“There, I've got it,“ I reported to Michael. “And I bet the police didn't search in here. They couldn't have, unless there's another way in – the padlock was swathed in spiderwebs.“
“You don't think maybe the spiderwebs are a sign that there's nothing worth finding in the barn?“
“Not necessarily,“ I said. “I mean obviously there's no evidence of the murder in here, given the spiderwebs; but there could be something that gives me a clue to why he was killed.“
“Meg, be careful,“ Michael said.
“I will,“ I said. “Stand by, and I'll give you a blow-by-blow description of what I see.“
I began pulling open the barn door. I was wondering if I should fetch the flashlight I kept in my car, when something struck me on the head and I lost consciousness.
I awoke to find myself gazing into the glassy eyes of a moth-eaten taxidermied moose.
“Meg! Answer me!“ it pleaded in a small, hollow voice.
“Yes?“ I said.
Apparently the moose didn't hear me.
“I'll keep her on the line,“ it said, in the same oddly distant voice. “See if you can get a number for the Caerphilly police department…. What?… C-A-E-R – “
The police department? There was something about the police department that I ought to remember. If my head would stop hurting, I might remember.
I glanced around and saw my cell phone lying in the grass beside the moose's cheek.
“Michael,“ I said, grabbing the cell phone. “I'm fine. Don't call the police. Chief Burke would be really angry.“
“Meg! Are you all right? What happened?“
“I'm fine. It was only a moose.“
A brief pause.
“Keep trying to get the Caerphilly police,“ Michael said. Apparently to someone else. “I think she's going to need an ambulance.“
“Michael, I told you, I'm fine,“ I said. “It was only a stuffed moose head.“
“Only a stuffed moose head?“ he repeated. And then, to whoever else was on the other end. “Get the number but don't call yet. Meg,“ he said, more loudly. “Are you sure you're okay?“
Was I okay? What if our deranged killer was following some land of punning weapons motif, I wondered, as I patted the top of my skull. First strangling Ted with a mouse cord, and now assaulting me with a stuffed moose? I winced – by probing my scalp, I had confirmed that, yes, I had a remarkably large lump on the top of my head, and while it didn't appear to be bleeding, touching it made my headache temporarily worse.
I looked around and realized that the killer probably wasn't responsible for my predicament. I was lying at the edge of a small delta of objects that had erupted out of the barn when I opened the door. In addition to the moose, I spotted a crab pot, a rope hammock, several bicycle tires, a badminton net, a headless garden gnome, half a dozen flowerpots, several croquet mallets, a broken toilet, a large wasp's nest – fortunately, unoccupied – and several dozen other less recognizable bits of junk.
“I'm fine,“ I said. “I was opening the door to the barn, remember? A stuffed moose head fell out and beaned me. I have a lump on my head, but I'm fine.“
“Don't go in the barn,“ Michael said. “It could be dangerous to go into the barn.“
“I'm sure it would be dangerous, and I'm not going in there,“ I said. “I'd need a forklift to clear a path before I could even think of going in there. I'll be lucky if I can put back everything that fell out when I opened the door.“
“That's good,“ Michael said. “Don't try to put things back, just get out of there; obviously it's not safe.“
“Okay, okay,“ I said.
“And get your father to look at your head.“
“Okay, I will,“ I said.
I was lying, of course. I stayed long enough to put back the stuff that had fallen out of the barn, which with only one and a half working hands seemed to take forever. But did Michael really expect me to leave it all spread across the lawn, advertising my snooping in case anyone like Chief Burke came back? I was tempted to just stow it all in the basement, on the theory that the police would be so overwhelmed by the magnitude of Mrs. Sprocket's clutter that they'd overlook the fact that some of it was sneaking around when their backs were turned, but decided it was a bad idea. They might have taken photos.
When I got back to the Cave, I tried to settle down and study Ted's collection of artifacts, but then I just put them aside in favor of half an hour with an ice pack and some aspirin.
