I handed Randall the tray of ciders and hot chocolates and turned to go upstairs.
“Take the truck,” Randall said. “No offense, Meg, but that Toyota of yours can’t handle what’s on the roads now. And as for that little windup convertible of Michael’s—”
“No way I’m taking the convertible out in this,” Michael said. “The truck it is.”
“And if you can be ready in half an hour, you can follow me back to town,” Randall said.
Chapter 25
Half an hour later, we were on the road, sandwiched between the tractor Randall Shiffley was using to pull the Dumpster and the truck carrying the Boy Scouts and their gear. We’d packed enough clothes for several days. We didn’t know if the rest of the family would come to town to ride out the storm or hole up at Mother and Dad’s farmhouse, but just in case, we brought all the Christmas presents and a cooler containing our contribution to tomorrow’s potluck dinner. We also brought our camping gear, in case we ended up sleeping on the floor of Michael’s office in the drama department building. First Llama Ernest was with us, in an old horse trailer we’d bought in case of just such an emergency, and Spike was in his dog carrier on the seat between us. We didn’t even have children yet, and already our days of traveling footloose and fancy free were clearly behind us.
And what were we going to do with Ernest if there wasn’t room for him in the barns of the college Agricultural Sciences Department?
I’d worry about that later. First things first: get Michael to the theater, so he could start all his pre-performance rituals. Then I could get Ernest settled—wherever—and look for someplace better than Michael’s office for the two of us.
I reached back to pat the pocket where I’d put my notebook.
There was one silver lining to being snowbound in town—at least we wouldn’t be completely cut off from hearing any news about the murder investigation. And maybe even helping with it, assuming I could find a way of helping that wouldn’t look like interference.
Behind us, in the other truck, I heard the Boy Scouts strike up another chorus of “Jingle Bells.”
“This must be how our pioneer ancestors felt, heading west in covered wagons with all their worldly belongings,” Michael said.
“Maybe your pioneer ancestors,” I said. “Mine stumbled off the ship from England, still seasick, got down and kissed the ground, and refused to stir a step from the Virginia coast. Caer-philly is as far inland as I’ve ever lived.”
He chuckled, and began singing along with the Boy Scouts. I filed away my worries for the time being and joined in.
Caerphilly looked magical, with all the Christmas lights ablaze and the snow frosting the evergreen wreaths and garlands and the red bows trimming them. Even the police station looked welcoming, with candles in all the windows, including the narrow barred windows in the attached jail. Seeing Caroline’s truck in the parking lot dimmed my enjoyment a bit, though.
“They’ll be fine,” Michael said, noticing the direction of my gaze. “As soon as Norris hears they’re in trouble, he’ll show up and face the music.”
I smiled, and nodded, but I wasn’t so sure. Norris had been letting Caroline and Clarence clean up after him for years. I wouldn’t want to bet that he’d stop now.
Our caravan stopped in front of Dunsany Hall, where Michael’s office was, and paused while we dragged our luggage into the lobby. Then I climbed back in the truck.
“You’re all right driving in this?” Michael asked, looking around rather dubiously.
“I’ll see she gets safe to the college barns,” Randall called back.
“And I’ll walk back over once I get the llama settled,” I said.
The truck peeled off at the courthouse, where I could see a lot of idling cars—presumably the Boy Scouts’ parents, come to collect them. I kept following the tractor. The going got rougher as we neared the Ag Sciences barn on the edge of the campus. I slipped and slid into what I hoped was a parking space and not a part of the surrounding organic farmland—it was hard to be sure with all the flat bits uniformly coated in snow. I waved good-bye to Randall and went to lead Ernest inside the barn.
I worried briefly about taking him out in the biting cold and driving snow, but I reminded myself that with his unsheared coat, Ernest was more warmly dressed than I was. After all, llamas routinely braved the cold of the Andes. He could handle a Virginia snowstorm. He stepped out of the horse trailer, sniffed the frigid air appreciatively, and looked around with interest as I led him to the barn.
