I nodded.
“Anyway, that’s all I can think of,” I said. “At least right now. It’s still way too early for me to be coherent.”
“I’ll be around if you remember anything else. Can you set me up with a room for interviewing people?”
“Cordelia’s office would probably work well,” I said. “I’ll let her know so she can get you a key. And I bet you’ll want to talk to a bunch of people.”
“Starting with all of the ones you mentioned as having had the more memorable recent conflicts with the deceased.”
“Nigel Howe, Dianne Willowdale, Jacquelynn Morris, Tad Jackson, Greg Dorance, and Faulkner Cates. And George Sims, of course—he wasn’t exactly in much conflict with Terence but they’d worked together before, so he might be able to shed more light on his character than the rest of us. More than I can, anyway. He actually seemed to like Terence and find his pranks funny, which might make him a refreshing change. And Michael and Cordelia. And—”
“See which of those first seven you can find for starters,” she said. “I’ll stay and keep an eye on the crime scene. Got a few more officers coming, and a few volunteers I can deputize to help keep the site secure, but they’re still en route.”
“I’ll make sure the gate knows to admit them,” I said.
“Thanks—although I think most of them will come round the back way.”
“Back way?”
“Yes—a dirt road that circles around just outside Cordelia’s property. Passes by about a hundred yards in that direction.” She pointed in what I was pretty sure was the opposite direction from the main house. “That’s how I got here—good call, setting up the lantern—that made finding you a breeze.”
“Dad’s doing,” I said. “So that’s what Cordelia meant by taking the logging road.”
“Yes. Anyway, I gave directions for most of the officers to come up that way.”
“Cool,” I said. “I wonder if the presence of the road has anything to do with finding Terence’s body here. I mean, was he killed here or dumped here?”
She frowned slightly and turned toward where Dad, Horace, and the local M.E. were at work. Their discussion seemed to have moved on from rigor mortis to livor mortis.
“Have you been able to determine if he was killed here or merely left here?” the chief called out.
“We can’t be absolutely sure until we have him on the autopsy table,” the M.E. said.
“That’s right,” Dad said. “Although the livor mortis does seem to suggest that he was probably killed here. But that’s only a preliminary finding.”
“I haven’t seen anything so far to suggest he was killed elsewhere,” Horace said. “There’s a fair amount of blood here—although not as much as we’d see if the dagger hadn’t acted as a sort of stopper.”
“We should absolutely wait till the autopsy to remove it,” the M.E remarked.
“And so far the pattern seems entirely consistent with him being stabbed.” Horace stood up and walked over to another tree about six feet away. “The way I see it, after being stabbed he staggered a bit, then fell back against the tree—” Horace reeled back against the new tree, demonstrating his theory.
“Yes,” Dad said. “Fell back or was pushed.”
“Then he slumped to the ground, and bled out in place.” Horace demonstrated, remaining sitting in in place with his eyes staring and his tongue sticking out.
Both Dad and the M.E. were nodding their agreement.
“But it’s early times yet.” Horace scrambled to his feet and brushed the leaf debris off the back of his pants. “So we’ll keep our eyes open for any sign that he was killed elsewhere.”
“In short, we’re probably not looking at a body dump,” the chief said, turning back to me. “Proximity to the road could be accidental.”
“Or maybe he was meeting someone here—someone who arrived via that road.”
“Someone who wasn’t staying here at Biscuit Mountain, in that case, since I gather most of the folks from out of town weren’t familiar with the road.”
“Yes.” I nodded. “At least, I wasn’t, and I suspect most people here at camp weren’t, but this close, anyone could have stumbled on it if they took a fancy to wandering around the woods.”
“Stumbling on it’s one thing,” she said. “Knowing where it leads and using it to set up an assignation … seems possible, but less likely, given that most of the people staying at Biscuit Mountain aren’t local.”
“True,” I said. “I have to say, I rather like the theory that the killer came from outside. But I could be biased.”
