Gone Gull

by Donna Andrews

  I put my tote bag on another armchair, similarly situated on the other side of the room, and draped a napkin over the chair next to it, to save it for Michael. Then I pitched in to set up chairs. Others who came in followed suit, and in a few minutes we had all the chairs deployed so the kitchen staffers could head back to their dishwashing.

  Marty opened his eyes and nodded with satisfaction when they left, then closed his eyes and appeared to go back to sleep. Anyone with any social graces would have thanked the volunteers, but Marty was Marty. I reminded myself of the excellence of his crème brûlée, and wondered if I had time to duck through the dessert line for a second helping.

  Why not? People were only just milling into the great room. It would be a few minutes before they took their seats. I saw Eric dash out—heading to the theater to take over for Michael, no doubt. I made my way against the tide back into the dining room and scored not one but two more crèmes brûlées. Not greedy, I reminded myself as I settled myself back in my armchair. After all, Michael liked them, too.

  In fact, when he arrived a few minutes later, also carrying two crèmes brûlées, we had very little difficulty dealing with what might at first have seemed like a daunting surplus.

  “Attention, everyone.” Cordelia was at the podium, calling the meeting to order. Chief Heedles and Sergeant Hampton were sitting in chairs flanking her. “Sergeant Hampton’s had a long drive already, so let’s get this shindig started and hear what he has to tell us. Sergeant.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Mason. I have to say, this is a lovely place you folks have up here, and I hope I have the chance to come back and enjoy it under less difficult circumstances.”

  He had a folksy, good-old-boy style and from his accent I pegged him as a native of someplace a little farther south in the Appalachians—Roanoke, maybe, or Blacksburg. But behind the smile and the affable style, I saw keen eyes studying us, and a sharp brain already sifting whatever bits of evidence his observations produced. I felt reassured. Nice to imagine that the killer or killers did not.

  His talk was fairly generic. A reassurance that Chief Heedles was still in charge of the investigation, with him and his colleagues providing technical expertise and additional resources. Strong encouragement—he didn’t quite make it an order—for people to go to bed early, stay in their rooms or tents, or if they must go anywhere, to do so in twos or threes.

  All fairly predictable, and I got the feeling that the meeting was less about disseminating information than reassuring the public. And also, maybe, to give the sergeant a chance to take our measure as a group. The reassuring part was working. I found my anxiety about staying, and keeping the boys here, was easing considerably, knowing that the steely-eyed sergeant and his fellow officers would be on the case.

  After encouraging people to call him or the State Police hotline if they had any information that might be relevant to the case and promising to post both numbers on the bulletin board by the door, he brought his talk to a close.

  “Does anyone have any questions?” he asked.

  A rustling noise filled the room and people craned their necks to see if anyone was going to stand up and ask a question, especially as the silence dragged on and we began to suspect, from the expression on his face, that Sergeant Hampton was starting to feel slightly disappointed with our lack of inquisitiveness. Then Rose Noire stood up and raised her hand.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Could you tell us what progress the Virginia State Police has made toward making sure that women and minorities are fully represented on the force?”

  “Ma’am?” Sergeant Hampton blinked in surprise.

  “Because I hope the Virginia State Police understands the importance of a police force that represents the population it serves.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Sergeant Hampton made a fast recovery. “We surely do, and from what I can see we’re making progress in that area, but while that’s a very important issue I’m afraid it’s not one I’m very knowledgeable about. I just know about major crimes. Solving them, that is.”

  “I’m sure Sergeant Hampton can contact his home office to get us some information to answer Rose Noire’s question.” Cordelia beamed sweetly at Rose Noire, who got the message and sat down. “Does anyone have a question for him about the murders?”

  Primed by Rose Noire’s question and herded back on topic by Cordelia, others raised their hands. Had Sergeant Hampton heard of any similar crimes in other parts of the state? Was it possible that one or both of the murders were actually suicides? Did the sergeant think that the murders could be the work of terrorists? Was he aware that the murders bore a remarkable resemblance to the plot of a 1977 episode of Columbo?

