The Gift of the Magpie

by Donna Andrews

  We started filling one box with out-of-date coupons and advertising flyers. However interesting it might be to know how much the Caerphilly Market was charging for turkeys and fresh cranberries back in 1987, we had a hard time imagining that information could have any bearing on Harvey’s murder. Still, we didn’t throw the coupons and flyers out—just scanned them for any cryptic notes and tossed them in the ad box. Make that ad boxes. We’d filled one box and started a second. I’d be delighted when we could toss them all in the recycling bin.

  And the same for the newspaper and magazine articles. Mostly clippings from the Clarion, although apparently for a while back in the seventies and eighties the household had also taken the Richmond Times-Dispatch. After much discussion, we sorted the clippings into a small—well, smaller—collection of articles about aspects of town history or local notables, and a larger collection of ones that seemed completely random and unlikely to be related to the murder, like cartoons, recipes, gardening columns, book reviews, and articles about celebrities.

  At least a dozen boxes were filled with nothing but old magazines. We ruffled the pages to find any papers that might be hidden between the pages, and Ms. Ellie sorted them into two collections—magazines the Friends of the Library might be able to sell if whoever inherited them wanted to donate them, and magazines that were no longer of any use to anyone—old computer magazines, particularly—and should just be recycled.

  We were also rapidly filling a box with user manuals for appliances and electrical devices, some of them so ancient that it would be a miracle if we found the items themselves still in good working order. Although the vintage 1940s KitchenAid mixer we’d found in Harvey’s kitchen hadn’t looked in such bad shape, so you never knew.

  Judge Jane got excited when she came across a stash of genealogical papers, and I had to admit that they might turn out to be useful. Were there any other distant cousins lurking about who might have had designs on Harvey’s property? In a burst of optimism we created a genealogy box, but it wasn’t filling up very fast. And Judge Jane’s cursory study of the box’s contents weren’t encouraging.

  “Looks as if Harvey was the last of the Dunlops,” she said. “And it doesn’t look as if his three Haverhill cousins are doing much to replenish the earth. No children listed for any of them.”

  “If you ask me, that’s not such a bad thing,” I said.

  We were also well into our second box of family photographs—everything from ancient black-and-white or sepia portraits of stiff-backed ancestors with fixed smiles or stern frowns on their faces to fading fifties-era Polaroids of people who bore a vague resemblance to Harvey. As soon as I saw the pictures of him as a teenager I recognized Harvey, as awkward and diffident then as when I’d met him. Nothing more recent than that, of him or anyone else. I took an immediate if irrational dislike to his father, Aristede Junior—and I knew it was him because, to our delight, most of the photos had the names of their subjects neatly inked on the back. Aristede looked as stiff and scowling as the worst of his ancestors, and at least they’d had the excuse of having to hold still for an ungodly length of time to have their pictures taken. I couldn’t offhand think of any way the pictures were going to be useful to the chief’s case, but you never knew.

  Around five o’clock two workmen from the Shiffley Construction Company arrived and began installing wireless cameras and motion-activated lights at both doors and all three of the ground-floor windows.

  “I’m going home and tackling my basement after this,” Aida said. “Not that I’m planning to be a homicide victim, but if I ever am, I damn well don’t want the chief and Vern and Horace pawing through my things like this, trying to figure out who did me in.”

  “Amen,” Ms. Ellie said.

  “I don’t know—stuff can have a positive effect sometimes,” Judge Jane said. “Once or twice a year I get a case so annoying that it makes me wonder if it’s time for me to retire. Let someone younger and less cranky deal with some of my repeat customers. Then I look around my chambers and think about what a pain it would be to pack up and move out, and I say the hell with it. I’ll die on the bench, and someone else can clean out my chambers after I’m gone.”

  “You could hire Meg to do it,” Ms. Ellie said. “If she wasn’t already juggling three or four careers, I think Meg could do an excellent job as one of those people who comes in and declutters someone’s house.”

