“How can they tell?” the chief asked.
“GameMaster used to be very careful to make sure no one could trace where he was e-mailing from,” Rob said. “If you want to hear the technical details—”
“I’d rather not,” the chief said.
“That’s good, because I don’t understand it either,” Rob said. “But the guys tell me that the e-mails he sent to Justin Klapcroft and Tyler Rasmussen were just sent from a cell phone. A burner cell phone we can’t trace—but a cell phone. And from here in Caerphilly. It could just be that he’s having to operate a little differently now that he’s on-site.”
“Or it could mean that someone else has taken over from him,” the chief said. “What if Mr. Green, who has a history of running online scams, was the original GameMaster, and whoever killed him took over running the game, using a cell phone he took from his victim. Would that fit the evidence?”
“Absolutely,” Rob said. “Of course, we don’t have anything to prove it yet. Just suspicions. But we’ll keep working.”
“Getting back to Lydia,” I said to the chief. “You said you’d fill us in on what you’d learned about her.”
“Her car was found in the long-term parking lot at Richmond International Airport earlier this afternoon,” the chief said. “And she appears to have taken a one-way flight to New Orleans.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” I said.
“We’ve asked law enforcement in New Orleans and adjacent parishes to keep an eye out for her,” the chief said. “But it’s Halloween weekend down there, too, and I expect what they’re dealing with makes our problems look tame by comparison.”
“Yeah, if they celebrate it even one tenth as wildly as Mardi Gras, watch out!” Rob said. “I remember one year—well, never mind.” He seemed to remember where he was and composed himself, although he still had a silly grin on his face.
“Meg, you had more contact with Ms. Van Meter than most of us,” the chief said.
“Not any more than I had to,” I said.
“Join the club,” Rob muttered.
“Did she ever mention New Orleans or say anything about having to leave today?” the chief asked. “Or say anything at all that would help us make sense of this?”
“Like anything that would contradict the theory that she killed James Green and Wayne Smith, set fire to the Haunted House in an attempt to cover up the second murder, and then decided New Orleans was as good a place as any to disappear in?” I shook my head. “Not offhand, but if I think of anything, I’ll let you know.”
“It’s also possible that she’s a witness and fled in fear for her life,” the chief said.
Rob and I both nodded dutifully, but I could tell I wasn’t the only one who found the notion of Lydia as a killer a lot more plausible.
“Well, I won’t keep you from your patrolling,” the chief said.
I can take a hint when I hear one. I stood up, wished Rob and the chief a good afternoon, and left.
Chapter 20
I decided to leave my car in the station parking lot and walk over to the town square to check on things there. A wise decision. Apparently the chief had decided to block off the town square well before dark, so I’d have had to turn around anyway.
There were long lines at every food tent and concession stand. But to the extent that I could see people’s faces, the tourists all seemed pretty cheerful, many of them dancing along with the band’s reggae-themed version of “Monster Mash.” Rose Noire’s booth, with its rapidly dwindling stock of organic herbs, lotions, and perfumes, was also crowded. She looked tired—I hoped merely from working so hard all day and not from having to beam positive vibes into herbs so her less savory customers couldn’t use them for evil purposes. The dried flower tent was closing up—perhaps realizing that the crowds now pouring into the square were not likely to be customers.
I found myself feeling distinctly out of patience with the tourists, so I took one of those deep yoga breaths Rose Noire was always recommending and made a conscious effort to see them in a positive light. They were helping the town economy. And through the food tents, rebuilding the coffers of the churches just at the beginning of the winter when the need for funds for all their charitable activities increased significantly. And most of the tourists had come here not out of greed or ambition but to have fun. And they’d clearly spent so much time and money on the costumes that were, frankly, the main event as far as I could see.
