There are four kinds of homicide; felonious,
excusable, justifiable, and praiseworthy.
—Ambrose Bierce
Chapter Six
The wild threnody of the storm continued through the night and into the next morning. Chloe knew that she wouldn’t get any work done that day, but nevertheless rose dutifully to make first breakfast, since with Claude gone there wasn’t likely to be a second sitting.
She found MacGregor and Rory already seated at the table. MacGregor wasn’t eating, preferring to inhale the steam rising from his coffee and perhaps divine meaning in the fragrant clouds that floated there. The news from the spirit world that morning couldn’t have been good; he looked far too grim and weary.
Chloe glanced at Rory’s dark face and then checked the chandelier above the table. The overhead lights were on, but the atmosphere in the parlor was so thick with gloom that she felt she was personally wading through the sticky black morass of MacGregor’s lingering hangover.
Rory managed a preoccupied smile and word of greeting as she headed for the sideboard, but MacGregor, chin on chest, never broke his rapt communion with his pained, inner self. Apparently, he really did have the mother of all hangovers since he was still suffering thirty-six hours after the offense. Chloe made an effort to walk softly and not rattle the dishes.
“Are you going into work today?” she asked Rory, more to make conversation than out of any real curiosity. She kept her voice soft and low.
“I’ll have to,” Rory said unhappily. “We had a break-in.”
“Last night?” She turned and stared. The previous night fell into that category of not being “a fit night out for man nor beast.” It didn’t seem a likely time for a burglary at the back end of nowhere.
“Or perhaps the night before.” Rory shrugged. “It was in the outbuilding where we keep the mossed pots. Everything is on timers. No one has been out there since the day you visited.”
“Is it very bad?” she asked sympathetically. For Rory, having his business robbed would be as bad—and maybe worse—than having his home invaded.
“There was apparently a bit of vandalism. I’ll know more when I’ve been in.” Rory looked at his father. His expression was strange and she couldn’t guess at its meaning.
“Oh no! I’m so sorry.” Even as Chloe sympathized with the news, half of her brain was on MacGregor. No wonder Rory was staring. MacGregor didn’t react at all to the revelation that someone had invaded Patrick property. Perhaps he was already aware of it and had ranted himself out, but such calm acceptance coming so quickly was out of character. It would have been more normal for him to be blustering and waving a shotgun, demanding that the sheriff make an immediate arrest.
“But it was only pots that were damaged?” Chloe asked carefully, wondering if Rory was holding back worse details so as to not upset his father. She took a muffin and returned to the table. Her own appetite wasn’t at its best that morning. Storms often left her feeling stupid and sluggish, and today she was feeling especially mollusk-brained and unable to read the underlying emotional currents that eddied about the table. Maybe the ozone in the air was jamming her brain waves.
“Just pots,” he said reassuringly, but his eyes again flicked over his father’s slumped form. “It was probably some kids messing around. I’d have let it go, but the sheriff’s already been called out and is taking all the employees’ fingerprints. A little later, he’ll come by here and—”
“I don’t want that busybody here,” MacGregor said, rousing himself from his stupor. He raised his head to glare at them with sunset-colored eyes. Chloe was shocked at how haggard he looked. The sybaritic, bluff MacGregor had aged a decade overnight and looked on the verge of the coronary Rory had been worrying about.
“But he must take your and Chloe’s prints so that he can eliminate—”
“Fine. But we’ll go to the gardens with you. I don’t want strangers on the property right now.”
“As you like,” Rory said quickly, also noticing his father’s drawn appearance. “But we’ll need to go soon, or Bell will come calling.”
“I’ll set the dogs on him,” MacGregor snarled, showing more of his usual spirit.
“We don’t have any dogs,” Rory said witheringly, also reverting to form. Chloe found the bickering a change for the better, but still didn’t enjoy it.
“Why the hell not?” MacGregor demanded. “We used to have dogs!”
Chloe sighed softly and pushed away her barely touched muffin. Patricks! They made everything so hard! She couldn’t fathom why she liked them.
