Gone Gull

by Donna Andrews

  “Good point,” I said. “One of them supposedly saw her with a shadowy male figure, but she could have been seeing what she expected to see. And I realize that sneaking out to meet someone isn’t suspicious in and of itself, but maybe that’s not really what they’re doing, or even if they’re innocent, they could have seen something.”

  “Understood,” the chief said. “Your friend Amanda can point out this Jenni?”

  “Or can point to someone who can. And incidentally, since they say Jenni’s been sneaking out for several days, I assume both she and whoever she’s meeting were here last week as well as this.”

  “That should narrow it down a bit.”

  “To one of two male students, five male staff members, and seven male faculty,” I said. “Three faculty if you don’t count Dad, Grandfather, Baptiste, and Michael, and I don’t. Not solely because of their sterling characters, but because Michael’s been on munchkin patrol every waking moment and the rest of them have been out with the nighttime nature hikes most evenings.”

  The chief nodded and strode away.

  I heaved myself out of the recliner and stumbled into the dining room. I headed for the buffet line. Not many people left—most of the faculty and students had finished eating and were heading for their studios.

  I did spot Gillian sitting by herself in a corner. On a plate in front of her was a muffin—well, more like three-quarters of a muffin. As I watched, she picked a small bit off and carefully lifted it to her mouth. From her expression as she chewed, she might as well have been eating sawdust. Not the way people usually ate Marty’s muffins.

  As I went through the line and packed a carryout box with my favorites—bacon, toast, scrambled eggs, and a big helping of mixed fruit—I pondered. She still seemed shaken. Had finding a dead body affected her that badly? Not even finding it really—I’d done that. She’d only seen it.

  Not inconceivable. But what if it wasn’t finding Victor’s dead body that had shaken her so? If she’d killed Victor and knew she couldn’t appear unaffected, what better way to divert suspicion than to make it look as if she fainted at the mere sight of his dead body?

  And then I reminded myself that fainting was probably a normal reaction to seeing a dead body. Gillian hadn’t grown up with a father who considered details of an interesting surgery or autopsy suitable dinner table conversation. She might never have seen a dead body before, much less a murdered one—I had, more than once, thanks in part to Dad’s fascination with mysteries and his keen desire to involve himself in any real-life ones that happened nearby.

  I glanced over at Gillian again. She was hunched over slightly, sipping her tea with her eyes closed, eyelids as pale and fragile as the porcelain cup.

  Yeah, come to think of it, Gillian’s reaction was utterly normal. Maybe taking a deep yoga breath and then making a to-do list was the weirder reaction, though it was just as normal for me.

  And maybe Dad’s penchant for fictional mysteries was rubbing off on me just a little too much, I thought, as I turned back to my satisfyingly full carryout box. “Suspect everyone!” might be a very good policy if you’re trying to beat Miss Marple to the solution of a manor house mystery, but it wasn’t a very comfortable way to live your life.

  As I closed up my box, I saw Gillian stand up, pick up her tray, and head for the service hatch. As I watched, Marty bustled out of the kitchen, gently took the tray from her, as if he thought her unable to carry it over to the hatch. She smiled her thanks and quietly left the dining room.

  I felt almost guilty for suspecting her, even for a moment. Marty, like Dad and Rose Noire, saw her as in need of support, and here I was constructing scenarios of her killing Victor and then staging a fainting spell. Why? I liked her.

  Maybe I was projecting. What would I do if I’d had some very good reason for killing someone, and wanted to make sure no one suspected me? Probably just what I’d been imagining Gillian could have done. But Gillian wasn’t me. And the more I considered the idea, the less plausible I found her as a killer. In fact, if I was trying to come up with a list of plausible killers—

  Morbid thoughts. I shook them off and picked up my carryout box. When I turned to head for the studios, I almost ran into Cordelia. She was standing in the middle of the dining room, studying another latecomer. Grandfather.

  “Morning,” I said. “Almost time for class.”