Princess Leia marched between two Imperial Stormtroopers with such long legs that I suspected they were walking on stilts. Two people dressed as bunches of grapes walked by—one had dozens of light green balloons stuck to her clothes, while her companion’s balloons were dark purple. A man wearing realistic-looking plate armor had decked out his mobility scooter with a horse’s head and tail.
Watching the costumed revelers was getting me into a better mood, but now I had to fight the temptation just to find a good vantage point and watch the show.
Next year, maybe. For this year, I had work to do.
I spotted a familiar-looking costume—a well-worn gorilla suit that belonged to my cousin Horace. What was he doing out in costume instead of on duty? I fell into step beside him.
“What’s up?” I asked. “Why aren’t you on duty?”
“Shh!” he said. “I am on duty. Plainclothes surveillance.”
Okay, in this crowd the gorilla suit probably qualified as plainclothes.
“Noticed anything interesting?” I asked.
“Take a look at that one.”
He pointed to a man ahead of me whose costume made my jaw drop. He was wearing a black overcoat whose entire surface was festooned with thirty or forty extra sleeves. Not empty sleeves—each sleeve appeared to contain an arm, each arm ended with a black-gloved hand, and each hand was doing something different. One held a pencil. Another a cigarette. One was giving the V for victory sign. Another was making a rude gesture to the world. Two were shaking hands with each other.
“A coat of arms, obviously,” I said. “And ingeniously done. Has he done anything suspicious, or are you tailing him merely because of the sheer number of fake body parts he’s sporting?”
“He seems mostly harmless,” Horace said. “I’m actually kind of keeping an eye to see if anyone tries to take any of his arms. I figure if I was a scavenger hunt participant and didn’t know where to get a fake body part to scare people with, I’d spot him and say ‘bingo!’”
I left him to follow his quarry and continued on my tour of inspection. And after one very slow trip around the square, I decided to head back to my car so I could check on what was happening out at the zoo and the Haunted House.
The road was completely lined with parked cars all the way out to the Haunted House—a few of them not completely off the road, creating spots where there was just barely enough room for two normal-sized cars to pass. In fact, I had to back up once to let one of the horse-drawn hay wagons by.
I drove all the way out to the zoo to check on things there. A large sign on the entrance gate read ZOO CLOSES AT 5:00 P.M. TODAY. I checked my watch—only half an hour to go. Though I suspected it would take an hour or two to make sure all the tourists were really gone. The area of the parking lot closest to the gate had been turned into a camping ground for the Blake’s Brigade volunteers—it was filled with tents and campers and horse trailers. I saw Caroline briefing a trio of riders. Two were dressed as knights while the third was wearing a skeleton costume and had painted his black steed to look like a skeleton horse. As I watched, the three riders saluted and set off across the parking lot.
Caroline spotted me and came over.
“We’ve brought in the cavalry,” she said, pointing to where the riders were following a dirt path into the woods. The paint on the skeleton horse was faintly luminescent. “Should make it easier to chase down any intruders who try to flee. And thanks for the offer of canine assistance.”
“Canine assistance?”
“Th
ere they are now.”
I recognized Michael’s mother’s car. She pulled up near us. Michael was sitting beside her in the front passenger seat, and I could see an enormous furry head bobbing between theirs. Tinkerbell. Yes, a full-grown Irish wolfhound would be a nice addition to the zoo’s security.
Michael’s mother stopped by the staff entrance and hopped out to open the back door so Tinkerbell could begin the complicated process of extracting herself from the backseat—a process made more difficult by the fact that she was wearing a pink tulle headdress, a pink tutu, and pink ruffles around all four ankles.
“That,” I said, “is a truly scary costume. And what are you going to—oh, my God! What is that?”
I leaped back from a creature that suddenly appeared at Tinkerbell’s side—the biggest spider I’d ever seen, with a hairy black body as big as a football and eight long, hairy, many-jointed legs. Had it escaped from the insect house at the zoo? Or—
Then the spider uttered a very familiar growl.
“Spike?”