“It’s a point to keep in mind,” She scribbled a little more in her notebook.
“I’ll go see if I can round up any suspects.” I stood up.
“And I’ll head down to Cordelia’s office as soon as one of my officers gets here.”
I headed for Camp Anachronism, where I suspected the majority of the chief’s suspects—no, make that witnesses—would be still hanging about this early.
But all I found there were empty tents and a few stragglers hurrying off to breakfast, none of them on my witness list. Then again, it wasn’t all that early anymore. A lot of time had passed while we’d been waiting for the police to arrive, and then while I was briefing Chief Heedles. It was past eight. Most of the camp’s inhabitants would already have gone up to the main house for breakfast. Many of them would already be putting on their costumes or readying their shops for the opening bell.
I turned my steps toward the main house.
In the Great Hall Michael, already mostly in costume, appeared to be holding court, with a milling crowd of staff and performers gathered around him. When I drew closer I realized he was answering their questions about what was happening and spreading Cordelia’s orders for the day.
“So remember,” he was saying as I drew near, “don’t answer questions like that—not even if it’s from someone you know or at least know isn’t a reporter. You don’t have to be a reporter these days to spread a story around the world.”
“And if someone won’t take ‘no comment’ for an answer?” one of the jugglers asked.
“Send them to the press office. Yes, as of this morning, we have a press office—located in the office by the front gate and staffed by Meg, Cordelia, and me. If someone says they’re a reporter—or acts like one—send them to the press office and notify the three of us, and one of us will handle it.”
“But why are we trying to cover up the murder?” asked a tavern barmaid.
“We’re not trying to cover it up,” Michael said. “We’re following Chief Heedles’s orders to help protect the crime scene until her officers can process it. She has a very small department—I think only about a dozen officers—and they’re going to be stretched to the limit handling this on top of their regular duties. I expect she’s reaching out to the state police and neighboring counties for help, but it will take time for that help to get here. If word got out that there was a crime scene in the woods behind the Faire, do you think we have enough people to keep the tourists from stampeding over there to take pictures?”
“Selfies with the corpse,” someone said with a shudder. “Horrible.”
“And if anyone has any information that might be relevant to the murder, please speak up,” Michael added. “If you don’t see any police officers, tell me or Meg or Cordelia.”
He sounded tired—not surprising, given how early we’d been awakened. And tired of the words he was saying—I suspected he’d been repeating much the same points for quite a while now, starting with the first campers to stumble over to the main house for their caffeine fix, and now including not only the campers but also commuters—locals from Riverton and the few craftspeople and performers who’d opted to stay at nearby bed-and-breakfast establishments but still liked to start their day with a trip through the Biscuit Mountain’s legendary breakfast buffet.
“And now I’m going to have my breakfast,” he said, staring pointedly at one
of the jousters, who was eating a heavily buttered blueberry muffin while standing so close he was occasionally shedding crumbs on Michael’s black-and-red doublet.
The jouster backed away with an apologetic gesture. Michael stood and put an arm around my waist and we strolled toward the buffet line.
“Any interesting scoops?” he murmured into my ear.
“The murder weapon was probably one of those cheap knockoff knives the Bonny Blade sells.”
“Seriously? I wouldn’t have thought you could cut butter with one of those.”
“That’s what I told the chief.”
We then clammed up while we went through the buffet line. The servers were staff, and thus in theory sworn to secrecy—or at least discretion. Still, no sense adding to their temptation by making them privy to inside information.
When we sat down—uncharacteristically at a table in the far corner of the room, away from prying ears—Michael’s mind was still on the murder weapon.
“Hard to believe anyone would be stupid enough to attempt murder with a piece of junk from the Bonny Blade,” he mused. “And what a bad break for Terence that they actually succeeded. Although it should narrow down the chief’s suspect list quite a bit. It would take considerable strength to stab someone with a blade that dull.”