I did put the portable black light in my purse. Depending on what time the pizza fest broke up, I might come back here afterward, or I might want to go straight from Luigi's to the office. I changed into jeans and a T-shirt that was presentable enough to wear to the restaurant, yet old enough that I wouldn't mind dirtying it up if my snooping led me into something messy, like the Dumpster.
When my head started feeling better, I realized I still had a little time to kill – I didn't want to be the first one there. On a whim, I turned on my laptop and logged on to the Internet. I searched for information on Anna Floyd, the romance writer, but apart from learning, on Amazon.com, that she had written two more books besides the ones I'd found in Ted's house, I couldn't find anything about her. One of Anna's book covers featured a handsome one-eyed pirate holding the buxom, swooning blond heroine. The pirate looked a -little like Michael, I thought with a sigh. I fingered the cell phone. Should I call Michael? Change my mind about a virtual date? No, I checked my watch – he would probably still be filming, so I decided not to interrupt him. Besides, I was definitely going to go to Luigi's to interrogate the guys, and I wasn't sure how he'd feel about a virtual office party.
So I put the cell phone away. But I still had time before leaving for Luigi's, so I decided to do something useful. I grabbed the paper I'd found in Ted's cache, the one with the numbers I suspected were IP addresses, and carefully typed one of them into the address line of my browser.
My screen went black. Had my battery suddenly given out? No, it was the Web site's background. Suddenly, the words, hot! horny! xxxxxxxx!!! began flashing in red on my screen, accompanied by several grainy pictures of women doing things better left undescribed.
“Ick,“ I said, and hit the BACK button to escape.
Instead of taking me back to Amazon, and Anna Floyd's overripe but fully clothed heroine, hitting the BACK button brought me to another black page pocked with pornographic images and leering red captions. I hit the HOME button and sighed with relief, thinking I'd escaped – but within seconds, small windows began popping up all over my screen, like toadstools after a rain, showing suggestive corners of pictures or offering badly spelled links to a bewildering variety of perversions.
I finally had to turn the laptop off to end the barrage, and sat there looking at it, fighting an irrational urge to spray the keys of my laptop with disinfectant before I touched them again. And feeling a familiar anger – the same anger I'd felt when, as a teenager, I'd felt a tap on my shoulder in a movie theater and turned to find a man exposing himself. At least with the flasher I could lash but, breaking his nose with a backhanded punch before dumping a thirty-two-ounce Coke in his lap. What could I do to the distant, anonymous creator of a sleazy Web site?
“Cute, Ted. That was a nasty little piece of work,“ I said aloud. “But what does it mean?“
There were half a dozen more IP addresses on the slip of paper. I shook my head as if to clear it. I'd have to check them out, of course; just because one of them was a porn site didn't mean they all were. But I had a feeling they would be, and I wasn't in the mood to face any more of them now.
I checked my voice mail. A message from Michael, reminding me to have my Dad check my head and promising to call me tomorrow if he didn't hear from me tonight. A message from Dad, reporting that he was having dinner with the ME and would fill me in tomorrow if he learned anything new. A message from Rob, reporting that he was still on the lam and would see me tomorrow, from which I deduced that he wa
s still out of jail and enjoying his status as prime suspect.
Excellent. No one expected to hear from me till tomorrow. I washed my face and hands and grabbed my purse. Time to head over to Luigi's.
Even on a Tuesday night, Luigi's was hopping. I didn't see any of the Mutant Wizard crowd, so I loitered by the front counter till I could flag down one of the waitresses.
“I'm looking for the Mutant Wizards group,“ I said.
“The what?“ the waitress asked.
Apparently there were still a few people in Caerphilly who hadn't heard about us. Possibly a good thing, under the circumstances.
“It's an office get-together,“ I said. “A bunch of people – probably guys, mostly, I really don't know how many.“
“We got a couple groups,“ she said. “You want to walk through the dining rooms, see if you spot them?“
Just then Roger strolled up.