  The sergeant answered them all with such tact and charm that it was obvious that either he had a natural gift for dealing with the public or they’d given him considerable training to that end. He didn’t even seem to lose his patience when the last questioner kept trying to relate the entire plot of the Columbo episode, complete with dialogue.

  I focused on studying the crowd, though I’d have been hard pressed to say what I was looking for. If the arrival of the State Police had shaken the murderer’s confidence, he—or she—wasn’t showing it. For that matter, you’d think at least a few of the crowd would find it alarming that Chief Heedles had felt obliged to call in the State Police—to say nothing of the fact that the State Police had actually shown up. But most of the crowd seemed as carefree and unconcerned as if this was just another part of the entertainment Cordelia had organized for their benefit.

  Maybe we were doing a little too good a job of calming their fears.

  I particularly noticed the Slacker, who’d found himself a place at the very back of the crowd, where he could keep an eye on everyone.

  Or was he sitting at the back out of self-protection rather than nosiness? Maybe he wanted to keep his distance from Sergeant Hampton. Or from Mrs. Venable, who had scored a choice aisle seat in the second row and was studying the sergeant as if he might be an interesting new species to add to her life list.

  I studied the Slacker for a while, but if the arrival of reinforcements for Chief Heedles caused him any anxiety, he hid it well. His placid, rather bovine face showed no sign of anxiety.

  I also kept a close eye on Jenni Santo.

  She was sitting with some of her fellow herb class students, all female. If she was exchanging stolen glances with anyone, she was hiding it well.

  Or was she? Like most of us, she glanced around from time to time to see who was asking a question and how others were reacting to Sergeant Hampton’s answers. But most of us craned around to see the whole room. She only ever looked right—never left.

  Of course, there could be a simple explanation—maybe she just had a crick in her neck and it hurt to turn it to the left. Maybe she was slightly deaf in her left ear and didn’t hear the questions from that side very well. But more likely she was was trying to be discreet, never realizing that not ever looking in the direction of her inamorato was almost as obvious as looking at him.

  So who was standing to her left?

  Not many people, since she was pretty close to the left-hand side of the room herself. Grandfather, Dad, Baptiste, and a couple of male photography students, who weren’t exactly the most likely suspects, since during those evening hours when Jenni’s romantic outings had taken place they were usually out on owling expeditions. A trio of women from my blacksmithing class—none of them quite tall enough to be mistaken for a man unless whoever had seen Jenni and her lover had pretty bad eyesight. Dante Marino, who held a bottle full of cloudy pale yellow liquid and occasionally filled a shot glass for one of the people standing around him—Amanda, Valerian, and several of Dante’s woodworking students.

  It suddenly occurred to me that figuring out who Jenni’s lover was might require studying where the various suspects were bunking. She was staying in the main building and had been spotted sneaking out of it. If whoever was meeting up with her was also st
aying in the main building, wouldn’t it have been easier to find a rendezvous spot indoors? Especially if you were a faculty member and had keys to a studio?

  Unless, of course, you knew that I’d gotten into the habit of checking the studios at unpredictable times. Most of the faculty knew that and probably a growing number of students had figured it out.

  Still, knowing where people were sleeping might give us a clue to who was meeting with Jenni. I made a mental note to talk to Cordelia and get a list of who was staying where.

  And what if whoever Jenni had been meeting was also the vandal? Or Jenni herself? If I were committing a crime and knew I risked getting caught while slinking about the building pulling off my dirty tricks, maybe I’d find it useful to establish that I had a more innocent reason for being out and about in the wee small hours.

  As the meeting approached the two-hour mark, Cordelia stepped forward and took the microphone.

  “The kids’ movie will be ending pretty soon,” she said. “And they’ll be arriving for their s’mores. Does anyone have any final questions for Sergeant Hampton?”