“Unless the killer sharpened it first,” I pointed out. “We won’t know about that until they take it out.”
“I’d have thought they’d have done that by now.”
“According to Horace, it’s acting as a stopper.” I could tell Michael didn’t like the image that conjured up any more than I had. “I assume removing would spill more blood on what is probably already a pretty complicated crime scene, so they’re waiting for the autopsy. And if you want any more details on that part of the case, let’s wait till after breakfast.”
“Agreed. Who are you looking for?”
He’d noticed me eyeing the crowd.
“People the chief wants to interview.”
“Suspects?”
“I think she’d prefer to stick to ‘persons of interest’ for the time being.”
“George, Jacks, Dianne, Nigel, and I are supposed to rendezvous outside the Dragon’s Claw at the opening bell to kick off today’s episode of the Game,” he said. “I expect they’re all on her list, so any of them you don’t catch beforehand…”
“I’ll let her know. And she’ll probably want to talk to you and Cordelia, of course. She’s going to use Cordelia’s office as her interview room—do you have time to set her up in there while I see who I can hunt down?”
“Can do.”
Chapter 18
Michael and I both bolted our breakfasts with a speed that did no justice to the quality of the food. Michael disappeared down the corridor that led to Cordelia’s office. I made the rounds of the various places where the persons of interest on my list might be lurking—the kitchen, the back terrace, the Great Hall, the costume shops.
The only one I found was Greg, the falconer. He wasn’t all that high on my personal suspect list, but he’d definitely had a loud public altercation with Terence the previous weekend. And perhaps more usefully, at least in my book, Greg was seriously worried that Terence would try to repeat whatever prank he’d played on the falcon. Whenever Terence got anywhere near Falconer’s Grove, you could be sure that Greg’s eye was on him. As a result, Greg might have noticed something useful. He took the news that the chief wanted to speak with him rather calmly.
“Ooh,” he said. “I get to help the police with their inquiries.”
“A lot of us will be doing that,” I said. “Starting with anyone known to have had a disagreement with him. Cordelia forgot to fill me in—just what was it Terence did last weekend that led to the quarrel?”
“I found him hanging around the mews after hours.” Greg’s expression darkened at the memory. “He had a fishing pole, and he was casting bits of meat tied to the line through the slats and then reeling them back out again. Not only was it driving the birds crazy, but if one of them had actually caught the bait and swallowed it, they could have been seriously injured.”
“What a jerk. You didn’t tell Grandfather about that, did you?”
“It never came up.” He frowned. “Wait—surely you don’t suspect your grandfather of killing him?”
“No, but if he knew Terence had done that, he’d be furious that the actual killer got to him first. Or at least got to him before Grandfather could deliver a tongue-lashing of epic proportions.”
“If it comes up, tell him I did my best.” Greg was grinning again. “In the tongue-lashing department, that is. I draw the line at homicide. Say, Terence wasn’t found with talon and beak marks all over his face, was he?”
“Like Tippi Hedren in The Birds? Not that I know of. So Harry and Gracie are off the hook.”
“Well, I never suspected Harry.” Greg shook his head with the bemused look he had whenever he talked about his junior bird. “He wouldn’t hold a grudge. But Gracie did. After Terence pulled that stunt with the fishing pole, I kept warning him to stay away from the Grove, and he paid no attention, until one time he was stupid enough to cruise by when she was off the tether, and she flew at him. He’s lucky he has good reflexes. They probably saved his eyesight.” His face fell. “Had good reflexes. Anyway. I’d be happy to talk to the police. Where should I go and when?”
“How about dropping by Cordelia’s office when you finish eating, and you can get it over with.”
“Can do.” He went back to devouring a large blueberry muffin and I left the dining room to continue my search outdoors.
