Meg Langslow 17 - The Good, the Bad, and the Emus

by Donna Andrews

  She was rather nondescript. She was a few inches shorter than me, which made her of average height. I’d have had a hard time guessing her age—she could have been anywhere from midthirties to midfifties. Her uniform was sharply pressed, but it and everything about her seemed beige and faded. She had light brown hair pulled tightly back, pale brown eyes, and features so regular and ordinary that if she showed up out of uniform I’d probably have trouble recognizing her again. She’d have been good at undercover work in a larger town. And either she wore no makeup or she went in for a really subtle natural look.

  “Talk to you later, then.” She pressed a button, stuck the phone in her pocket, and turned back to me.

  “Can I help you, Ms…?”

  “Meg Langslow.” I offered my hand.

  “You in charge of this bird rescue thing?” she asked. Her handshake was as brisk and no nonsense as the rest of her.

  “My grandfather is,” I said. “I’m mostly in charge of seeing that Grandfather and the rest of the bird nuts don’t wear out our welcome with Miss Annabel, our hostess, or annoy the rest of the town too much.”

  “I’m assuming you have permission from Miss Annabel to camp here,” she said.

  I held out the letter Miss Annabel had given me earlier. She read it, nodded again, and handed it back.

  “Seems in order,” she said. “I understand you’re taking the birds someplace out of town.”

  “To a licensed wildlife sanctuary and rehabilitation center,” I said. “Where they’ll be well treated and—”

  “Out of my town,” she said. “Frankly, that’s all that matters to me. Those birds have been nothing but trouble to this town. Not just the birds, but all the fighting over the birds. Whole town’s been taking sides. If Dr. Blake’s willing to round them up and haul them off, fine by me, just as long as it doesn’t cost the town anything.”

  “It shouldn’t.” I wanted to ask if it was true that she’d given orders to shoot the emus on sight, and decided not to.

  “But that’s not why I’m here,” she said. “You know anything about this alleged poisoning?”

  I told her what I’d seen, and handed over my collection of paper bags.

  “Only two of them are related to the poisoning,” I said. “The coffee-stained blouse and the coffee mug. The other two are a rusted LED headlight I found in the field behind Miss Annabel’s house, and a brand new one from her supply, for comparison. Miss Annabel thinks they could be related to her cousin’s death.”

  Chief Heedles looked a lot more thrilled with the Scotch-scented blouse and cup than the headlights, but she stowed all of the bags in her trunk.

  “Can you show me where this happened?” she asked.

  “Of course.” I turned to lead the way back into camp, and she fell into step beside me.

  She wasn’t what I expected. From Miss Annabel’s account, I’d expected more bluster and bombast. A stereotypical backwoods bungler. A rare female beneficiary of the old boy network. But the first impression Chief Heedles made on me was one of calm and quiet competence. She said nothing as we walked, only looked and nodded as I pointed out the emu pen and a few other salient features of the camp.

  “Seems like a nice setup,” she said, when we had reached the mess tent. “Any reason why that PI feller’s staying out here with you? He a bird lover, too?”

  Her tone was perfectly neutral, but just the fact that she asked the question made me suspect she wasn’t thrilled by Stanley’s presence.

  “Stanley Denton? Grandfather hired him,” I said. “He’s a local PI—local to where we live, that is, in Caerphilly County. Frankly, hiring him’s all part of the price of placating Miss Annabel.”

  “Hiring him to prove I’m covering up a murder?” Her voice didn’t seem to hold any rancor, but I’d already figured out she didn’t show much emotion.

  “To investigate her cousin’s death,” I said. “And give her an honest report on the investigation.”

  “I’ve known Theo Weaver all my life,” the chief said. “Friend of my late father. Cranky old geezer, but I can’t see him as a killer. Still—if your PI finds anything suspicious, I’d appreciate it if he’d share with me.”

  “How odd,” I said. “That’s exactly the polite way our police chief at home phrases it when he wants to warn people about not withholding evidence from the proper authorities.”

