“That should keep her busy.”
“Especially since we’ve arranged for a couple of teenagers from town to show up here around midnight and tromp around the back meadow with some flashlights. Why she’d think anyone would go looking for seagulls in the middle of the night with flashlights is beyond me, but Cordelia tells me she’s not that bright.”
“Not about birds, anyway,” I said.
“And I’ll keep you posted on what she gets up to.”
I could tell that Mary Margaret was really enjoying her new role as Mrs. Venable’s keeper and tormentor. Perhaps she’d been finding her role as chatelaine too easy.
I wished her and Mrs. Venable good night and drove back up the mountain. I arrived in time to gobble up the last of the s’mores—the boys had, as usual, fixed more than they could possibly eat—and join Michael, Eric, and the boys in our usual walk back to the caravan campsite.
As we walked, I found myself glancing over my shoulder. Instead of ambling along in our usual relaxed evening mood, we were both hurrying to keep the boys in sight, even though Eric was already watching them. And we hovered like mother hens until the three of them were safely locked away in the caravan.
Michael turned and headed toward our tent. I reached up and tested the caravan’s doorknob.
Bad decision. Inside, Spike erupted into furious barking, and Eric unlocked and opened the door to peer out.
“Sorry,” I said. “Just being overprotective.”
“Don’t worry. Last night I think I checked the lock at least five times before I could get to sleep. Tonight I’ll probably be still checking it at dawn.”
“Do you have your cell phone?” I asked. “If one of them needs to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, you can wake Michael or me.”
“I borrowed a bucket with a lid from Great-Gran. If one of them needs to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, he can use that.”
“Even better idea.” I stood there with nothing else to say, but reluctant to leave. “Well, call us if you need anything. Anything.”
“Don’t worry, Aunt Meg,” Eric said. “We’ll be fine; we’ve got a door to lock. You and Uncle Michael take care of yourselves out there in the tent.”
I waited as he closed the door and locked it. Then I followed Michael to the tent.
The tent that Michael appeared to be taking down.
“Where were you planning for us to sleep tonight?” I asked. “Because the guest rooms in the center are all full, you know.”
“We can sleep in the tent. I just want to move it a little closer to the caravan. And reorient it so we can see the door of the caravan through the front tent flaps.”
“I like the way you think.”
“Then grab that end of the frame and help me move it.”
It took a while to get the tent moved and pegged down again, mainly because there wasn’t really a suitable space for it any closer to the caravan than we already were. We finally found a space that would just barely do, though we had to tear out a few small bushes to make room, and we’d be sleeping on some fairly uneven ground that sloped a little more steeply than was comfortable. Eric opened the door again to peer out, nodded when he saw what we were doing, and locked up again.
“Let’s call it quits,” I said finally. “It won’t exactly be the most restful campsite we’ve ever had, but I think this is as good as we’re going to get it by flashlight.”
“Yeah.” Michael sounded beat. “We’ll do some more improvements in the morning.”
We inflated the air mattress. We tried the sleeping bag in several positions and decided that feet downhill was marginally less uncomfortable than feet uphill. Then we settled into silence—but not into sleep. I lay as quietly as I could, trying not to toss and turn—not just to avoid waking Michael, but also because every time I moved the sleeping bag seemed to slip a little farther down the air mattress, and my toes were already hanging over the edge.
“It’s not that I feel insecure sleeping in a tent,” Michael murmured finally. “We can defend ourselves. But it’s a little unnerving to think that there’s a murderer running around loose when so many more vulnerable potential victims don’t even have doors they can lock.”
“So far all the problems have been in the center,” I pointed out.
“So far. But if the vandal—or worse, the killer—decides to branch out, it’ll kill Biscuit Mountain.”
He paused, and I suspected he was thinking the same thing I was—that maybe the killer had already dealt Biscuit Mountain a death blow.
“There’s just no way we can possibly secure this place,” he went on.
“We shouldn’t have to secure it.” I sighed. “It’s supposed to be an open, welcoming place where people can mingle freely to share artistic ideas and encourage each other’s creativity. Not an armed fortress.”
“Much less a reenactment of And Then There Were None. Did you know a few of the students are making bets on who’s next?”
“That’s horrible!”
“Yes.”
We fell silent for a few moments.
“So who does the smart money think is next?”
“I didn’t ask.”
I decided maybe I’d rather not know anyway.
“From what I overheard, I gather there wasn’t a clear consensus,” Michael went on. “After all, there was no one nearly as disliked as Prine. Victor the Klutz was a very distant second. I’m not sure who else even comes close.”
“Makes sense.”
“Your grandfather and Marty, the cook, were mentioned as kind of annoying,” he said. “But the general consensus on both was that their usefulness far outweighed their nuisance value, so if the killer was operating with some kind of deranged Darwinian plan, they’d be pretty far down the list.”
“That’s a relief,” I said. “But if— What’s that?”
Chapter 23
I’d heard a faint sound coming from the direction of the main building.
“Door, I think,” Michael whispered.
Yes, it could have been the sound of a door being stealthily opened and closed. We both lay straining to hear.