I decided to make my way methodically through the Faire, up one winding lane and down the next—which was pretty much what the last hour before opening usually found me doing. Cordelia thought it was important for one of us to inspect everything, to see for ourselves that all the booths and tents and stands were making satisfactory progress toward being ready to open at ten, and most mornings I was the one who could find the time. But before the first weekend was out I’d realized that seeing was less important than being seen. If people had problems, questions, or suggestions, my morning rounds, as I called this pre-opening inspection, were the time they’d approach me with them—before they got caught up in the day’s activities, and before the tourists were around to eavesdrop. Even if I hadn’t needed to hunt down people for the chief to talk to, it was probably a good thing to be seen doing exactly what I’d normally be doing at this time of day—inspecting the Faire and scribbling notes in my leather-covered notebook.
My rounds also gave me the chance to assess the mood of the Faire. On the whole, pretty close to normal so far today—maybe even a little more upbeat than usual.
Not surprising. At this time of day, the weather had more than anything else to do with everyone’s mood, and the morning was bright, sunny, and not yet all that hot. Clouds were supposed roll later in the day, but if the weather apps were correct, they’d help keep temperatures down in the eighties, which was something to be thankful for during a Virginia summer, even here in the foothills of the Blue Ridge. And no rain in the forecast till after closing time. Good—nothing damped the participants’ cheer like the prospect of rain. After much debate, umbrellas had been declared an anachronism, which meant that everyone had to depend on cloaks, capes, and hats for protection against precipitation, and by the end of a rainy day the entire Faire smelled like a wet sheep.
Yes, the mood was upbeat, and everywhere things looked reassuringly normal. A couple of people approached me with questions about Terence’s murder. More people had questions about perfectly ordinary things. Had I made the arrangements for more frequent garbage pickups in the food service areas during peak eating hours? Had anyone told me about the leaky faucet in the women’s shower shed? Could we rearrange the food booths so people waiting in line for vegan salads and pilafs didn’t have to breathe the smoke from the frying Italian sausages? Was there any word about the tourist who’d been bitten yester
day by that pair of so-called emotional support Chihuahuas?
Okay, some of the questions were only normal at an event like the Faire. But at least they had nothing to do with Terence’s murder. A few people looked more solemn than usual—probably the ones who shared John Donne’s view that “any man’s death diminishes me.” Or maybe just the ones who realized what an immediate hassle to them and potential long-term threat to the Faire’s well-being the murder could be. But most people looked, if anything, pleasurably excited. It was very sad, of course, but the Muddy Beggar pegged it.
“It would be different if anyone thought the killer had picked a random victim and they could be the next target,” he said. “But even the people who didn’t really know Terence knew of him. They see a certain sense of … well, not quite justice…”
He frowned as he groped for the right word, pausing in the middle of pouring another bucket of water onto the spot where he planned to situate his main puddle for the day.
“Logic,” I suggested. “Or cause and effect.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Either of those would cover it. ‘How can anyone possibly kill another human being?’” he exclaimed, in a manner slyly reminiscent of Rose Noire. “‘The horror! The tragedy! The—oh, the victim was Terence? Well, I suppose that makes sense.’”
“Yeah, that works,” I said. “Carry on!”
“I need another bucket or two,” he said with a sigh. “If this dry spell persists, I might have to change into the Dusty Beggar.”
“Thunderstorms predicted tonight,” I said, which seemed to cheer him up.
I strolled on. Passing the green-and-yellow tent that held the Bonny Blade shop, I made sure to wish them a good morning in the same cheerful tone I used with everyone else, and tried not to stare at their glass-topped case full of daggers and stilettos. The chief hadn’t yet released any information about the murder weapon, much less its source.
Make that possible source. After all, I didn’t know for sure that the murder weapon had come from the Bonny Blade. Just about every Renaissance Faire or science fiction/fantasy convention had at least one vendor of cheap blade weapons, to say nothing of the dozens of online sites that sold them. Even if the Bonny Blade had sold the weapon, it wasn’t their fault the purchaser used it for nefarious purposes.
The Falcon Always Wings Twice Page 12