The Small Evil One glanced up at me with a look that clearly said, “Don’t you dare laugh or I’ll bite your ankle.”
Michael, already back in his Union general’s costume, crept up behind Spike and carefully picked up the trailing end of his leash. Spike waited till the last minute and then lunged at him, snarling.
“He’s in a bad mood,” Michael said. “I don’t think he really appreciates all the trouble the boys went through to make him the costume.”
“Did they do this?” I asked. I risked life and limb by inching closer to inspect the costume. Spike had been dyed black—not, I hoped, with permanent dye—and the eight fake legs were attached to a wide fabric band fastened snugly around his belly. I might have managed to attach the belly band without getting bitten too badly, but there’s no way I could have dyed him and survived with all my fingers attached. “And are they okay?”
“They’re fine,” Michael said. “He was good as gold with them, as usual. Now he’s taking out his vexation on us.”
Spike was gazing around with the sort of hopeful expression that suggested he felt like biting something or someone and liked the odds of finding a target in the crowd of tourists and Brigade members milling nearby. I deduced from the way Michael was holding the leash and frowning that the ride over had not been relaxing.
“That’s excellent!” Caroline exclaimed. “Just looking at him scares the willies out of me. Do you think we should patrol with them, or just turn them loose to roam the Creatures of the Night?”
“What about the alligators?” I asked.
“I don’t think Spike can possibly get at them,” Caroline said. “The boardwalks in the swamp habitat are designed to keep toddlers from jumping into the habitats.”
Did she really think I was worried about the alligators? Then again, maybe I should be.
“I’m sure Caroline will take good care of all the animals,” Michael’s mother said. “I’d better be getting back before the boys run Rob and his costume makers ragged.”
She turned around carefully, to avoid hitting any of the dozens of tourists milling about, and headed away.
“I figured we could join forces,” Michael said.
“Good idea,” I said. “Let’s head for the Haunted House.”
I drove the couple of miles that separated the zoo from the Haunted House slowly, because at any given point somewhere between half of the road and the whole width was filled with costumed tourists.
And when we got to the Haunted House, we saw three Shiffley Construction vans parked in front.
“What’s wrong now?” I muttered. “Surely they’ve finished blocking off the back door by now. Or has there been some new problem?”
Randall spotted us as we parked and threaded his way through the crowds to meet us.
“Don’t worry,” he said, seeing my anxious face. “Nothing’s wrong. I just had an idea to improve security, so I got some of the boys to come out and take care of it. We only need the front door open for the tourists, but Ms. Ellie and Aunt Jane said it was driving them crazy, keeping an eye on the back door, basement door, and a whole mess of windows. I thought it would enhance our security if we defended the perimeter a bit more—kept the tourists from wandering into the backyard or climbing the fence. So I sent a couple of my workmen out here to see to it.”
He gestured toward the right-side yard, where a new stretch of eight-foot chain-link fence ran between the side of the house and the matching chain-link fence that defined the outer boundaries of the yard. A similar fence bisected the left side of the yard. And just to keep the new fences from being an eyesore, he’d had his workmen spray them black and decorate them with spooky silhouettes. A witch stirring a cauldron. Another riding a broom. Frankenstein’s monster lurching with outstretched arms. A sinister creeping figure with a long cloak and clawlike talons. And an assortment of bats, cats, pumpkins, and skeletons. All were cut out of flat wood, painted black, and mounted on the fences.
“One of my cousins is an artist with a band saw,” Randall bragged. “And you’ll notice we added some barbed wire to the top of all the fences. That should slow them down a bit.”
“And you seem to have created another tourist attraction,” Michael said with a chuckle. Tourists were lining up to take selfies and pose in groups in front of the cutouts. In fact the new fences were almost as popular as the picturesque iron front fence—just about every time I visited the Haunted House, I spotted at least one person having his picture taken behind it—sometimes with both hands clutching the bars as if rattling them angrily, and sometimes with one hand stretched out through the bars in pitiful entreaty.