  “I’d do a good job at the clearing out part,” I said. “Someone else would have to do the therapy. The first time one of them said ‘But it’s a perfectly good something or other,’ I’d lose it.”

  “Bingo!” Randall shouted. “I’ve got financial stuff here!”

  Chapter 23

  We all crowded around to take a look. Bills and bank statements from around the turn of the millennium, so neither old enough to give information about the family bank or new enough to give us much of an idea about Harvey’s current financial state. Still it didn’t look as if he’d thrown out a single bill or canceled check from that time period. Who knew what else we’d find?

  Around 3:00 P.M., as we were working on the last few boxes we had, Vern, Beau, and Osgood came in with another hundred and fifty or so boxes.

  “Good gracious,” Judge Jane said. “How much more is there?”

  “This is most of it,” Vern said. “A couple more boxes from the office, and we think there might be some paper in the far end of the living room. We should be able to get it all in the next load.”

  When they left to go back to Harvey’s, we all exchanged a look, took deep breaths, and dived into the next set of boxes.

  And these boxes took us farther into the past. Aida was unearthing canceled checks from the seventies and eighties. Judge Jane was sorting through phone and utility bills from the forties and fifties. Ms. Ellie came across a copy of Aristede Dunlop’s last will and testament, which she immediately handed to Judge Jane for an expert evaluation.

  “Perfectly solid will,” Judge Jane said after scanning it. “But not very illuminating. Left everything he died possessed of to Harvey, without saying whether that everything was a king’s ransom or a pile of debts. Still, knowing the father went to Homer Billingsley to get his will done might help us find out if Harvey had one.”

  “This was signed in 1971,” Aida said. “Do we even know if this Homer Billingsley is still alive? I’ve never heard the name.”

  “No, he’s long gone, but his granddaughter’s running the firm now. Kate Warren. I’ll just ring her up and see what I can find out.”

  Unfortunately, about all she could find out at the moment was that Counselor Warren was spending Christmas in Arizona.

  “More delay,” Aida grumbled.

  “Don’t worry,” Judge Jane said. “I asked her to call me back as soon as she gets the message. Lawyers tend to return my phone calls pretty quickly.”

  We went back to sorting until Aida hit pay dirt.

  “Hey, I think I’ve got something about that bank.”

  Again we crowded around. There were actually several boxes full of papers from the bank. Ledgers. Typed financial reports. Boxes of blank letterhead.

  And an old-fashioned ledger with a gray canvas cover and red leather corners. Inside someone with elegant old-fashioned handwriting had written on the first page, “Repayment of outstanding obligations of the Farmers and Mechanics Bank. Aristede Charles Dunlop, Sr.”

  “That’s it,” Judge Jane said. “Just what Mrs. Diamandis was telling us.”

  The first page had a list of twenty-three names with amounts beside them. Seven of the names, the ones with smaller amounts beside them, had a neat line drawn through them—repayments in full was my guess.

  The rest of the book contained pages for each of the twenty-three, headed by the name and address and followed by columns of numbers. From 1933 through 1942, the only entries were quarterly additions of interest, and I found myself wondering if Aristede ever despaired of seeing the totals begin to shrink. Then in Mar
ch 1942, he started slowly but steadily whittling down the totals. All entries stopped in November 1965.

  “I expect that would be when Aristede Senior died,” Judge Jane said, with a nod.

  “Yes.” I had pulled out my notebook and flipped to the page where I’d copied down all the Dunlop family dates. “According to his tombstone over at Trinity.”

  “I bet the chief would find it interesting if we could figure out which of these people still have kin here in Caerphilly,” Judge Jane said.

  Randall, Aida, and I went back to sorting while Ms. Ellie and Judge Jane worked on the names in the ledger. It helped a little that Aristede Senior had updated the names, addresses, and telephone numbers over the years, usually by pasting a new slip of paper over the old address on a ledger page as needed. But the last repayment entries were in 1965, so there was still the fifty-five-year gap to be crossed between Aristede Senior’s death and now.