“Roger, hi. Do you know where the – “
“Two,“ Roger said to the waitress.
“Two?“ I echoed.
“Two,“ the waitress said. “Right this way.“
“Hang on,“ I said to the waitress. “Two?“ I repeated, turning to Roger. “I thought you said there was going to be a group having pizza here tonight.“
“No, I asked you to have pizza,“ he said. “Two,“ he added, to the waitress.
She looked back at me.
“Two, my sainted grandmother,“ I said. “You did not say 'Would you like to have a pizza with me.' You said, and I quote, 'We're having pizza tonight. Luigi's, seven-thirty.' That is how you tell someone she's welcome to join a group who already have plans. That is not how you ask someone out on a date.“
“You tell him, hon,“ the waitress said, leaning against the counter and putting her hands on her hips.
“Well, you're here now,“ Roger said. “Why don't we just have some pizza and –?“
“The hell we will!“ I said.
“Is there a problem here?“ said a man. The manager, presumably.
“No,“ Roger said.
“Yes,“ I said.
“The jerk lured her here on false pretenses,“ the waitress said.
“Do you need help, miss?“ the manager asked me.
“No, I'm fine,“ I said. “He's the one who needs help – like some training in basic social skills. In the first place, Roger, that is not how you ask someone out, and in the second place, I'm already seeing someone and not interested in going out with anyone, and in the third place, if I were interested in going out with someone, you would be only slightly above Ted on my list of prospects and well below George, and in the fourth place – in the fourth place – “
Oops – tactical mistake. I hadn't thought of a fourth place.
“In the fourth place – ,“ I repeated, hoping for inspiration.
“Here we are!“ exclaimed a voice from behind me. “Are we on time?“
Jack. With Luis trailing in his wake.
“What are you doing here?“ Roger said, frowning.
“Meg told me about the pizza party,“ Jack said. “Good thing Luis and I came, huh, or you'd have had a pretty boring time. Guess everyone else was busy. We'll have fun anyway, though, won't we? Four, please,“ he said to the waitress.
The waitress looked at me. So did the manager.
“Four,“ I said.
“Table for four,“ the waitress said. “You got it, hon.“
“But – ,“ Roger began.
“So,“ Jack said, flinging his arm around Roger's shoulders and herding him along after the waitress. “How's it going, Rog?“
Luis put his hand over his mouth to hide a snicker, and he and I fell in behind Jack and Roger.
“Glad you guys showed up,“ I told Luis.
“Roger's such a jerk,“ Luis said.
“No kidding. So since there wasn't really a pizza party, how did you two happen to show up?“
“Something you said to Jack clued him in,“ Luis said. “After all, he's seen the jerk pull stuff like this before.“
Was it reassuring that I wasn't the sole object of Roger's awkward attentions, or should I be embarrassed I hadn't figured him out earlier? I decided not to worry about it.
As we sat down – with Luis and Jack flanking me – the waitress plunked a wax-encrusted Chianti bottle onto the table and used an orange Bic to light the candle stuck in its mouth. As she did, I happened to be glancing at Luis's face and realized something.
Luis was the Hacker. The Robin Hood Hacker. No wonder the blurred black-and-white newspaper photo from Ted's secret cache looked so familiar; the lighter flame was enough like the glare of the reporters' flashbulbs to let me recognize his face.
But Luis wasn't the name in the article – in the caption under his picture, the first name had been Michael or Mike – a name that tends to stick in my mind. So either Luis had been using a false name when he was the Robin Hood Hacker, or he was using one now. Suspicious, in either case.
When I got home, I was definitely going to have to spend some time with the printout I'd found in Ted's cache. Maybe the chief wasn't so far off after all. The note he'd found in Rob's in-basket had made him suspect that blackmail could have been the motive.
Maybe Rob wasn't the only one who got a blackmail note. Maybe he was just the only one stupid enough – or innocent enough – to leave it lying around where the police could find it. I definitely needed to study the printout some more.