  That earned a brief smile from Heedles. For all I knew, it might have been her version of a broad grin. She didn’t seem like the kind of person who would be a lot of fun at parties.

  Then again, she was on duty. And she seemed pretty calm about the idea of having Stanley working on a case in her jurisdiction.

  She turned and went into the mess tent. A good third of it—the area where Fred had collapsed, and a broad buffer zone around it—was fenced in with yellow crime-scene tape and guarded by a Riverton police officer. The rest of the tent was filled with volunteers, pretending to be still eating, but quite obviously just gawking.

  I snagged a cup of chili. Then I spotted Stanley and went over to have a word with him while I ate.

  “So the guy really was poisoned?” he asked.

  “Dad thinks so,” I said. “And evidently the local police are taking it seriously.” I brought him up to speed on what I’d learned, and the bits of evidence I’d turned over to Chief Heedles.

  The chief had finished talking to her officer. She looked around, spotted me, and strode over.

  “I understand your grandfather is in charge here?”

  “Let me introduce you,” I said. “By the way, this is Stanley Denton, the PI.”

  They shook hands and exchanged a few pleasantries. I knew Stanley’s promise to share any important evidence he found was sincere, though I noticed he didn’t promise to do so immediately. Time would tell whether the chief’s offer to provide any assistance Stanley needed was genuine or just for show.

  Then I led the chief over to Grandfather, who was sitting at the other end of the mess tent, doing a better job than most of pretending he was just finishing up his meal.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he boomed. I’d been hoping against hope that he’d refrain from his usual bone-crushing handshake. No such luck. Though Chief Heedles looked as if she could give him a taste of his own medicine if she wanted to. “What a charming area this is!” he went on. “Such beautiful countryside!”

  “Glad you like it,” she said. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to poison one of your volunteers?”

  I had to suppress a chuckle at that. She didn’t waste time. Of course Grandfather liked that, and beamed at her.

  “Not a regular feature of our expeditions,” he said. “Are we sure he was poisoned?”

  “Dad thinks so,” I put in.

  “Well, he should know,” Grandfather said. “Quite a specialty of his, poisons.”

  “Detecting and treating them,” I added for the chief’s benefit.

  “Precisely,” Grandfather said. “If he thinks it might be poison, you should definitely look into it. Any clues yet?”

  “Fortunately, Ms. Langslow had the forethought to secure the victim’s mug and a garment on which he spilled some of his coffee,” Chief Heedles said. “I’ll be sending those down to the crime lab in Richmond as soon as possible, along with any other evidence my officers gather here.”

  “Unfortunately,” I said, “if they’re as backed up as usual, it could be days before the crime lab tells the chief whether Fred’s mug contained anything other than coffee and Scotch. I have a cousin who’s a crime-scene technician,” I added to the chief. “And he’s always complaining about that.”

  Chief Heedles frowned and nodded.

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll manage,” Grandfather said. “In fact—Scotch?”

  “Scotch,” the chief said. “Whatever else was in the mug, it was self-evident that it contained both coffee and a healthy dash of Scotch.”

  Grandfather frowned as if this both puzzled and troubled him. Th
en he got up and strode off.

  “Come with me,” he called over his shoulder. “Show you something odd.”

  The chief looked at me. I shrugged to show I had no idea what was up. She took off after Grandfather. I tagged along.

  We found Grandfather in his Airstream, pulling bits of trash out of a brown paper shopping bag and strewing them on the floor.

  “You wanted to show me something?” the chief asked.

  “Here it is.” He held out a crumpled wad of green wrapping paper and a length of purple ribbon with a gift tag attached.

  The chief put on a pair of gloves before taking the ribbon and paper from him. Then she turned the card so she could read it. There, in a block print that seemed deliberately chosen to be as anonymous as possible, were the words WELCOME TO RIVERTON.

