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

by Donna Andrews

  Still brooding on the unfairness of life, I drifted to the back of the living room, where the back wall was entirely made up of several sets of large, rough plywood doors—retrofitted closets perhaps? No, apparently they led out into the backyard.

  Correction: out onto the back terrace, a wide flagstone area surrounded with a low stone wall, offering one of the most spectacular views I’d ever seen. The plywood doors had clearly replaced what was once a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows.

  “We really are on a mountain,” I murmured. The terrace had a hundred-and-eighty-degree view of the surrounding countryside, all the hills and valleys sloping away beneath me, mostly dense woods interrupted with occasional pastures, all the way to the town of Riverton, nestled at the bottom of the valley like a toy village beneath a Christmas tree.

  “Okay,” I said aloud. “All is forgiven. This is magical enough.”

  A pity the previous occupant hadn’t left behind a few chairs or benches. I sat down on the wall that surrounded the terrace and drank in the scenery.

  Below and to my right, I could see the first of the emu hunters fanning out through the meadow. A little farther to the left, Rose Noire was picking her way across a sort of rocky scree, bent almost double so she could scan the rocks beneath her. As I watched she pounced on something and held it up—something that glittered white and silver in the sunlight. Probably a quartz crystal. I couldn’t quite share her excitement at finding yet another pretty bit of quartz—she must have a ton of the stuff back home—but it made her happy. Or maybe she was finding more of the blue stuff she’d showed me back at camp.

  “Mommy, look!” Josh came running out, waving an emu feather.

  “Look what I found!” Jamie, also carrying a feather.

  “Have they found the emus, then?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” Michael said. “But evidently they left some feathers behind in the barn.”

  “Mine is longer,” Josh said.

  “Mine is more prettier,” Jamie countered.

  “Just prettier,” I said. “Not more prettier. And they’re both very nice. Come look at the view.”

  The boys marveled at the view, and we got them settled in with their small but powerful binoculars—a gift from my father, who was hoping to inspire the boys to share his love of birding. They alternated between watching the emu trackers and scanning the hillsides, hoping to spot emus themselves.

  The binoculars kept the boys busy for a whole half hour. Rock hunting with Rose Noire proved more absorbing, especially since the shallow, pebble-covered slope where she was working also offered a rich variety of insects and lizards.

  “This should keep them busy till lunchtime,” I said. “Mind if I take off and get a few things done back in town?”

  “Fine with me,” Michael said. “We’ll call if we can’t hitch a ride back to town with someone.”

  When I climbed back up to the house, I found that Grandfather had taken up a post on the terrace, though he didn’t seem to be enjoying the view as much as I had. He was studying the landscape beneath him through binoculars and growling sporadically. His bodyguards stood at either end of the terrace, starting and scowling whenever anyone came near.

  “We’re not seeing any signs of the emus,” Caroline murmured.

  “I’m sure it’s only a matter of time,” I said.

  “It’s only a matter of time before I heave his cantankerous carcass over the side of the terrace,” she said.

  I decided it was a good thing I was leaving.

  Driving back solo was a lot faster than the trip up. As I cruised slowly toward the center of town, I tried to think where I could accomplish my first mission—making those phone calls for Annabel.

  Downtown Riverton was remarkably quiet, and none of the businesses looked open. Of course, they hadn’t looked all that lively yesterday, but today you could have used the whole area around the town square to film one of those post-apocalyptic science fiction B-movies where most of the human race has been wiped out and the few survivors would spend the next hour and a half battling invaders from outer space or giant mutant cockroaches.

  I spotted Chief Heedles’s blue sedan pulling into a parking space in front of a tree-shaded brick building. Perfect. She’d probably know where there was a pay phone, if such a thing still existed. I had the feeling they still might in Riverton. And maybe I could get her into conversation about Cordelia’s murder, as Stanley had suggested. I pulled into the slot next to her. She spotted me and waited on the steps of the building—which, as I now noticed, was the police station.