  Judge Jane finally pushed the faded ledger away and rubbed her eyes.

  “Fascinating as this is,” she said, “my eyes are crossing. And if I don’t leave now, I won’t get over to the college theater in time for Michael’s performance.”

  “Good point,” Ms. Ellie said. “I have an idea—let’s the two of us meet at the library tomorrow morning and finish figuring this ledger out.”

  “Ledger has to stay here, Ms. Ellie,” Aida said. “Evidence.”

  “We wouldn’t need the ledger.” Ms. Ellie handed it over to Aida. “If someone could take pictures of the pages, we could work with that.”

  “I’ll do that,” Aida said. “I should be able to get it done before I have to take off for the theater, and if not I’ll drop by here after the show.”

  She cleared off one of the card tables, set the ledger down in the middle of it, and started methodically taking pictures with her phone.

  I made sure all the doors and windows were locked.

  “You want me to set the security system?” I asked.

  “No need,” she said. “I won’t be long, and I’ll do it when I leave.”

  I left her to it.

  Outside I noticed that the Shiffley workmen had posted a NO TRESPASSING sign by the back door. In fact, several that I could see, and I suspected there were others along the sides and in front. I wasn’t sure how much good they’d do to protect the premises against a determined burglar, but we had the security system for that. At least the signs would probably reduce the number of nosy people who set off the alarm.

  There was a lull in the rain, but the temperature was hovering just above freezing and the wind was rising, making for a miserable night. Thank goodness Michael’s show would start at seven—early, by theatrical standards, but the better for children’s bedtimes. And it only ran a little over two hours, so even allowing for a reasonable amount of post-show backstage celebrating we should be home by ten. Hosting a large noisy cast party, of course—but home.

  Back at the house, everything was chaos. About half of the relatives staying with us were going to tonight’s sold-out opening night. The rest had reluctantly settled for later performances. And where was Michael? He had to get to the theater much earlier than his audience members, so I was planning to throw on my dress, drop him off, and then come back to ferry one or more carloads of family members. Unless he’d already gone.

  More likely he’d gone outside to get a little peace and quiet. Much as Michael seemed to like my family, when they showed up en masse like this he sometimes had to get away. I’d probably find him cocooning in his office. Or, better yet, leaning on the fence of the llama pen, listening to them hum.

  I stepped out of the hot, crowded kitchen and scanned the yard. No Michael. The llamas looked up expectantly when they saw me. I felt a pang of guilt. I should probably take them a few apples for a treat.

  Then again, my relatives seemed to find the llamas almost as entertaining as the llamas found us. Odds were the guys were already stuffed with bits of apple, carrot, broccoli, and who knew what else.

  I was about to go back inside again when I noticed a black-and-white bird sitting on the railing at the other end of the back stoop. He also seemed to be staring at the llamas.

  Was this one of Grandfather’s magpies? I took note of his markings. Black head and neck. Long, mostly black tail. Patches of black on the wings. White belly. And then it occurred to me that I could do better than describe him. I pulled out my phone and opened the camera to take a picture.

  Just as I snapped the shot he turned around and I saw he was holding something in his bill. Something black and slightly iridescent. Then he uttered a harsh cry, sounding something like “Ack-ack!” and took flight. The object he’d been holding fluttered to the ground.

  I walked over to where it had fallen and picked it up. A fragment of black butterfly wing. Just like Rose Noire’s. Or was it the same bit of wing, stolen back from Rose Noire and redelivered to me?

  “Creepy,” I muttered. The magpie—or one of his friends—was still saying “Ack-ack! Ack-ack!” somewhere nearby.

  If it was a magpie. I hesitated. I could send the photo to Grandfather, but he’d only chide me for not capturing the poor bird. I texted “Is this a magpie?” to Caroline and sent her the picture.

  “There you are.” Michael came out of the back door. “I need to get to the theater.”

  “I can take you any time,” I said. “Just—”

  “No, you relax,” Michael said. “Rob’s going to run me in. I just wanted to let you know I was taking off.”