  “This has something to do with the suspected poisoning?” the chief asked.

  “I came in here sometime this morning and found this purple and green package,” Grandfather said. “Thought it was a present from the local Chamber of Commerce or something of the sort. So I opened it to find a peculiar decanter shaped like a stag being savaged by a couple of wolves.”

  “Someone must know how much you love wolves,” I said.

  “A pity they don’t also know how much I detest cheap booze,” Grandfather snapped. “It was full of some off-brand of Scotch.”

  “Grandfather only drinks designer Scotch,” I said.

  “I only drink good brands. Laphroaig, Lagavulin, Macallan—”

  “What did you do with the decanter?” Chief Heedles asked.

  “Gave it to the first person who stuck his head in the trailer,” Grandfather said. “Told him to find someone who could use it.”

  “And was that person—”

  “Fred,” Grandfather said. “The one who keeled over during my orientation speech.”

  Chief Heedles bagged the wrappings as evidence. And then she thanked Grandfather and headed over to Fred’s tent where, shortly afterward, a flurry of excitement announced the discovery of the mysterious decanter. I managed to be nearby when she showed it to Grandfather for identification.

  “That’s it,” he said. “A singularly unprepossessing object.”

  I had to agree. I’d never have guessed it was a decanter—it looked more like a ceramic statue. It was about a foot high, painted with great detail, and featured a wild-eyed stag being attacked by two wolves, one on either side. At least the artist had depicted the three animals a few moments before the wolves drew blood. I thought it was ghastly, but I suspected that if it had come filled with better Scotch, Grandfather would have found it charming.

  “I’ll be keeping this for the time being,” Chief Heedles said.

  The chief and her officers departed, leaving behind them an unsettled camp. To my surprise, no one left, although I did overhear a couple of people discussing the advisability of driving to the next town to buy their own supply of coffee, in case the poisoner tried to strike again.

  Grandfather strode around looking as if he’d cheated death through strength, courage, and intellect, instead of by having persnickety taste in Scotch. Caroline quickly organized round-the-clock teams of volunteers to keep an eye on him, in case the poisoner made another, more direct attempt on his life, and quite a few volunteers independently decided he needed watching over and joined in the vigil, so that he couldn’t go anywhere without a flock of five or six anxious people hovering over him and starting at their own shadows.

  I hunted down Caroline, who was evidently conferring with Sherry on additional security measures.

  “We’ll make sure he’s never left unguarded,” Sherry was saying. “We could even assign a couple of men to sleep outside his door.”

  “That would drive him crazy,” Caroline said. “Let’s think about it. Come up with something a little more subtle.”

  “Has this happened before on any of Grandfather’s missions?” I asked. “People getting attacked?”

  “Not usually by other people,” Caroline said. “Usually only by the animals we were rescuing.”

  “We’ve had death threats before,” Sherry put in. “But never anything like this.”

  “We don’t usually get death threats unless we’re taking on some scummy company,” Caroline said. “We’ve had to hire security guards a couple of times over the last few years when we were going up against rogue mining companies, for example. Some of them play rough. But it’s hard to imagine anyone would make death threats over a bunch of emus.”

  “If this keeps on, he’ll have to give up this kind of thing,” Sherry said. “It’s not safe.” She shook her head and strode away.

  “Fat chance of that,” Caroline muttered. “Look, Meg—I’m going to take your boys for a ride in the caravan. Get them away from all the stress here at camp.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’d appreciate that.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you could keep an eye on things,” Caroline said in an undertone. “Pour oil on the troubled waters if Sherry gets too bossy.”

  “I was planning to go to town for a while,” I said.

  “Don’t change your plans,” she said. “But while you’re in camp, just keep your eyes open and be ready to intervene if she goes too far.”

  “Can do.”

  “Yes,” she said “You can. And I can. But unless she learns to stop troubling the waters…” She shook her head.

  “Is she new to the brigade?” I asked. “I don’t remember meeting her before.”