  “Afternoon,” she said, as I got out of my car. “Were you looking for me?”

  “Not specifically,” I said. “But when I saw you I realized you could probably tell me where I can find a working pay phone. Or a kind soul willing to let me make a couple of calls. My cell phone’s still out.”

  “Everyone’s cell phones are still out,” she said. “Last night’s storm took out power all over town and the cell towers aren’t back up yet. But we have some land lines at the station that were still working when I left. Are these local calls?”

  “Not sure.” I pulled out my notebook and glanced at the numbers Stanley and Annabel had given me. “Both toll-free numbers actually.”

  “That’s fine, then.”

  She led the way up the steps. The station’s front door was propped open. Just inside, at the desk, was a trim, middle-aged black woman whose tan uniform still looked surprisingly well-pressed in spite of the heat and humidity. She was fanning herself with an old-fashioned cardboard church fan.

  “You doing okay?” the chief asked.

  “Hanging in there.” She handed the chief a small stack of pink WHILE YOU WERE OUT slips.

  “Thanks,” Heedles said, patting the woman on the shoulder. Then she led the way back to her office and pointed to the phone on her desk.

  “I don’t want to tie up your line,” I said. “I want to make those calls, but neither is urgent.”

  “It’ll give me a chance to triage these,” she said, waving the message slips as she sat down in her battered leather desk chair.

  And a chance to eavesdrop on my conversations, I thought, as I sat down in one of her guest chairs and reached for the phone. But it wasn’t as if either call was private.

  The generator installation company was, understandably, swamped with both requests for new generators and service calls on existing ones, but promised to come out as soon as they could. Stanley’s security expert promised to be out the next day, but wasn’t sure how much he could get done if Miss Annabel didn’t have power.

  The chief looked up from her stack of message slips when I’d finished my second call.

  “Miss Annabel feeling nervous all of a sudden?” she asked.

  “Wouldn’t you if someone tried to poison you?” I asked. “Not to mention the fact that she’s got dozens of strange people in her backyard, any one of whom could have done the poisoning as far as she knows. I wanted to get the contractors out there before she changed her mind.”

  “Sensible,” she said. “She’s pretty far out of town, and there’s only so often my officers can cruise by. Anything else I can do for you?”

  “No,” I said. “Unless you have any inside scoop on when the power’s coming back.”

  She shook her head. Then she just sat there, waiting for me to speak, holding the message slips in her hand.

  “Then I should let you get back to your work.” I took my time stowing my notebook back in my purse. I was trying to think of a way to start a conversation about Cordelia’s murder, but she didn’t make it easy. “And thanks again for letting me use your phone,” I said, as I stood up. “As I said, it wasn’t an emergency, but I did want to be able to tell Miss Annabel that I’d made those calls.”

  “And you have to keep Miss Annabel happy if you don’t want to lose your campground,” the chief said. “I understand that. At least you have her to deal with, not Ms. Delia.”

  “You didn�
��t like Ms. Delia?” I asked.

  “I liked her fine,” she said. “Even if she was a bit bossy. Miss Annabel is just much easier to deal with. At least she was before her agoraphobia or anthrophopobia or whatever it is got so bad. She was always the mellow one.”

  “Good grief,” I said. “If Annabel’s the mellow one, Cordelia must really have been something.”

  “She was a pistol all right,” the chief said, with a chuckle. “But she always did a lot for the town, so people would overlook it if she was a bit high-handed.”

  “High-handed?” I echoed.

  “There was a time when the Lees and a couple of other families pretty much ran this town.” The chief leaned back, clasped her hands behind her head, and stretched out her legs so that I could see the toe of one sturdy work shoe beneath the bottom of her desk. “And sometimes it did seem as if she and Miss Annabel thought they still should be running it.”

  “For example?” I asked.