A faint clinking noise.
“The gravel path,” I breathed.
Followed by rustling.
“Someone slipping through the shrubbery.”
In near-perfect unison we put on our shoes, grabbed—but did not turn on—our flashlights, and slipped out of the tent.
We turned to the left—heading away from the caravan, and from the campground beyond. We could hear faint noises ahead as the intruder encountered more bushes. Although intruder might not be the right word—we’d heard someone leaving, not trying to break in. Extruder? Fugitive? Well, with luck we’d have an actual name before too long. Whoever it was appeared to have exited the building through the door at the far end of the lower floor of the studio wing, and was headed through the rose garden to the woods beyond, probably planning to intercept the road at a spot that was below—and out of sight from—the campground. If I’d wanted to escape the building unseen that was the route I’d take. The theater wing and the whole rear side of the building looked out on the steep slopes on which the smudgers had come to grief, and the front was clearly visible from the campground.
We were slinking through the rose garden when we heard a voice, low but clear, behind us.
“Whoever you are, stand up straight and show me your hands.”
Michael froze and held up his hands. I shot my hands up, but I also whirled around to see who was giving the orders. A flashlight beam suddenly appeared, blinding me.
“Meg? And Michael?”
I recognized that voice.
“Vern?” I said. “Is that you?”
“In the flesh.” The flashlight went off again, though it had been on long enough to cloud my night vision. But I could hear footsteps approaching.
“Vern Shiffley?” Michael asked. “What are you doing here in Riverton?” Vern was a deputy in Caer
philly.
“Chief Burke sent a couple of us down to help out. Sounds as if y’all’ve been having quite a time up here.”
“We heard someone sneaking out of the building—going thataway.” I pointed. “Toward the woods and the road,” I added, since Vern might not see my finger.
“I’ll check it out.” Vern was suddenly all business.
“I think I know where he’s going,” I said. “I’ll show you the way.”
“I’ll lead.” Vern was already on his way. “You tell me if you think I’m off track.”
I remembered that Vern was an expert hunter and tracker, so I fell in behind him and concentrated on not sounding like a herd of elephants galumphing through the rosebushes—which got easier as my eyes readjusted to the dappled moonlight. I could actually see Vern. And odds were he’d scouted the terrain before going on patrol. He seemed pretty sure of where he was going, and he was heading just the way I would have, following a faint path that led toward the woods.
We stealthily crossed the rose garden and entered the woods. A few moments later, Vern stopped and held up his hand.
I inched forward so I could peer over his shoulder. A faint rustling to my left indicated that Michael was doing the same on the other side.
There wasn’t much to see. We were at the edge of what Cordelia called the Storytelling Glade—a clearing set up with a circle of benches around a fire pit. We could see a large shape on one of the benches. Then the moon came out from behind some wisps of cloud, and I could see that the shape was actually two shapes, intertwined.
Suddenly Vern’s flashlight beam shot through the night and lit up the shapes. They broke apart, turned their heads toward the light, and froze.
“Stand up and show me your hands,” Vern commanded.
The two stood up and sprang apart. Jenni Santo, of course. But the identity of the man surprised me.
“Isn’t that what’s-his-name?” Michael breathed in my ear. “Valentine? The leather guy?”
“Valerian,” I murmured back. “Yes. It’s always the quiet ones you have to watch, isn’t it?”
“I ain’t gonna ask what you two are doing out here.” Vern was exaggerating his usual drawl, and probably fighting back laughter. “I think we pretty much got it figured out.”
Michael erupted in a small coughing fit.
“And frankly, the whole campground’s probably figured it out by now,” Vern went on. “So you might want to find a less isolated place to carry on in. ’Cause if I can find you, the killer sure as heck can.”
Jenni and Valerian looked at each other.
“The nerve!” Jenni snapped. She drew herself up to her full height—only about five four, but she made the most of it—and strode out of the clearing. She missed making the perfect dignified exit by stumbling over a root about the time she left the circle of light from Vern’s flashlight, and from the rustling noises I could hear disappearing into the distance, she wasn’t having much luck sticking to the path.
Valerian just shrugged sheepishly and shambled off. Though he didn’t make nearly as much noise as Jenni. We could tell, because as soon as he left the clearing, Vern turned off his flashlight, and the three of us stood there, listening as we let our eyes adjust to the darkness again.
“You’re not going to interrogate them?” Michael asked softly, when he was reasonably sure Jenni and Valerian were out of earshot. “Find out whether they alibi each other for the times of the murders, or saw anything while they were sneaking around?”
“I’ll leave that to Chief Heedles,” Vern said. “She wouldn’t thank me for butting into her case like that. My job’s to make sure we don’t have a third body come morning.”
“You didn’t even take their names,” Michael persisted.
“’Cause I knew Meg could tell me who they were.”
“Jenni Santo, student in Rose Noire’s herb class, and Valerian Eads, who teaches the leatherworking class.”
“You see?” Vern said. “I bet you also know if both of them are unattached.”
“They’re neither of them unattached.” I probably sounded pretty disapproving. Well, I was. “I have it on reasonable authority that Jenni’s married, and I’ve met Valerian’s wife.”
