chief asked.

  “Actually, I don’t need to look it up,” I said. “I profiled him for the church newsletter recently. May 1990.”

  “Then he’d have been the pastor here for all but the last of these six deaths,” he said. “So I suppose I’ll have to see what he has to say.” The chief was visibly bracing himself at the thought.

  “As will I,” I said. “Assuming you’re okay with me doing what Robyn asked—following along behind you and helping the bereaved families decide what they want done with their loved ones’ ashes.”

  “Provided you leave the crime solving to me.” He looked over his glasses at me. Then, as if suddenly remembering who he was talking to, he sighed and rubbed his forehead as if anticipating a headache. “Why do I even bother saying that? At least, please remember to report anything you learn during your interviews that could have a bearing on the murder.”

  “Absolutely. And particularly with Dr. Womble, getting any information out of him could be a time-consuming process.”

  The chief winced, and nodded slightly, which I decided to take as permission to interrogate Dr. Womble as freely as my time and patience permitted. I breathed a small sigh of relief. He could be prickly about civilians interfering in police business. But he’d learned over the years that I was scrupulous about bringing him any information I happened to run across—or found out by being nosy. And now that I was officially a Caerphilly employee, as special assistant to the mayor, and could be considered to have at least a tenuous official standing with the police department, he’d mellowed considerably. Not that he didn’t still occasionally warn me against interfering, but he didn’t go ballistic if I strayed across the line. It also helped that Adam, youngest of the three orphaned grandsons he and his wife were raising, was inseparable from Josh and Jamie, and our families had become close.

  “And here’s the final folder—Mrs. Van der Lynden.” I handed it to him, and then decided to prod a little. “Victim, I gather, of some kind of still-unsolved robbery?”

  “A jewel robbery,” the chief said.

  “And they never caught the robbers?”

  “Oh, they caught them all right, but they never recovered any of the jewels.”

  “And you think that ring we found on the floor could be Mrs. Van der Lynden’s?”

  “No idea.” He shrugged. “The case was already stone cold by the time I came to town. I have no idea if a ruby ring was part of the loot. And we don’t know if the ring is real. A stone that size—I’d be surprised if it is.”

  “But still,” I said. “Finding a ring—real or fake—in the crypt where the victim of a notorious local jewel robbery is buried…”

  “Gets my attention.” The chief was studying the contents of the folder. “Next of kin is a Mr. Archibald Falkenhausen van der Lynden, but his address is in care of someone named Wellington Blodgett.” He flipped a page. “Ah. Not a person, Wellington Blodgett. A law firm.”

  “That’s odd,” I said.

  “Could be useful.” The chief was scribbling in his notebook. “I haven’t run across any Van der Lyndens in the time I’ve been here in Caerphilly. But law firms don’t tend to vanish without a trace quite as often as individuals.”

  I made a mental note of the name. A great many of my relatives were lawyers, and it might be interesting or even useful to find out what kind of law Wellington Blodgett specialized in.

  “Anything else?” I stood posed by the file cabinets, demonstrating my eagerness to forage through the files for him.

  “Not at the moment,” he said. “Though I’m sure there will be, and I’ll let you know. Any chance you could give me the key to the crypt?”

  “I can give you a key.” I handed him the one I’d been carrying around. “But I can’t guarantee it’s the only key. There should be another copy in the office, though I don’t think it was hanging on the proper hook when I was in there—maybe someone left it on Robyn’s desk. And who knows how many extras are floating around the parish.”

  “We’ll probably end up putting our own lock on it as well,” the chief said. “But let’s check on whether there’s one in the office, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “No trouble at all,” I said. “I need to collect the toucan anyway.”

  He waited while I locked up first the files and then the overflow room, and followed me down the hall to Robyn’s study. I could tell he approved of the softer blues and greens in which she’d decorated her office.

  I could hear feathers rustling beneath the cover, and realized it might be a good idea to make sure the bird was still okay. As far as I knew, the intruder hadn’t entered the church, but you never knew. I whisked the cover off, and Nimitz greeted us with a volley of the low-pitched croaking noises that were a toucan’s stock-in-trade. Not for the first time, I found myself marveling at how improbable he looked. The glossy black body and white vest were showy enough, but when you added in the orange-and-blue patch around his eyes and the bright-yellow–and–orange beak that was nearly as long as his body, he looked less like a real bird than the result of turning three-year-olds loose with crayons.

  I noticed the chief was staring at him, too.

  “That beak is unreal,” he said. “I assume they can’t actually fly with that thing.”

  “They fly just fine,” I said. “The beak’s mostly hollow. But don’t ask me to prove the flying part—the last time he got loose it took us hours to catch him.”

  The chief continued to study Nimitz while I did a quick search of Robyn’s desk.