  “For example—the old emu ranch. The land used to belong to their family—eighty years ago. Some of the locals used to work up there, making bits of pottery for the Lee family.”

  Bits of pottery? I nodded, but it seemed to me that she was trying to downplay the importance of the pottery works. Or had the book, written by a Lee, exaggerated when it said that half the town had once been employed there?

  “That’s an interesting fact,” the chief went on. “An interesting bit of town history. But it doesn’t give them any more rights than anyone else to the property now.”

  “Do they seem to think it does?” I asked.

  “Ms. Delia was in a high dudgeon about the bank’s refusal to sell her the property,” she said. “Not sure the bank agreed with her about the importance of having a museum to her family history.”

  “I thought she wanted it for a sanctuary for the emus,” I said.

  “That, too,” she said. “An emu sanctuary on the land, and a pottery museum in the old house. I’m not saying those are bad ideas. If they’re willing to pay what the bank wants for the land, they can do what they like with it. But if they can’t pay the freight, they don’t get to boss the rest of the town around.”

  “According to what Miss Annabel said, it wasn’t a question of not paying what the bank asked,” I said. “The bank wouldn’t even talk to them about selling.”

  “No law says they have to,” she said, with a shrug. “Maybe the bank’s got other plans for the land. Not sure what, though. I remember when they first repossessed the land, they sent a geologist up there to see if there were any minerals worth mining, but nothing ever came of it.”

  “Maybe they hope to sell it to a developer for a resort or something,” I suggested.

  “You think that’s a possibility?” She sounded surprised, and not displeased at the idea.

  “The place has a million-dollar view,” I said. “But still—doesn’t seem likely to me. Maybe the bank thinks differently.”

  “Doesn’t seem likely to me, either,” she said. “More’s the pity. The town could use the jobs. And it’s not as if a Lee Family Museum would do much for the tourist trade.”

  “You never know,” I said. “The Biscuit Mountain Pottery Works was famous. Still is to pottery collectors. People pay hundreds of dollars for some of those little bits of pottery.”

  “Seriously?” The idea seemed to unsettle her.

  “Seriously. Check it out on eBay.”

  “I just may do that,” she said. “My mama’s got an attic full of the stuff. A lot of her family used to work there, back in the day. Maybe she could earn a little mad money by selling it.”

  “If she has an attic full, she might be able to put her grandkids through college by selling it,” I said. “And did you know the Lees were among the first potters in America to make porcelain in addition to stoneware? Maybe the museum wasn’t such a crazy idea after all. You could turn the place into a tourist site. Get some potters working up there in Colonial era costumes. You know how big historical tourism is in Virginia.”

  “Good point,” she said. “Maybe Ms. Delia had something there after all. But with her gone, I don’t think any of that’s likely to happen. Not unless Miss Annabel finds someone else to help her with it. A very nice lady, Miss Annabel, but Ms. Delia was the mover and shaker. With her gone…”

  Her voice trailed off and she shook her head.

  “Speaking of Ms. Delia’s death,” I said.

  “Death,” she said. “Not murder? I thought you shared Miss Annabel’s belief that I’m a lazy, incompetent investigator who is ignoring irrefutable evidence that her cousin was murdered by one Theophilus Herodotus Weaver.”

  She didn’t sound angry. Maybe a little sarcastic. I wondered if she’d have reacted more strongly if Stanley had been here.

  “I share her concern that we find out exactly what happened to Cordelia,” I said. “I don’t have any preconceived notion that it was murder, or who’s responsible if it was.”

  “But Miss Annabel does,” she said. “On both counts.”

  “Miss Annabel doesn’t think what she saw could have been caused by a kerosene lamp igniting gasoline vapor,” I said.

  “Neither do I,” she said. “As I’ve tried to tell her more than once. It’s a little hard to get the point across shouting through a heavy wooden door.”

  “Then what do you think happened?” I asked.

  “I think someone whacked Ms. Delia over the head, poured gasoline over her dead or unconscious body, and set her on fire,” she said.