  “Relatively new,” Caroline said. “She comes from a small West Virginia town that was devastated by the mining industry, economically and environmentally. Can’t remember if she was part of the Toad Wars expedition or if she joined up right afterward, but she’s definitely passionate about evil mining companies. A little obsessive, really, but that’s understandable, given how much her family has suffered. But don’t get her started on it. And don’t let her run people ragged. She has a tendency to forget we’re all volunteers.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” I said.

  I waited until Caroline had hitched her caravan up behind her horse—an enormous, placid Percheron who seemed to make light of pulling the caravan—and waved good-bye as Michael, Natalie, and the boys set out on a horse-drawn tour of town. Then I went in search of Stanley.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “I think someone doesn’t like us,” he said. “And I think maybe I’m glad I’m planning to get away from here for the afternoon. Going down to Richmond.”

  “For anything exciting?” I asked.

  “I thought I’d do a little more checking on Mr. Weaver’s business interests,” he said. “And also find out a little about your grandmother’s life when she was there. It needs doing, and it will keep me out of Chief Heedles’s hair for a while. And you?”

  “I thought I’d go into town and check out the library,” I said.

  “Good idea,” he said. “The more we know about the town and the cast of characters the better.”

  “Any chance you could do some research on what people and companies Grandfather has ticked off recently, and whether any of them have any connection to Riverton?” I asked. “I could try from the library, but in a small town like this—”

  “They might learn we’re looking for them before we actually find them. Can do. You concentrate on the family angle.”

  I started up the Twinmobile and headed into town myself, passing the caravan almost as soon as I hit the main road.

  Considering the small size of the town, I was favorably impressed with the Riverton Public Library. It occupied what had obviously once been a large Victorian-era house—in fact almost a mansion. And not the only mansion in town, though most now seemed to be broken up into apartments or offices. Clearly at some point Riverton had been a lot more prosperous than it was now—sometime between the Civil War and World War I, to judge by the vintage of the mansions. I wondered how the owners had made their fortunes and where it had all gone. F
inding out wasn’t going to solve Cordelia’s murder—if it was murder—but it might help me understand her life. And Stanley had said that the more we knew about the town, the better able we’d be to solve this. I scribbled “research town history—affluence?” in my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe and focused on the task at hand.

  I strolled into the library and over to the information desk. A smiling, sixtyish woman looked up when she heard my footsteps. And then her mouth fell open in surprise.

  “Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed, and then put both hands over her mouth for a moment. “You absolutely have to be a Lee!”

  Chapter 11

  Stanley was right—my face was a pretty good passport here in Riverton.

  “A distant cousin of Miss Annabel Lee.” I offered my hand. “Meg Langslow.”

  “Anne Murphy,” she said, shaking my hand with enthusiasm. “Call me Anne. I knew it as soon as I saw you. You do favor her a bit. And you’re a dead ringer for her late cousin, poor Ms. Delia, when she was younger.”

  “So I gathered,” I said. “I’ll have to take your word for it. I never met Delia.”

  “What a pity,” she said. “If you and Miss Annabel are related on her father’s side, then Ms. Delia would also have been a cousin. Her father and Judge Lee, Annabel’s father, were brothers, and the judge raised Ms. Delia after her father died when she was still in grade school.”

  Strange and rather frustrating that almost any citizen of Riverton knew more about my grandmother’s life than I did. Then again, Anne was a librarian, and thus possessed of almost mysterious powers of information gathering, so she didn’t count as just any citizen.

  “I’m hoping to find out all about that,” I said. “So far I’ve only just got my foot in the front door.”

  Anne was frowning in puzzlement.

  “Long story,” I said. “Our branches of the family lost touch decades ago, and I’m trying to reestablish cordial relations. Which isn’t easy with someone I’m told is the town recluse.”

  “Oh, my, yes.” Anne was shaking her head sympathetically. “Your project would have been so much easier when Ms. Delia was alive.”