“That could account for the sneaking around.” Vern nodded as if I was confirming his suspicions.
“Then again,” I said. “If I were planning to vandalize the craft center or kill people, maybe it would be useful to start an affair so I’d have a cover story in case I’m caught sneaking around in the middle of the night. People would be so busy gossiping about the affair that they wouldn’t suspect them of anything else.”
“Except for people like you, with suspicious minds,” Michael said.
“She has a point, though,” Vern said. “And even if they alibi each other for a big chunk of time, they’re on their own when they’re sneaking out and then again on the way back. None of the crimes I heard about would have taken all that long to commit.”
“When you put it that way, I guess finding them out here together makes them more suspicious, not less,” Michael said. “But it doesn’t prove anything, does it?”
“No, but I expect Chief Heedles will be taking an interest in them tomorrow. Gives her a reason to have a closer look at both of them.”
“Not just a reason, but probable cause, I expect.”
Vern just chuckled.
“You want me to see you two safely back to your tent?”
“We can manage,” Michael said.
We picked our way through the rose garden and back to our tent. I went on past the tent, climbed the caravan’s two back steps, and tried the door. Still locked.
Inside, I heard a low, fierce growl.
“Good dog, Spike,” I whispered.
The growl subsided and I went back to the tent.
“Everything okay at the caravan?” Michael asked.
“Fine,” I said. “Normally Spike’s bloodthirsty nature gives me pause, but I think I’m going to sleep better tonight, knowing that in the unlikely event anyone gets past Vern Shiffley and us and the locked door, they’ll have the Small Evil One to contend with.”
“Good,” Michael muttered. I shut up, because I could tell he was already half asleep. Nice if at least one of us got a good night’s sleep. He’d probably had an even more stressful day than me, trying to keep the boys in sight every minute. I’m sure he was relieved to know they were safe behind the locked door of the caravan.
I positioned myself so I could see that door and settled down for what I hoped would not be a completely sleepless night.
Chapter 24
Thursday
This waking up at dawn was getting old very fast. I lay quiet for a few moments, listening, but all I could hear were birds. Immense numbers of birds, chirping away with such annoying enthusiasm that I despaired of getting back to sleep. I wasn’t sure which were the most annoying—the ones like the blue jays that just squawked, or the ones that seemed to be saying something over and over, like “Doom-doom-doom,” or “Get-it-right! Get-it-right!” If Grandfather were here, he could have identified every single bird by its distinctive call, of course, and would feel obliged to describe their diet, range, and mating habits. There was a reason I always declined his invitations to early morning birdwatching expeditions.
“Doom-doom-doom” and “Get-it-right” seemed to have settled in right over the top of our tent. Fat chance getting back to sleep. So I got up, checked to make sure the caravan door was locked tight and, after hearing the reassuring sound of Spike’s growl, grabbed some clean clothes and my toilet kit and headed for the main house.
No one stirring in the campground. When I entered the great room, a uniformed State Police officer appeared.
“Quiet night?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He must have decided that I didn’t look suspicious, since he nodded, touched his finger to the brim of his hat, and headed into the studio wing with a gait that looked relaxe
d but covered a lot of ground pretty quickly. I waited a few moments—it was about this time of day that I’d discovered the two bodies. If there was anything to discover this morning, I was perfectly content to let him do it. I heard his footsteps proceeding down the hallway, stopping every few steps—checking studios. As the minutes ticked by, I felt myself relaxing, little by little.
I decided my own inspection could wait, so I headed for the stairs that led to the staff and faculty shower rooms on the floor below.
I emerged feeling—well, rested would be an exaggeration. Less disheveled and frazzled. A few other early birds had appeared, including Cordelia. I waved, and headed for the studio wing. Not that I didn’t believe everything was okay. The state trooper would have sounded the alarm if there were any problems. I just wanted to see it with my own eyes.
No problems in the studios. The theater wing was also unencumbered with bodies or signs that the vandal had returned to work. I began to feel downright cheerful.
Of course, we couldn’t expect both the Riverton Police and the State Police to stay around and baby us indefinitely. Sooner or later they had to catch the bad guy or guys, so life at Biscuit Mountain could go back to normal. Or if they didn’t catch the bad guys, we’d have to adjust to an uncomfortable new normal.
But at least for the time being, we were safe. The adrenaline-fueled state of alertness and anxiety that had kicked in the moment I opened my eyes began to ease a little.
Which wasn’t necessarily a good thing. It was the adrenaline that had been keeping me awake and vertical.
I sat down in one of the most comfy chairs in the great room, leaned back, and closed my eyes. Not that I expected to get any sleep here—soon the great room and the dining room beyond would be swarming with people. Even if I did manage to drop off, someone would notice and wake me in time for breakfast and my class.
But it wouldn’t hurt to close my eyes. Just for a minute.…
“Meg?”
I was arguing with Grandfather again.
“No,” I was saying. “I don’t think it’s a good idea at all to film a remake of The Birds here at Biscuit Mountain.”
Gone Gull Page 19