  It had been a while since anyone had asked a sensible question anyway, so everyone fell silent, no doubt eager to move on to the final part of the evening’s entertainment.

  “Before we end this gathering,” she went on. “I’d like to say that when I started the Biscuit Mountain Craft Center, this is not how I expected the summer to go. I thought I’d be introducing dance recitals, art shows, and children’s plays, not briefings on murder investigations. I want to assure you that I and my staff will be doing everything possible to help Chief Heedles and her investigative team solve these crimes. And I want to ask all of you to do the same thing. If we work together, we can get back to having the peaceful, creative summer that I’m sure all of you were looking forward to.”

  Well, nearly all of us, I thought, as I joined in the applause that followed her remarks. But if one of our number was gloating over our current situation—or studying the enhanced police presence with apprehension—you couldn’t tell from their faces. At least I couldn’t, and Chief Heedles, who was standing beside Cordelia and Sergeant Hampton, didn’t look like someone who was having an aha moment.

  Then the kids came pouring in, and most of us turned our attention to the hot chocolate and s’mores. Rose Noire, most of her herb class, and a few other hardy souls were gathering on the front porch, drenching themselves with all-natural mosquito repellent and testing their flashlight batteries. I could also hear that they were squabbling over whether or not to sing as they marched. I hoped they opted for not, because a decision to sing was liable to open up a much more acrimonious debate over what to sing—Christian hymns? Buddhist chants? “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes”?

  Eventually the smudging party set off, humming softly and tunefully, though not in unison. Evidently Rose Noire had short-circuited the musical debate by instructing them all to hum whatever fit their musical preferences and personal belief systems.

  I sat with Michael and the boys on the terrace, sipping a glass of white wine, methodically toasting marshmallows for the family s’mores, and listening for the sound of humming to appear when the smudgers came around the back of the building. Eventually it did—but it was sounding a great deal more ragged than before, and accompanied by small shrieks and the occasional flurry of language not in keeping with the gentle, positive spirit Rose Noire was trying to create.

  I delivered my latest perfectly toasted marshmallow to Josh and drifted over to the railing so I could peer down. I couldn’t see much—just a few flashlight beams straggling along the steep hillside.

  Suddenly a loud shriek pierced the ambient humming.

  Chapter 22

  I leaped to my feet and ran over to the far edge of the terrace, where several people seemed to be leaning over to watch something.

  “Golly! There goes one!” someone exclaimed.

  Yes, one of the flashlight beams had skittered rapidly downhill before landing quite some distance from the building. From what I could see, the unlucky smudger had skidded down the ravine in which first Marty and then Grandfather had been strewing their gull bait. I hoped the kitchen staff had succeeded in removing all traces of garbage, for the smudger’s sake.

  Things got a little chaotic for a while, as the smudgers tried to rescue their fallen comrade. A few of the men who had been lounging on the terrace, sipping Dante’s limoncello, went down to help with the rescue. And once the rescue was complete, Rose Noire decided that while it would have been optimal to completely circle the building with their sage, it would do almost as well if they came in through the kitchen door and smudged their way up the stairs, across the length of the terrace, through the great room, and then out into the night through the door at the end of the studio wing. So we all hummed along when they arrived on the terrace, and waved them on their way when they’d finished.

  “Not that I believe overmuch in all this herbal stuff,” Amanda remarked to me. “But if it does work, this way they’ll be waving their torches up and down the corridor where most of the bad stuff has been happening. Can’t hurt.”

  About the time the humming died down, Cordelia came over to talk to me.

  “Mrs. Venable’s ready to go,” she said. “Her suitcases are in the front hall.”

  “No more s’mores for me, then.” I put down my roasting stick and pried myself out of the comfortable deck chair. I filled Michael in on where I was going, and then went to collect Mrs. Venable and her luggage. A good thing I had the Twinmobile, since she had four suitcases, three totes, two cardboard boxes, a giant-sized cooler, and a dozen garments on hangers.