Of course, the barn was still occupied by the animals that had been in the parade. Everyone had probably spent the brief interval between storms shoveling out their own houses, and even if anyone had had time to consider taking the animals home, it wouldn’t have been safe to try.
So Ernest might not get a stall by himself. I hoped he wouldn’t mind.
If Clarence and Caroline were still busy down at the police station and Dr. Blake presumably snowbound somewhere, I should check on the animals.
To my relief, the barn was heated, and I stopped just inside the door to shed my wraps.
The friendly beasts around me stood—Cousin, the donkey, was stretching his neck over the top of a stall, as if begging for rescue. I gave him a wide berth, in case he was feeling crankier than usual. Several sheep were inside the next stall, and the ox and cow beyond them. The various fowl cooed, clucked, or fluttered in a series of coops nearby. The coops all had full food and water compartments, and I could hear the sound of crunching hay from somewhere in the barn, so I relaxed a little. Someone had been looking after the animals.
I led Ernest into the stall with the sheep—since they were Seth Early’s sheep, they had probably spent as much time in our yard with Ernest as they had in their own pasture. Ernest seemed happy to see the sheep, and they didn’t seem to mind him, so I shut the stall door and breathed a sigh of relief.
I leaned on the door and watched Ernest and the sheep for a few moments. I found it strangely soothing. Maybe a few more llamas wouldn’t be such a bad idea. But no more than we could fit in the horse trailer.
I saw a bin of fresh carrots just inside the barn, and I fed a few to Ernest. And then one to Cousin, being careful to pull my fingers back as soon as he reached out for it, since no one had quite convinced Cousin that donkeys were not carnivores.
I could see the camels, Larry, Curley, and Moe, a little farther down, just beyond the cows, and realized that I had never gotten around to asking Clarence what kind of treats camels liked. Well, no time like the present to satisfy my curiosity.
All three camels accepted carrots—Larry and Moe eagerly, and Curley with an ill-tempered grumble, as though he were only doing it to avoid hurting my feelings.
Strange, but like llamas, camels had a curious calming effect on me. I stood watching their slow, meditative chewing. Almost instinctively, I began doing the breathing exercises Rose Noire was always nagging me to try when I was feeling stressed.
Everything would be fine, I told myself. Sooner or later, the chief would figure out who’d killed Doleson, and if I had the chance, I’d do what I could to make it sooner. The audience might be smaller, but Michael’s show would go well; and if we couldn’t get home, we had a place to sleep.
Suddenly I spotted a flicker of movement at the other end of the stable, behind some hay bales.
“Who’s there?” I called, and reached into my pocket to finger my probably useless cell phone.
Chapter 26
“Don’t mind me,” a quavery tenor voice said.
A large, disheveled shape swaddled in a voluminous khaki overcoat appeared from behind the hay bales. After a moment, I realized I knew him.
“Norris?” I said. “Is that you?”
He took a step or two closer. Norris Pruitt was tall—taller than Michael’s six feet four—and about as pale as a human being could be without actually qualifying as albino. A few tufts of his straw blond hair stuck out from under his tan watch cap.
The only spots of color on him were the bright red patches of chapped skin on his cheeks and nose and the red rims around his pale gray eyes.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, taking an involuntary step back.
“Don’t mind me,” he said. “I only came to see to the animals. Normally Clarence would be seeing to them, but . . .”
He shrugged.
“But Clarence is down at the police station, answering questions about the burglary he and Caroline committed to help you,” I said. I decided mentioning the murder would be a tactical mistake.
“They didn’t have to,” he said. “I never asked them to.”
“You didn’t have to. They’ve been helping you out of jams for years, haven’t they? What did you expect them to do when they found out Ralph Doleson was blackmailing you?”
He hunched his shoulders tighter and shook his head. He looked like a wounded bear.
“I’m sorry,” he said. He sat down heavily on a hay bale and buried his face in his hands. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.” His shoulders heaved as if he were sobbing convulsively.
Was he talking about his thefts or the murder? For some reason I found it hard to think of Norris as a killer. I inched closer, and had to resist the temptation to pat him on the shoulder and say “There, there.”