“Let’s get this over with,” she said, rising. Knowing that she risked being rebuffed, she still went over to MacGregor’s chair and offered him a companionable hand.
He stared blankly for a moment and then took her outstretched palm. He squeezed the fingers lightly and then let go. She could feel Rory’s eyes on them.
“Don’t worry, girl. I’m fine. No need for fussin’.” MacGregor shoved back his chair and rose with something like his normal vigor. He marched for the door. “Just couldn’t sleep last night with all that damned thunderin’. And when I did sleep I had bad dreams.”
“I could be bounded in a nutshell and still count myself the king of infinite space, were it not for the fact that I dream.” Wasn’t that what Shakespeare had said? Chloe couldn’t stop a small shiver from coursing down her body.
“It was a real loud storm,” she agreed tactfully to MacGregor’s back. “You don’t usually get them this early in the season, do you?”
“Not often.” MacGregor clomped toward the hall. “Made Roger nervous too. The bloody fool howled his head off all night long. I finally had to shut him up in one of the guest bedrooms.”
“Claude’s room?” Rory asked, opening the front door, and a wave of damp air rolled in. The rain fell steadily, but already the temperature was beginning to climb.
“Yes.” MacGregor paused to look at his son. “I believe it was.”
Chloe had the impression that Rory intended to say something else about either the cat or Claude, but changed his mind at the last moment.
“Wait on the porch and I’ll fetch the van,” he told them. “No point in you two getting wet.”
Rory sprinted off into the rain before they could answer.
It took Rory a moment to pull the van around to the portico, and it gave him time to think. He’d been in a sort of shock since Dave had called and told him about discovering the break-in. Often an entire week would pass without anyone going into those outbuildings. It was simply bad luck that one of Rory’s newest employees had discovered the break-in before he did and had called the sheriff.
Suspecting what he did about the identity of the clumsy culprit, he wasn’t thrilled that nosy Sheriff Bell had been called out to investigate. It was unlikely that the incompetent lawman would discover anything about the break-in, but one never knew when he might actually stumble onto some uncomfortable fact or another. And anytime Claude was in the area, the possibility of there being some uncomfortable facts to discover grew immensely.
There hadn’t been any mention of blood at the scene, but it wouldn’t be surprising if there were. It would have been a logical place for MacGregor to cut himself—if he was in fact the one who had broken in. There were other likely parties with as good a motive. Claude might be stupid enough to look for cash out at the greenhouses. Hell, Claude would do it out of sheer meanness.
But Claude was gone. It couldn’t have been him. Not if the break-in happened last night.
“Damn.” Rory didn’t know what to think. MacGregor had flatly refused to let himself be examined for wounds, saying he was unhurt. He claimed that he had drawn a complete blank about the night of his bender—which was possible, of course, but Rory didn’t believe him. MacGregor had drunk himself blind on several occasions since his wife’s death and had always been able to cheerfully recall every drunken peccadillo. It was more likely that MacGregor had seen or heard or done
something upsetting and used whisky as a palliative after the fact.
The burning question, of course, was just what his father had witnessed that so upset him. Rory could think of one thing, and he prayed it wasn’t what MacGregor was drinking over.
On the other hand, this vandalism wasn’t MacGregor’s usual style. He had never attacked the nursery. Truly, Rory had thought that MacGregor was actually proud of what his son had built. Proud that his son wasn’t some dilettante leech living off the family money.
But, of course, this only led straight back to the subject of leeches. . . .
If Claude hadn’t gone from the scene on Monday morning, Rory would have suspected him of being the perpetrator of this midnight high jinx. It was definitely Claude’s style: petty and stupid. But if Claude and Isaac had been up half the night raising hell at the local tavern, they would never have been able to pull themselves out of bed at dawn and head out to perpetrate more mischief.
And, of course, they couldn’t have done anything later, not after they were gone. And they were gone. As MacGregor had pointed out, the sheriff would have heard if Claude were still in the area. He wasn’t popular in town.