  Rob followed him out onto the stoop.

  “I’m meeting Delaney there to take care of the dog thing,” Rob said.

  Good—I assumed that meant they’d been able to print some glamour shots to display in the lobby.

  “The tickets?” I asked as they were crossing the yard toward the driveway.

  Michael slapped his pockets.

  “I think—no, I left them on my desk. I can go and—”

  “I’ll find them,” I said. “Your desk is probably messy, but it’s nowhere near Harvey level. Go!”

  I waved good-bye. And then realized I was still holding the butterfly wing. I let it go and watched as a breeze caught it and whisked it out of sight.

  My phone vibrated. I glanced down to see a reply from Caroline: “Yes. Free-range magpie all right.”

  I went back in to brave the family chaos.

  Still, I managed to escape the kitchen and get dressed in a more leisurely fashion than I’d expected. Then I made my way down the long hall to the library and Michael’s adjoining office to collect the tickets.

  There were still game players in the library—a Dungeon & Dragons group at one end, and a session of Ticket to Ride, a railroad building game, at the other. Jamie was watching the D&D crew. To my surprise, I found Josh in Michael’s office.

  “Hey, Mom.” His tone was matter-of-fact, but he was frowning and staring around. I suspected I knew why. But I’d ask anyway.

  “What’s up,” I said, as I scanned the top of the desk and spotted an envelope marked “CC tickets.”

  “You guys have a lot of paper.”

  “Colleges make for a lot of paperwork,” I said. “And you know how busy your dad is during the semester. Once Christmas is over I’m sure he’ll do his usual office cleanout.”

  “Yeah,” Josh said. “But he doesn’t throw it all out. He puts most of it in the attic.”

  I couldn’t actually argue with him.

  “And you have a lot of paper up there, too.”

  “Yes, I do,” I said. “And I should take the time to sort through it all, to see what we should still save and what can be thrown out.”

  “Cousin Eric says you could scan it all and get rid of the paper, and it would take up a lot less space and you’d be able to find things easier.”

  “He has a good point,” I said. “Is he volunteering to come down and do the scanning? Because that’s a lot of work.”

  He nodded but he didn’t seem to be reacting to what I
’d said.

  “Is this how Mr. Dunlop’s house got that way?”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I think we’re a long way from turning into Mr. Dunlop. But I tell you what: after the holidays are over, let’s start a family project. Let’s go around the whole house and figure out any spots, like your dad’s office and the attic, that are starting to look even a little like Mr. Dunlop’s house. And then we’ll figure out a schedule for fixing them.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I guess that would work. If you really do it.”

  I pulled out my notebook and entered it on the page where I was collecting things to do in January.

  “Duly noted,” I said. “Is that what you’re wearing to the show?”

  He glanced down at the sweater and jeans he was wearing and rolled his eyes.

  “Of course not,” he said. “I’m getting dressed up.”

  “Well, go change, then,” I said. “We only have half an hour.”

  At that he started and then walked out, pretending nonchalance. He didn’t start running till he turned the corner.

  I glanced around Michael’s office. Yes, it could do with a good cleanout, as he himself would say if he had time. But he always did clean it up at the end of every semester. And while it was true that we had rather a lot of paper in the attic, I was pretty sure all of it was all neatly organized in file folders and the files themselves stored in carefully labeled boxes. Should I explain to Josh—and Jamie, if he shared this worry—that there was a big difference between this and the vast mountain of undifferentiated paper that had once filled Harvey’s office.

  Then again, maybe Josh had a point. Well-organized clutter could still be clutter.

  I’d worry about it after the holidays.

  I checked to make sure the relatives Mother had recruited to make preparations for the cast party needed no help from me. Then I returned to the living room to relax in a way that was—well, probably not unique to me, but still somewhat unusual. I was tending my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe. Crossing out things I’d done—yay! Things other people had done for me—double yay! Things that had turned out to be unnecessary, things whose time had passed, things that there just wouldn’t be time to do, no matter how worthwhile they were. And—