One of the cows stuck her head over her stall door and snuffled at Norris’s hair briefly, as if considering whether its resemblance to hay went as far as the taste. Norris reached up and stroked her face absently.
I knew I should call Chief Burke and report that I’d found his missing suspect, but I gave in to curiosity.
“How did you get Ralph Doleson’s keys, anyway?” I asked.
Norris stiffened.
“Ralph Doleson’s keys?” he whispered. “Did I have them? I don’t even recall seeing him yesterday. I don’t see how I could possibly have . . . borrowed his keys.”
“Are you sure?” I said. “Just having the keys doesn’t mean you killed him. Since he was blackmailing you, no one would blame you if you went into the shed, found him already dead and—”
“No!” Norris exclaimed. “I could never have done that, even if I had found him. And I didn’t. I didn’t.”
He was rocking back and forth now, and looked so miserable that now I really couldn’t help going over to pat his shoulder. I did refrain from saying “There, there.”
“You have to tell the chief,” I said, as gently as I could. “You can see how bad your hiding from the police looks. Turn yourself in, and tell the chief the truth, and I’m sure Clarence and Caroline will do everything they can to help you.”
He nodded.
“I can call the chief now, if you like,” I said.
“No,” he said. “I’ll call them.”
He reached in his pocket, took out a cell phone, and looked at it as if he’d forgotten how to use it.
“I guess I should dial 911,” he said, frowning at the cell phone.
“If you like,” I said. “Though I’d just use the non-emergency number. Here, let me do it.”
He nodded and put the cell phone in my outstretched hand. I punched in the familiar digits—all the more familiar because Norris’s cell phone was the same make and model as my own.
“Debbie Anne?” I said, when the dispatcher answered. “Can you tell the chief that Norris Pruitt’s over here in the college barn, and he’s ready to turn himself in?”
“My gosh,” she said.
I said good-bye, cut the connection, and held the phone out to Norris.
“No, you keep it,” he said. “It’s yours anyway. Sorry.”
I did a double take. No wonder the phone had felt so familiar. I took a step away from him as I tucked it back into my pocket.
“Here,” he said, handing me something else. “I’m really sorry.”
It was my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe. I stuck it back in my other pocket and put a good ten feet between me and Norris. I could hear sirens in the distance already, so I whiled away the time until the chief and his officers arrived by patting myself down to see if I was missing anything else.
A stray sheep came up and thrust its head at Norris to be scratched. He was still sitting on the hay bale, disconsolately petting the sheep, when Sammy and Horace burst in.
“Hands up!” Sammy shouted. He was aiming his gun at Norris. I backed away and Norris froze with both hands tightly clenched in the sheep’s thick fleece.
“Mr. Pruitt?” Horace said.
Norris was staring fixedly at Sammy’s gun with his mouth hanging open.
“Mr. Pruitt!” Horace said, more loudly.
Norris flinched, but didn’t answer. I suspected he was about to curl up and faint, like a startled possum.
“Norris?” I said gently. He shifted his gaze to me. “Remember we agreed you were going to talk to the police?”
He nodded.
“Sammy and Horace are just here to talk to you,” I said. “You don’t have any weapons, do you?”
He shook his head.
“Then why don’t you hold your hands up so they can see that,” I said.
Norris nodded, and began lifting his hands. Since he hadn’t relaxed his death grip on the sheep’s wool, the poor animal began struggling and baaing in protest as it felt itself being hoisted up by the fleece.
“Put down the sheep, Norris,” I said.
“Put down the what?” I looked over to see that Chief Burke had just arrived.
“The sheep,” I said. “That’s right,” I added, as Norris set the sheep down and patted it apologetically. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was a little unsettling to see how easily Norris could lift a two-hundred-pound sheep. He lifted his hands high over his head and then looked to me for approval.
“That’s great, isn’t it, Chief,” I said, smiling and nodding at Norris.