  The occasional “Be careful with that!” was her only contribution to the car-loading process.

  As we set off, I realized that I should probably at least try to make polite small talk, and mentally scrambled for a topic. Then Mrs. Venable took care of the problem for me.

  “I do hope your grandfather wasn’t too upset that I took the room he wanted,” she said, as we started down the drive.

  Okay, this could be fun.

  “If he says anything rude about it, just ignore him,” I advised. “Though with any luck, by morning he’ll be loudly pretending he never even thought of such a thing.”

  Mrs. Venable giggled with undisguised delight.

  “And once you get settled at the bed-and-breakfast, if you see him skulking about the yard, please don’t tell Cordelia,” I went on. “For some reason that really irks her.”

  “Of course not.” She shook her head vigorously.

  I had to struggle to keep from giggling. Had I just assured that Mrs. Venable would stay up late scanning Cordelia’s backyard for Grandfather?

  “It must be difficult for you, having them not get along,” she said. “How long have they been divorced?”

  “They were never married,” I said.

  “Oh, my.” She looked expectant.

  “Long story,” I said.

  “And understandably not one the family wants to talk about,” she murmured with transparently fake sympathy.

  “Actually, we don’t mind talking about it,” I said. “But it’s late and it really is a long story. But if you’re curious, once we get to the bed-and-breakfast I can ask Cousin Mary Margaret to show you the feature story the local paper did last year. Cordelia has a copy in her scrapbook.”

  “I see.” Her face had fallen at the realization that what she thought was hot gossip was already common knowledge.

  She didn’t pursue that line of interrogation, but she did spend the rest of ride trying to pry information out of me—about the police investigation, mostly. I was relieved when I spotted the black wrought iron fence surrounding Cordelia’s house.

  “So this is your grandmother’s bed-and-breakfast,” Mrs. Venable said, studying the enormous white frame house as we pulled into the driveway.

  “Actually, her house,” I said. “She’s only using it as a bed-and-breakfast temporarily, to handle the overfl
ow of people from the craft center. The plan is eventually to build more guest rooms up there.” Assuming the craft center survived the vandalism, and the murders, and whatever other slings and arrows outrageous fortune was planning to throw at us over the course of the summer. But I wasn’t going to say that to Mrs. Venable.

  When she answered the door, Cousin Mary Margaret looked hassled. I’d have felt guilty, inflicting Mrs. Venable on her, if I hadn’t known that hassled was Mary Margaret’s usual mode. She was one of those people who reveled in being just a little overworked, which made her a natural—though willing—target when Mother went recruiting for someone to take on a thankless job. I hoped Cordelia had briefed her on the need to keep an eye on Mrs. Venable.

  Yes, no doubt she had. I noticed a brief expression of satisfaction cross her face as she watched Mrs. Venable inspecting the foyer and the living room. They were worth inspecting—clean white walls and woodwork, light-colored oak furniture in Victorian or Arts and Crafts style, and everywhere examples of the brightly colored pottery that had made Biscuit Mountain famous back when it housed a pottery factory rather than a craft center. Cordelia and I had run out of time to execute our plan of decorating the center with some of her pottery collection. Given the vandalism, maybe that was a good thing.

  But here at the house, everything was in perfect order, with not a scuff mark or dust mote in sight—as I’d have expected with Mary Margaret in charge. Which didn’t stop Mrs. Venable from running a finger over the furniture here and there, and looking mildly disappointed when her finger came away clean.

  “I’ll show you where to take the luggage,” Mary Margaret told me.

  We left Mrs. Venable to her genteel snooping and began hauling her baggage to a large, comfortable room at the back of the second floor.

  “Cordelia told me to put her in here,” Mary Margaret said in an undertone as we set down our first load of suitcases. “She didn’t want the nosy old thing in her own room, so I moved in there and gave her this one where I’d been sleeping. And besides, here she’ll have a view of the backyard.”