I would also definitely have to make a copy of the printout and get the original to the police. Preferably without telling them how I found it. Maybe if I turned in his keys, told them how I'd picked them up after one of his trips through the reception room, and then claimed the paper had been with them. Yeah, that would probably work. And confront Luis to find out what was really going on. Sometime when we didn't have onlookers, though – particularly not Jack, who seemed to be Luis's mentor. And then – “Meg?“
“Sorry,“ I said. “My mind was wandering.“
“You like vegetables, right?“ Jack said. “We can get a vegetarian pizza if you prefer.“
Roger and Luis looked glum.
“No, I like meat,“ I said. “I'm through trying to reform everyone's diet. From now on, you can keel over from scurvy for all I care.“
That shut down conversation. Until the beer arrived – their beer and my red wine, actually.
“So what's the latest from Rob?“ Jack asked.
“Out on bail,“ I said.
“What have they got on Rob, anyway?“ he asked.
“They seem to think the murderer had to be a martial arts expert,“ I said.
“And they arrested Rob?“ Luis exclaimed.
I nodded. Roger snorted with laughter, spraying most of a mouthful of beer on the table, and Luis and Jack both looked as if they were trying hard not to explode.
“Oh, go ahead and laugh, all of you,“ I said, tossing a wad of napkins over at Roger.
“Martial arts expert,“ Roger said, using the napkins to wipe his T-shirt. “That's such a crock.“
“Don't worry,“ Jack said, appropriating some of the napkins and using them to clean the table. “Rob will be fine as soon as they realize… urn…“
“That he can't fight his way out of the proverbial paper bag?“ I suggested. “What's to keep them from deciding by that time that the killer was a martial arts beginner with dreams of glory.“
“Unless there really is some good reason for them to think it was a martial arts expert,“ Luis said. “In which case they might pick on Jack.“
“I wondered if you did martial arts,“ I said. “What kind?“
“A little karate, a little jujitsu,“ he said.
“A little!“ Luis exclaimed. “He's a black belt in both. An expert!“
“Advanced enough to know what I don't know,“ Jack said. Which was more convincing evidence of his skill than anything Luis could say – most of the really outstanding martial artists I'd ever met came across more mild-mannered than y
our typical ninety-eight-pound weakling.
We kicked the days' events around over a sausage-and-mushroom pizza. I tried to get them talking about Ted's character, with limited success. Apparently people were past the initial shock and excitement of Ted's death and had reached the stage where survivors want to feel sentimental about their fallen comrade and tell stories of his virtues and accomplishments and the good times they'd had together. Since Ted didn't appear to have any virtues and accomplishments, or at least none of which present company were aware, this pretty much limited them to practical jokes Ted had played that were at least remotely funny and didn't involve bodily functions best left unmentioned while eating pizza.
Not the most scintillating dinnertime conversation I'd ever heard. And I was mildly distracted throughout dinner, trying to figure out how I was going to make my exit unaccompanied by the persistent Roger. As the pizza slices disappeared and the conversation slowed, I found him watching me with the single-minded focus of a cat outside a mousehole. Not that I was worried about my safety – even if Jack and Luis hadn't been there, I had no doubt of my ability to fend him off. I just wasn't in the mood for a scene.
But fate smiled on me. Even Roger's libido couldn't prevent several mugs of beer from having their usual effect.
“Don't eat the last piece,“ Roger said as he got up.
Now this was a lucky break, I thought as I saw him head for the rest rooms. I dug in my purse and fished out some bills.
“Here,“ I said handing them to Jack. “Just in case Roger doesn't know how to take drop dead for an answer, I think I'll take off now.“
“And here I was going to offer to escort you home if Roger proved persistent,“ Jack said. The tone was joking, but I had a feeling he was serious.
“I'd feel better if you just stayed here to baby-sit Casanova,“ I said. “If I head out now, I can catch Michael before he goes out to dinner.“
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