  “The other columbarium key is definitely missing.” I pointed to the key board on the wall, where the hook labeled COLUMB was now bare. “I noticed it while I was on the call with Debbie Ann. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s how Mr. Hagley got in,” I added, as I picked up the cover to Nimitz’s cage.

  “I see.” The chief was frowning at the key board.

  Seeing me approach the cage, Nimitz
rubbed his head against the bars in a flirtatious gesture and uttered the soft noise, a cross between clacking and trilling, that he’d found most effective for charming bits of fruit out of passersby.

  “What was that?” The chief had swiveled around and was staring at the bird.

  “Just Nimitz,” I said.

  “I know, but what is he imitating? It almost sounded like someone being choked. Although it could be something mechanical. Can you get him to do it again?”

  “I couldn’t stop him from doing it again if I tried, but he’s not imitating anything. He’s a toucan, not a parrot.” How many times had I already explained this to people visiting the office?

  “So that’s just the noise toucans make?” He sounded disappointed.

  “One of the noises,” I said. “They make a lot of noises, most of them rather mechanical sounding. But if you’re hoping Nimitz is going to imitate the killer’s voice or repeat Mr. Hagley’s last words—sorry. Not something toucans can do.”

  “A pity.” He turned back to his contemplation of the keys. Nimitz tapped his beak gently against the mesh of his cage, to get my attention, and then tilted his head flirtatiously again.

  “I know perfectly well you’re stuffed to the gills,” I said as I covered his cage. “Goodnight, birdbrain.”

  I glanced down at the area around the cage and shuddered at the mess he’d made in the last few hours. He ate the fruit we prepared for him with untidy gusto, so the floor around his cage was always covered with splashes of fruit juice and partially pulverized bits of fruit. And then there were the droppings. I grabbed the roll of paper towels we’d taken to keeping near the cage and tackled the worst of it.

  “My goodness.” The chief had noticed what I was doing. “You definitely need someone to clean up after him.”

  “I’ve been cleaning up after him,” I said. “We all do, several times a day, but there’s just no containing the mess—which is why he’s going to stay in our barn for the time being.”

  “Good plan. So you always keep the keys out in the open like that?”

  He pointed to the key board, where most of the hooks—BOILER ROOM, VAN, SUPPLY CLOSET, and so forth—were still populated.

  “Yes,” I said. “About the only keys we try to keep reasonably secure are the ones to Robyn’s office and the file cabinets. And even so, I’d be astonished if there weren’t at least a dozen keys to both floating around the parish. Most of the vestry have them. Including, incidentally, Mr. Hagley.”

  “So Mr. Hagley could have used his own key to gain entry here, to Robyn’s office, and then taken the columbarium key off the board.”

  “Yes.” I nodded. “In fact—hang on a sec.”

  Tending Nimitz had reminded me of something. I pulled out my phone, opened up a picture I’d taken earlier in the evening of Nimitz in all his Technicolor glory. I glanced at it and then showed it to the chief.

  “I took this around ten o’clock,” I said. “To show Robyn he was still healthy and happy.”

  “A nice likeness.” His voice suggested that he was wondering why I was bothering to show him the photo.

  “Look at the upper left corner,” I said. “You can see the key board. Both columbarium keys are still there.”

  I used my fingers to enlarge the picture and showed it to the chief again. This time he nodded.

  “I see,” he said. “The background’s a bit fuzzy, but no question that there are two keys there.”

  “Which means sometime after ten o’clock, someone got in here and took one of the columbarium keys. My money’s on Mr. Hagley. I left Robyn’s office locked when I ran out to see what the hammering was, but the rest of the evening if I wasn’t in it, I locked the door behind me.”

  “Wise,” he said. “But still, not a very secure system.”

  “You know how it is in a church,” I said. “The focus is more on bringing people in than keeping them out.”

  “It’s that way at New Life Baptist,” he said. “And most of the time that’s just fine.”

  “But most of the time neither church is the scene of a murder,” I said.

  “Exactly.” He glanced at his watch. “Your father should be here by now, and I’d like to hear his first impressions. If you could let me out by whatever door’s closest to the cryp—the columbarium, I won’t keep you any longer.”

  Which was probably his polite way of suggesting he’d like me out from underfoot.

  “I’ll say hi to Dad on my way to the parking lot,” I said as I snagged the van key.

  Chapter 7

  When we returned to the crypt we could hear Horace and Dad having a lively discussion about the red ring we’d found.

  “The easiest way to tell if it’s a real ruby is to see if you can scratch it,” Dad was saying. “The only thing harder than a ruby is a diamond, so if you can scratch it with one of your tools we’ll know it’s a fake.”