  I was speechless for a few moments.

  “So you think it was murder?” I asked.

  “I know it was murder.”

  “No chance of an accident?” I persisted. “Like if she spilled gasoline while filling the generator and it caught on fire?”

  “No chance of an accident,” Chief Heedles said. “Because there was no reason at all for Ms. Delia to be pouring gasoline out there. It was a propane generator.”

  She let that settle in for a while. She seemed to be enjoying my astonishment.

  “But if you knew it was murder—”

  “Why didn’t I arrest anyone?” She shook her head. “No evidence. I know what happened, more or less. Someone hit her over the head. The medical examiner found traces of the blow on her skull. And then someone poured gasoline on her and set her on fire. Samples we took at the scene can prove that. But there’s no evidence at all to indicate who did it.”

  “You never explained this to Miss Annabel?”

  “She’s never given me the chance,” she said. “And I doubt she’d have listened if I did, because she’s convinced Theo Weaver is the killer. And even if I agreed with her on that, what good would that do me? I have no evidence. No sane DA would take the case to court. No jury would convict.”

  “So there’s nothing you can do?” I asked.

  “Nothing except what I’m already doing,” she said. “Keeping my ears and eyes open. If it was murder, the killer will brag about it sooner or later, when he thinks he’s gotten away with it. Or his suddenly ex-girlfriend will waltz in here and tell me about the night he came home, reeking of gasoline, with his eyebrows scorched off. Or something that belonged to Ms. Delia will turn up in a pawn shop. It’s a small town. Something like that happens, I’ll hear about it.”

  “And if it happens, you’ll reopen the case?”

  “I haven’t actually closed the case,” she said. “And I won’t. You can tell Miss Annabel that. But I’m not going to arrest Mr. Weaver on her say-so. Knowing he and Ms. Delia hated each other’s guts makes me want to keep an eye on him, but it doesn’t give me grounds to arrest him. If anything untoward ever happened to Mr. Weaver, Miss Annabel might appreciate that.”

  “There is the fact that she reports seeing him flee the scene.”

  “Do you have any idea how unreliable eyewitness testimony is?” the chief asked. “No sane prosecutor goes into court with nothing but a single eyewitness. Especially if your eyewitness is an elderly lad
y with bad eyesight who saw a fleeing figure from half a football field away. Saw it by firelight and moonlight, and was probably in a state of panic already. And on top of it all, she had a known grudge against the person she claims to have seen. The defense attorney would tear her apart.”

  I nodded, conceding her point.

  “Look,” she said. “The case isn’t closed. But it’s not going anywhere right now, because I’ve already done what little I can do, and found nothing. Maybe you’ll get lucky—you, or that PI you hired. Either of you comes up with even a shred of evidence I can use, I’d appreciate seeing it.”

  “Speaking of evidence, what happened with the LED headlight I found out in the field behind Miss Annabel’s house?”

  “We sent it down to Richmond to see if they could get any evidence off of it. Which I hate to say is probably a waste of money. Those things are a dime a dozen around here.”

  She opened one of her desk drawers and pulled out two little headlights that looked identical to Miss Annabel’s.

  “Ms. Delia was the one who introduced these things,” she said. “But these days, everyone in town uses them. Hardware store stocks them by the case. But we’ll see what the crime lab can do with the one you found.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Thanks for your time.”

  “Thank you for yours,” she said.

  I had the distinct and not unpleasant feeling that having this conversation had been on her to-do list as well as mine.

  A thought occurred to me.

  “Just one more thing,” I said. “Is it true you’ve given your officers orders to shoot the emus on sight?”

  “I see you’ve been talking to Mr. Weaver,” she said. “No, it most definitely is not true. It is true that he has asked me to do so on more than one occasion. And that I told him I’d take his request under advisement. If he’s clueless enough to think that means I agree with him…” She shrugged.