  “Morning. I’ve figured out an excellent way to test him.”

  “Test whom about what?” I asked, though I assumed she meant Grandfather.

  “To test your grandfather’s motivation.” She continued to study him with a rather grim half smile on her face. “Does he really want to rescue the Ord’s gulls, or does he just want the glory of rediscovering them?”

  “Both, I think.”

  “We’ll see.” Her expression wasn’t grim, I decided. More like determined and smug.

  She strode off toward Grandfather. I decided to tag along, in case someone was needed to play peacemaker.

  Grandfather was sitting at his usual table, sipping coffee and glancing over at the buffet line, where Baptiste was juggling two trays with carryout boxes on them—one of them doubtless intended for Grandfather.

  “You couldn’t leave it alone.” Cordelia stopped in front of his table and put her hands on her hips. “You had to go strewing garbage all over my land.”

  Grandfather scowled up at her. Then he looked past her at me.

  “I thought you said you were going to pick all that up,” he snapped.

  “I’ve been a little busy,” I said. “We had another murder, or hadn’t you heard?”

  “Don’t blame Meg,” Cordelia said. “If you’re so all-fired eager to get your hands on an Ord’s gull, how would a dead one work?”

  “A dead gull?” Grandfather frowned. “Dammit, I don’t want anyone killing any more of my gulls! If their numbers have gotten low, they could already be suffering from genetic erosion.”

  “I’m not killing any gulls for you,” Cordelia said. “But I might be able to get you the one that died last week. You could study it and take your own photos.”

  Baptiste arrived and hovered over Grandfather’s shoulder.

  “Only a few minutes before class,” he said.

  “I suppose you buried the gull,” Grandfather growled to Cordelia. “Doubt if there’s much of any use left by now.”

  “It’s not buried, it’s frozen.”

  “You froze it? Here?”

  Baptiste, who had opened his own box and was lifting a slice of bacon to his mouth, paused, as if not sure he wanted to eat something that might have come out of the same freezer as a dead gull.

  “Not here, you old fool,” Cordelia said. “I took it down to our local veterinarian. Between treating poultry and working as a wildlife rehabilitator, he’s quite knowledgeable about birds. I wanted him to do a necropsy.”

  “A necropsy?” Grandfather echoed.

  “An autopsy performed on an animal,” Cordelia explained. “If—”

  “I know what a necropsy is!” Grandfather bellowed. “I’ve performed enough of them. Why in blue blazes did you ask him to do a necropsy on the gull?”

  “Because I wanted to know what killed the wretched thing. Make sure it wasn’t anything that would endanger my guests.” She paused there, though I could tell she was watching Grandfather with amusement.

  “And what did kill the gull, dammit?” he roared.

  “Extreme old age. He was almost as old for a gull as you are for a human. Reassuring to know it was nothing contagious, in case any of my guests asked. Anyway, I called our vet yesterday to see if he still had the gull in his specimen freezer, and he does. We’d already discussed the fact that it was an unusual and interesting specimen, and were planning to try to identify it when we had some time. If you ask him nicely, maybe he’ll let you have it.”

  Grandfather sat for a few moments, scowling at her.

  “It doesn’t change our need to find rest of the flock,
” he said. “But it might be useful.”

  Cordelia cocked her head to one side as if waiting for something.

  “Say thank you,” I said, nudging Grandfather. “Unless you want to annoy Cordelia badly enough that she tells the local vet to dispose of the dead gull.”

  “Thank you,” Grandfather managed—though if I’d been a non-English speaker, his tone would have convinced me that he was uttering a savage curse.

  She nodded once, tossed a business card on the table, and strode away. Looking annoyed. Well, if she expected the prospect of possessing the dead gull to sideline his pursuit of the live ones, she really didn’t know him as well as she thought she did.

  Grandfather picked up the business card and began patting his pockets. Looking for his cell phone, no doubt.

  Baptiste reached over, took the business card from his fingers, and pulled out his own cell phone.