“You know,” I said. “We should create some kind of site where the tourists could upload their photos.”
“That’s a great idea,” Randall said. “It’d be great publicity for next year’s festival. Assuming we have the festival next year, of course,” he added hastily, no doubt realizing that one of the things getting many of us through this year’s event was the notion that maybe we’d never have to do any of this again.
“Rob can probably get someone to set it up,” I said.
We left Randall and his workmen to finish up the new fencing and continued on back to town. The road was filled with trolls, wizards, superheroes, hobbits, and other beings from worlds where automobiles had not yet been invented, so that their inhabitants didn’t understand why stepping out in front of them was such a bad idea.
We parked in the college parking lot and began patrolling the town square. Night was falling, and the vegetable stands and craft booths were closing up. The food tents were probably hoping to close soon as well, but at the moment they still had long lines for the boxed dinners they had started selling for after-hours customers.
Including the Trinity Episcopal tent.
“Let’s drop in and see how Mother is doing,” I said. “I’m a little worried about her.”
“Worried?” Michael echoed. “Why?”
“Look around,” I said. “Does this look like something Mother would enjoy?”
A conga line of some thirty or forty particularly gross-looking zombies was winding its way through the square, shambling in time to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller,” which was booming out of speakers hidden in the ragged clothing of several participants. A dozen or so vampires wearing velvet cloaks, pale makeup, and fairly fake-looking fangs were having some kind of discussion or altercation just outside the tent door. Or maybe they were just acting out a scene from some play or movie—overacting, more like it. A hairy-chested man in a tutu was dancing the cancan with a man wearing a grim reaper cloak and a Nixon face mask, and two people playing the front and back halves of a unicorn.
“You’re right,” Michael said. “Let’s check on her.”
To my astonishment, Mother wasn’t just supervising—she was performing actual work. A short, round woman whose face was hidden under a Darth Vader mask was cutting slices of pie and putting them on paper p
lates. Mother, at her elbow, was adding a small, artistic dollop of whipped topping to each slice.
“You’re making me wish I’d saved room for pie,” I said, as I came up behind them.
“If you like, dear, I can buy a whole pie for us to take home and share later.”
“Make it two,” Michael said. “I’ll help you pack them up and Meg can take over for you for a few minutes.”
Mother and Michael went off to deal with pie acquisition and I stepped into her place and began wielding the whipped topping spoon.
“Meg! Isn’t this fun?”
Darth Vader pulled her mask up just long enough to see that she was actually Becky Griswald. She seemed a lot happier, and even younger, away from her overbearing husband and his obsession with the cat-shaped brooch.
“Actually, it looks like hard work if you do it for very long,” I said. “Is the mask to make sure Harris doesn’t see you?”
“To make sure no one mentions seeing me,” she said. “He’s gone down to Charlottesville for the weekend for a meeting of the Stuffed Shirts.”
“The Stuffed Shirts?” I had to giggle, because it sounded just like Mr. Griswald’s kind of group.
“I call them that. Half a dozen old coots he went to business school with. They get together every quarter for an expensive dinner. Normally I have to go along to make polite conversation with their stuffy wives, but I pretended I had a migraine so I could stay home and enjoy the festival. Isn’t it marvelous!”
She was beaming at the patrons who were picking up pie—a Spider-Man, a Wonder Woman, and a pair of pirates.
Just then Mother and Michael returned, each carrying a pie box. Mother handed hers to me and took up her station beside Mrs. Griswald. She was wearing what I thought of as her bravely suffering smile, and I suspected she was getting a headache.
“Mother, would you like us to run you home,” I asked. “We need to go out to the Haunted House anyway—it would only be a small detour.”
Michael opened his mouth—no doubt to point out that we’d just come from the Haunted House—and then he obviously realized what I was doing and held his peace.
Lord of the Wings Page 21