  “Yes, I know.” Horace sounded slightly annoyed.

  “Or if you don’t have any suitable tools, we could just drag it across one of the marble panels,” Dad went on. “If any of the color comes off we’ll know the stone is a fake.”

  “Right now the marble panels are part of my crime scene,” Horace said. “I want them left the way they are. And besides, before I start trying to figure out whether it’s a real ruby or not, I need to check it for fingerprints and DNA.”

  The chief stepped to the columbarium door. I stood behind him and peered over his shoulder. Dad was crouched by Mr. Hagley’s body. Horace appeared to be inspecting the soles of Mr. Hagley’s shoes. Dad’s eyes were fixed, magpie-like, on the ring.

  “Dr. Langslow,” the chief said. “Any preliminary observations?”

  “I’d estimate death occurred no more than an hour ago,” Dad said. “Blunt force wound to the right posterior portion of the skull, near the lambdoid suture—that’s the line of demarcation between the parietal and occipital bones.” Luckily for those of us who hadn’t taken Anatomy 101, he was pointing to the equivalent spot on his own head—the upper back right side.

  “Could it have been done by that crowbar?” the chief asked.

  “Definitely the right shape for it,” Dad said.

  “And there’s blood and other biological material on the crowbar,” Horace said. “So I’d say that’s a yes. Another interesting note—it appears the killer struck Mr. Hagley before he began prying the front panels off the niches—there’s also biological material on the edges of several of the niches or panels.”

  Biological material. If he was just talking about blood, he’d have said blood. I decided not to think too much about what else he might mean. I pulled out my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe and added an item to my to-do list—organizing a committee of strong-stomached parishioners to give the crime scene a thorough cleaning once the chief took away the yellow tape. And then I remembered something else.

  “Dad,” I said. “I don’t want to wake her now—but any chance you could ask Mother to make sure there’s someone reliable assigned to help Robyn in the morning.”

  “Of course,” Dad said. “Help her how?”

  “By preventing her from dashing down here, getting in the chief’s way and putting herself and the baby at risk,” I said. “I’m not suggesting she needs a keeper—”

  “But she probably does,” the chief said. “Good idea.”

  “Will do,” Dad said. “Getting back to my findings—he was probably struck from behind—and with considerable force.”

  I left them to it. I made my way to the parking lot, which was filling up with vehicles. Dad’s car, an ambulance, and four police cars. Evidently the ambulance was just here to transport Mr. Hagley when Dad finished with him—the two EMTs were leaning against its side, and waved when they saw me. Horace and the chief had come in two of the police cars. I suspected the occupants of the other two accounted for the rustling or crashing noises coming from the woods around the church.

  I unlocked the elderly church van, star
ted it after three attempts, and paused long enough to add ignition to the already long list of items that needed servicing. I texted Michael, “On my way finally. Don’t wait up.” Then I headed for home.

  Instead of parking in my usual spot, I took the driveway that led to the barn. The door was unlocked, of course. I’d given up expecting the boys, or even Michael, to remember that my valuable blacksmith’s equipment lived in the barn. But all my gear was safe inside what the boys called “Mom’s jail”—a section at one end of the barn enclosed in heavy steel bars. Out of force of habit, I tested to make sure the jail door was safely locked. And looked longingly at the anvil I hadn’t touched since I’d begun filling in for Robyn.

  Then I set Nimitz’s cage down on top of a couple of hay bales just outside the jail. I heard his feathers rustle slightly, and then he presumably went back to sleep.

  “I should go straight to bed,” I said to myself. “It must be nearly one o’clock.”

  In fact, it was a quarter past one. But however tired I was, I was more curious. Curious and maybe a little spooked. Someone had crept into Robyn’s office, taken the columbarium key, and gone out there either to murder or be murdered, all while I was downstairs struggling with the stopped-up toilet. What if the toilet had been easier to fix? Or what if I’d given up after a slight struggle and gone upstairs to collect Nimitz earlier?

  I checked to make sure I’d locked the barn door behind myself, then strolled over to my office—the former tack room, at the other end of the barn from my blacksmithing setup—unlocked the door, and turned on my laptop.

  I wanted to know more about the people whose ashes the murderer had disturbed. While my laptop booted, I took out my notebook and wrote down the names, and what I remembered of the birth and death dates. Then I opened a search engine and typed in Van der Lynden jewel robbery.

  Up popped a four-month-old article from the Caerphilly Clarion—part of its recurring “This week in local history” series. “Thirtieth anniversary of infamous local jewel heist!” read the headline. According to the article, on December 31, 1987, Mrs. Beatrice van der Lynden, widow of the late Archibald van der Lynden Sr., had graciously agreed to host the Dames of Caerphilly’s annual New Year’s Eve masked ball.