  “I will call the gentleman,” he said. “Let’s go to our classroom before our students rebel and defect to one of the other instructors.”

  Grandfather grabbed his coffee and headed for the door, leaving Baptiste to juggle both carryout boxes along with his phone and the business card.

  “Why don’t you let me negotiate with the vet?” I said. “You have your hands full with Grandfather. Not to mention Grandfather’s breakfast.”

  “That would be excellent.” Baptiste handed over the card. “Not only will I be rather busy assisting the good doctor, but very soon we will be heading into the mountains for today’s shooting expedition, and my cell phone will be useless. Evidently I do not have the optimal carrier for this area.”

  “There is no optimal carrier up in the mountains.” I turned and headed for the studios, and he fell into step beside me. “Except maybe a carrier pigeon. Cordelia had to install some kind of special cell phone signal-boosting equipment for us all to get a signal here at the center.”

  “And we are all grateful to her,” Baptiste said. “I must say, the lack of cell phone signal does enhance our shooting expeditions. No one can check their e-mail or their Facebook status—there is nothing but us and our cameras. It focuses the mind wonderfully. On our way back, I can tell the moment the bus comes within range of the signal. Suddenly conversation ceases, and everyone bows their head over their devices, as if in prayer to the gods of the Internet.” His face fell slightly. “I only worry about how we would cope if something happened to one of us up there, with no way to call for help.”

  “A good point. I’ll speak to Cordelia about that. Maybe there’s something that would work up there. A shortwave radio, perhaps.”

  “An excellent idea.” We had reached the door of his and Grandfather’s studio. “May you have a productive day.” He bowed slightly before entering the room.

  “You, too,” I said, as I headed for my own studio. Then I paused in the hallway, took out my phone and dialed. The veterinarian could wait—8:00 A.M. might be a little early to call him about something that only Grandfather considered an emergency. It was also a little early to call my brother, Rob, but what I wanted to ask was a lot more urgent.

  “Meg? What’s up?” He didn’t even sound all that sleepy.

  “You, surprisingly,” I said. “I was actually just going to leave you a voice mail.”

  “I’m a reformed character. In bed by ten, up at six to jog. It’s amazing how much energy you get when you start the day right.”

  Yes, it was about time for another of Rob’s periodic forays into healthy living. I’d give it a week or two if he’d come up with it on his own, and maybe a few months if he was being egged on by some new lady love. I made a mental note to see what Mother knew on the latter front.

  “Great,” I said aloud. “I have a request from Grandmother Cordelia that requires your technical expertise.”

  “My technical expertise? She wants a game invented?”

  Well, yes, that was Rob’s actual expertise—coming up with odd but successful game ideas.

  “The technical expertise of all those minions whose paychecks you sign every other week,” I said. “Cordelia and I want a way to communicate with the bus when it’s up in the mountains where there’s no cell phone reception. What if Grandfather got mauled by a bear when they’re out there in the woods?”

  “Cordelia would give the bear a medal.”

  “Okay, what if Dad was the one getting mauled? She’d mind that. So we need something like—I don’t know. Maybe some shortwave radios. Can you send us someone to set up whatever we need? Preferably today?”

  “Sure,” he said. “I have no idea what’s involved, but I’ll figure out who does and send them up pronto.”

  “And if whoever you send also happened to have the equipment and know-how to start installing some kind of security system at the center, maybe we can finally talk Cordelia into it. Or maybe just install it while she’s not looking and present her with a useful fait accompli.”

  “Roger. I’m on it.”

  And if Cordelia objected, I’d point out that the cameras wouldn’t just be protecting her craft center. They’d be protecting her family. Particularly her great-grandsons.

  I dashed into my studio a few minutes late for the start of class, but feeling so much calmer that it was worth it. Tech help was on the way.