No, it seemed most likely that MacGregor had had a blow-up with Claude and made it plain that he wasn’t giving him any money—at least not twenty thousand dollars. Nothing was missing from the checking account and MacGregor didn’t keep that much cash at the house. And then, feeling mean and angry that his son hadn’t been there to deal with Claude after he had promised to be home for dinner, MacGregor had tied one on and gone up to the nursery to smash some things. That’s where he’d cut his arm, or maybe his leg, and bled on the cemetery key he always kept in his pocket. Then on the way back home, he had gotten to feeling guilty about what he’d done and had gone into the graveyard to talk to Rory’s mom and receive forgiveness, leaving some of his blood behind.
It was all very understandable, if you knew MacGregor. But there was no way on God’s green earth that Rory was going to explain this possibility to that gossipmonger, Sheriff Acton Bell. The only thing to do was to get rid of him as immediately as possible before he came around making more trouble at Riverview and accidentally found something. More than ever, he didn’t want Bell near the cemetery. There was too much uncovered at present to allow anyone in. And Bell would make trouble for them out of sheer, jealous spite: The envious boy who had gone to school with Rory hadn’t outgrown his hatred of the gentry.
Rory pulled up to the porte cochere and leaned over to open the passenger door. Chloe Smith was standing beside his father, watching him with obvious concern and puzzlement in those beautiful blueberry eyes.
Their bright little photographer was yet another unknown commodity. She was observant, curious and smart as paint. He wondered how long it would take her to put things together, and what she might do when she figured out at least part of what was going on. She’d try to salvage MacGregor, most likely. Try to make him see the error of his ways.
It was in their favor, he thought coolly, that she felt protective of MacGregor. As long as she believed silence to be in his best interest, she would not talk to the sheriff about anything she turned up.
Chloe was shocked at how much the vines that lined the road had grown in the space of a day. She knew that scientific study had shown that plants grew forty percent faster during a rain event. And in some cases, with heat and an aggressive species the numbers probably went up even higher. But in the space of just two days, the honeysuckle and creeper had grown out onto the road far enough that they were flattening it with the van’s tires as they drove by. They might have been driving into an equatorial jungle rather than a commercial nursery in Virginia. If this kept up, the Munsons would have to work full time shearing back the new growth in the cemetery so she could get her photos. Perhaps it was time to bring in some power tools—-if MacGregor would permit them in the silent sanctuary.
The two Patricks were quiet during the ride, and didn’t make comment even when they arrived at Botanics and had a brief look at the small pane of glass that had been broken in the greenhouse door so someone could unfasten the bolt. Chloe didn’t stop to examine the damage. She was more interested in getting out of the damp, enervating air, and into the gentle moving breeze of the climate-controlled greenhouse.
A small man with a birdlike gait came hopping over to greet them as they stepped inside the hot-house. He was in uniform and wore a star which proclaimed him sheriff. He was followed by a small cloud of gnats.
“Mornin’, Mr. Patrick. Mornin’, Rory.” The bright little eyes finally fastened on her. The man’s ratlike face didn’t go well with the beautiful strains of La Traviata that filled the room. “And you must be Miss Chloe.”
“How do you do?” she muttered conventionally, when MacGregor failed to answer and Rory wandered away to look at the damage to the yogurt-dipped terra-cotta.
The little man stuck his paw out. It was far from clean and the gesture seemed aggressive, a test of some sort. She didn’t want to accept his grimed digits, but good manners triumphed and she offered her own hand for a brief shake.
The sheriff clasped her fingers tight and wrung them like he was squeezing lemonade from a thick rind. Fortunately, he darted off after Rory before her joints cracked or she was called upon to make any further conversation. The gnats, fortunately, went with him.
“Officious bastard,” MacGregor muttered, his brows beetling in an alarming manner.
“That may be so, but for goodness’s sake, be polite,” Chloe pleaded. “I want to get out of here as quickly as possible.”