“Fine,” the chief said. “Sammy, put that fool thing away before you shoot one of the sheep. Mr. Norris isn’t going to hurt anyone, is he?”
Norris shook his head vigorously.
“Thank you,” the chief said to me. “We’ll take it from here.”
“Look, Norris was here looking after the animals,” I said. “He and Clarence. If—”
I paused. Norris was still very skittish.
“If Norris has to leave,” I said, “and Clarence is still down at the station—”
“Don’t worry,” the chief said. “If we find it necessary to detain both Mr. Rutledge and Mr. Pruitt overnight, I’ll have someone look in on the animals.”
“You can always call me if you need help,” I said. “Or my dad, if you can find him. If Rose Noire’s in town, I’m sure she’ll be dropping by to check on them, but I don’t know for sure she is.”
“I’ll keep an eye on the animals, Chief,” Sammy said. Yes, if there was even a chance Rose Noire might show up, Sammy’s crush on her would ensure that he’d take every opportunity to visit the barn.
“I’ll help,” Horace said.
The chief nodded. His eyes were on Norris, and his body language clearly said that he couldn’t wait for me to leave so he could talk to his suspect in privacy.
I fed Ernest another carrot in passing, by way of farewell, and left them to it.
It was slow going outside—not that I minded. I had on enough layers to keep me warm, and I had plenty of time to fill before Michael’s show started. Before I had even gone two blocks, the chief and his forces left the barn, bundled themselves and Norris Pruitt into the three police cars they’d come in, and began slipping and sliding slowly in the other direction, toward the station.
As I hiked along, I tried to push Norris and the murder and all the unanswered questions about it out of my mind and occasionally I succeeded for whole minutes at a time.
I exchanged jovial Christmas greetings with various people I passed, all of them so completely bundled up against the biting cold that I had no idea who they were. I wondered if they recognized me or were simply greeting with enthusiasm
anyone else brave enough to be out in the storm.
Foot traffic increased as I passed through Caerphilly’s small commercial area, and the stores were doing brisk business. Last-minute Christmas shoppers streamed out of the toy and department stores onto snowy sidewalks already crammed with shoppers whose grocery bags overflowed with milk, bread, and toilet paper—Nature’s White Sale, Michael called it.
Cars had almost completely disappeared, though, and even trucks and SUVs were getting scarce. Every so often a snowplow would cruise by, with one of the Shiffleys at the wheel, working to keep the roads clear. Of course, they were handicapped by not having the kind of full-sized snowplows you’d find in larger cities farther north, and this particular snow would have challenged the largest snowplow on the planet. The Shiffleys were losing ground. Though knowing the Shiffleys, they’d keep trying until they cleared the snow or until it melted or until they all got themselves stuck in various ditches and snowdrifts. Shiffleys were notoriously mule-headed.
And notoriously good at holding grudges. Was Ralph Dole-son’s murderer chugging along on one of those snowplows? If one of the Shiffleys was the killer, Randall might know, or at least suspect. Was that why he was so convinced of Norris’s innocence?
Randall had said that Norris didn’t have the gumption to kill. I wasn’t sure murder necessarily required gumption. At least not Ralph Doleson’s murder. The killer could just as easily be someone who was scared and angry and cornered and had the strength to kill just by lashing out. If Norris had been carrying the holly stick when he encountered Doleson, and if Doleson had threatened him . . . I could see Norris lashing out. The shock of what he’d done could well account for Norris’s dazed state.
Of course, I couldn’t imagine Norris managing even the most rudimentary escape and cover-up. But had the killer been clever, or just lucky?
Still . . . I had a hard time seeing Norris as the killer. And if it wasn’t Norris, who was it?
Randall Shiffley himself was on the list, unfortunately. I liked Randall, but he could be pretty inexorable when he got an idea into his head. Did he consider slaying a bald eagle a sin punishable by death? I couldn’t quite rule it out. And if Randall decided Doleson needed killing, he’d carry out the project efficiently. He had the gumption and the brains. And the anger. Was he really operating the boom lift during the whole window of opportunity?
Six Geese A-Slaying Page 17