  Chapter 19

  My good mood survived for maybe half an hour. Yesterday morning my students, while easily distracted, had still seemed essentially cheerful and interested in their work. Today everything and everyone seemed heavy and slow. Was it worse for my class because Victor had been, however briefly and annoyingly, one of our members? Or was everyone at Biscuit Mountain feeling the strain? I found myself wishing I could be a fly on the wall in some of the other classrooms.

  When, shortly before lunch, one of the students accidentally fractured a fireplace poker she’d been working on all morning and burst into tears, I did my best both to comfort her and turn it into a teachable moment. I started a discussion about working past failure and through negative times. Not something I’d ever seen in any of the blacksmithing classes I’d taken, but then I’d never taken a class next door to a crime scene. Or maybe hanging out so much with Rose Noire was having an effect on me. We talked about striking a balance between working even if you weren’t in the mood and knowing when you needed to stop and fill the creative well. The fine line between working through discomfort and recognizing when you had an injury. The joy of being able to vent anger and frustration and fear on your anvil and the importance of maintaining control when you were working with white hot iron and massive hammers. No one actually came out and mentioned what was on all our minds—the weirdness of trying to carry on as usual, learning to make ornamental ironwork when for all we knew we might be the murderer’s next victim. But we didn’t have to. Quite possibly the strangest, most touchy/feely blacksmithing class ever taught, but when the bell rang for lunch, I realized that people were smiling again—perhaps a little tremulously, in some cases, but smiling. They trooped off to lunch in small groups, calling back to me to join them if I could. I lingered in the studio wing until all the classes had broken up and did what had now become my usual lunchtime routine, making sure all was well in the studios before heading for the dining hall.

  All six upper studios secure. Two of them still barred with yellow crime-scene tape, but I checked those doors as well, on the off chance that Horace or one of the Riverton officers had been careless. All three lower ones locked up tight, along with Cordelia’s office and the storage rooms, including the one Chief Heedles was using as her headquarters. And no one lingering behind.

  Well, almost no one. When I came up the stairs to the upper floor again, I found Dante Marino, the woodworker, standing in the hallway, staring at the door to Prine’s studio. He had a strange look on his face.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “I’m fine.” He shrugged slightly. “Any idea when the police are going to finish with Prine’s studio and let that new painter lady move in? Because I think
that would go a long way toward getting us back to normal around here.”

  “No idea. And frankly, I don’t think anything’s going to get us back to normal until they find out who killed Prine and Victor.”

  “Point taken.”

  He continued to stare at the studio door. I waited. I suspected if I waited long enough, just having me there would inspire him to talk, and I was curious to know what he’d say.

  “Did your grandmother tell you I almost walked out last week when I found out Prine was teaching here at the same time I was?” he finally said.

  “She mentioned that some of the other instructors were less than ecstatic about having him around.”

  “Less than ecstatic.” He chuckled and shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t say I was ecstatic. I went all Vesuvius on her. She didn’t turn a hair. Tough lady. Smart, too.”

  I nodded, but didn’t want to derail whatever he was trying to say.

  “She waited till I’d blown off my head of steam, and then she told me to suck it up and tough it out. Not quite in those words, but that was the idea. Said if I left, everyone—including Prine—would know it was because of him, and did I want to give him the satisfaction of driving me away?”

  “So you stayed.”

  He nodded.

  I waited a while before prodding him again.

  “What did you have against him, anyway?” I asked. “Was it the whole Dock Street craft center thing?”

  “That was part of it,” he said. “And it was mostly his fault the damned thing failed, you know, no matter what some of the others would say. He was the one who had the most money to put in, so he thought everything should be done his way. And then at the first sign of trouble he ran away.”

  Dante pounded his right fist into his other hand and scowled at the door of Prine’s studio.

  “I can see how you’d be mad at him,” I said. “Especially if you’re still feeling the financial impact after all this time.”

  “Oh, you’ve heard those rumors, have you?” He tried to smile and it came out as a grimace. “Sad to say, the rumors are true. My credit’s so bad I have to buy my tools and supplies with cash, and get my brother to cosign for me to rent an apartment.”