MacGregor blinked as though only just recalling her presence.
“Of course, you do, girl. Bell!” MacGregor raised his voice. “Come get your prints from Miss Chloe and me. We haven’t got all day.”
“Certainly. Ellis, James,” Bell shouted at the deputies across the room. He waved irritably at the gnats. “Come take some sample prints from Mister Patrick and Miss Chloe.”
Deputy Ellis was beanpole thin and a collection of jutting elbow and knee joints that flexed oddly when he walked, but he was efficient at taking their prints and didn’t bother them with a lot of idle chatter. While the deputy went about his work, Chloe watched the sheriff talking with Rory. He reminded her of a yapping terrier, circling around a larger animal and just looking for the right place to get in a nip.
The sheriff was as brown as a walnut, and after a few minutes of listening to his conversation, Chloe was convinced that he was about as dumb as one too. He did ask a number of questions of them, but they were largely unrelated to the break-in, and she could see why MacGregor called him a busybody. The creature was a gossip of the highest degree and obviously collecting material to share with the coffee-shop crowd. Under other circumstances—like, if this were happening to someone she disliked—she would find the lawman amusing. But she was too caught up with the Patricks and their precious cemetery to find the sheriff anything but annoying.
Chloe wondered which of Rory’s employees had summoned the sheriff; ten minutes in the same room with Rory and Bell had her certain that most of Rory’s staff would never have called the inquisitive oldster to investigate the trespass and minor vandalism without permission. A couple of pots had been knocked over. If there hadn’t been a tiny bit of blood spattered on the broken glass of the door, there wouldn’t be anything to investigate. She was convinced that the exercise of taking everyone’s prints was just that—an exercise meant to annoy, and to demonstrate the sheriff’s power. There wouldn’t be any usable prints left on the rough, mossy pots.
“The Creator must love idiots,” MacGregor muttered at her side. “He makes so many of them.”
Chloe coughed into her hand. Then, seeing the ink stains on her fingertips, she dug in her bag for a sanitary wipe. It wasn’t her favorite product packaging to flash in mixed company, but she knew from experience with bleeding pens in shirt pockets that it would get the ink off.
“Here.” She handed the smudgy to
welette to MacGregor after hiding the wrapper.
She stepped closer to the deputies, attempting to overhear their conversation.
“So they had his pants down and his groin taped before you could say Hail Mary.” The one called James dug at his ear with his little finger.
“Poor Tom,” Ellis answered. Then he turned her way. Both men stared.
“Your friend plays football?” Chloe guessed, disappointed that they weren’t talking about the break-in.
“Hell, no. He’s an accountant,” James answered. He looked her up and down, his finger still in his ear. The look stopped just short of being offensive, but Chloe couldn’t take it as a compliment. He wasn’t looking at her as though sizing up a criminal but rather as if trying to decide if she would look good in a wet T-shirt contest or at a monster truck rally.
“An accountant? Well, it’s a more dangerous field than I’d guess.”
Ellis answered: “He does sometimes play golf.”
MacGregor joined them.
“Let’s go. Rory, are you through? Chloe and I are leaving.” MacGregor swiped at his hands in an ineffectual manner and then gave the used paper back to her. Chloe sighed and crumpled it up in her hand.
Rory looked up. Chloe could see him making some quick mental calculations. Guessing his cause for concern, she said: “I’ll drive.”
“Thanks.” He came over and handed her the keys. He glanced at his father, then added: “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
She stared at him.
“Is there any great rush?” she asked, and watched a brief stain crawl over his cheeks. She thought this was anger and not embarrassment, and felt more baffled than ever. This situation was annoying, but not worth genuine rage.
“No, of course not. I was just thinking that you might need a hand with the equipment today if . . .” He trailed off as a particularly fearsome squall began pounding on the roof with watery fists. “Guess not. Okay, I’ll stay here for a while then and get this sorted out. If this storm clears up, I’ll come back and lend you a hand with the cameras.”
Writ on Water Page 12
