“Reminds me of how my kid brother used to dawdle when he had to get ready for school,” Lenny said to me in a low tone. “But don’t worry—we should have him out of here in a few minutes. And maybe it’s a good thing most of the tourists will be gone by the time I kick him out.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“It’s going to take two of us, of course,” Lenny said, favoring O’Malley with a look of annoyance. “He’s too drunk to drive. Horace is going to run his car down, and I’m taking O’Malley in my cruiser and bringing Horace back.”
“Strange,” I said. “I could have sworn the mug he dropped at the forge was only tea.”
“Maybe the servers realized he was drunk and cut him off.”
Or maybe he was pretending to be too drunk to drive to give himself an excuse for hanging around. If that was his plan, it wasn’t going to work.
“You’re sure he’s not faking it?” I asked aloud.
“He blew a point one six on the Breathalyzer,” Lenny said. “So no, he’s well and truly soused.”
“Meg, dear.” I turned to see Mother making her grand exit, seated in the wheelchair with a fringed paisley shawl draped over her lap. One of the costume crew was pushing the chair, and several others trailed along behind carrying various bags and parcels.
Mother gestured imperiously, and the cavalcade stopped in front of me
“Something for the lost-and-found.” She handed me a cell phone and reached up toward me. I bent down so she could give me a kiss on the cheek. “Sleep well, dear.”
The procession sailed out the front door, and several men who happened to be lounging in the Great Room leaped up and raced out to help Mother into whatever car was taking her down to Cordelia’s house.
Chapter 37
It wasn’t until after we’d all waved good-bye that I glanced down at the phone in my hand and wondered if Mother had some particular reason for handing it to me.
It was an iPhone, not too different from the one in my pocket. I pressed the button that would bring it to life—always a chance that the owner would have a startup screen that gave me a clue to their identity. But it was completely out of power. I’d drop it off in the lost-and-found when I went down there.
Meanwhile I put it into my pocket and trudged up to the room Michael and I had been sharing. It didn’t take long to pack what we’d need for the night—I grabbed an empty carry-on bag and swept my toiletries and his into it. A change of clothes for tonight, another for tomorrow, nightclothes, and the books we’d been reading. If Faulk and Tad ended up staying longer than the one night, we could relocate the rest tomorrow. Our sleeping bags and air mattresses were in the closet—we’d used them before, when we’d given up our room to elderly relatives staying for a night or two. I managed to take everything we’d need for the night down in one trip.
I dropped the gear in the jewelry studio and then went into Cordelia’s office to deposit the cell phone in the lost-and-found cabinet. Then it occurred to me that Cordelia had an iPhone, too, and there was a charger cable already plugged in with the business end sitting on her desk. I attached the unknown phone. Should I wait until it got enough of a charge to come to life? Not in the mood. I scribbled a note to Cordelia, in case she came back while it was still there—Someone misplaced this. Easier to find the owner if it’s got power—and tucked it under the phone.
I was heading back to the studio to set up the sleeping bags when my own phone rang. Michael.
“You want the good news or the bad news?” he said when I’d answered.
“Your call,” I said.
“Okay—good news: the police found that Mad Monk guy. Cordelia confirmed that she had banned him, and the front gate staff say they didn’t let him in in spite his pitching a major fit. So apparently he snuck in by cutting open the fence. He’s probably only guilty of trespassing and being a first-class jerk, but just in case, he’s on his way down to Riverton for questioning.”
“Awesome.”
“Bad news: so is Nigel. On his way down to Riverton for questioning, I mean.”
“Why?”
“They found something suspicious when they searched his tent.”
“Suspicious as in connected with Terence’s murder?”
“A note from Terence, asking Nigel to meet him in the woods at midnight.”
“Yikes. But wait—they found it in his tent? Pretty easy to plant something in there.”
“I think it was in his footlocker,” Michael said. “At least I saw one of the Riverton police officers carrying the footlocker out of Camp Anachronism—not sure anyone else has one like it.”
“That battered old drab green army surplus thing?”
“Yeah. He keeps a padlock on it, so it wouldn’t be so easy to plant something there.”
“Sounds fishy to me,” I said. “Why would Terence want Nigel to meet him in the woods? What could he possibly have to say that he couldn’t say at some less inconvenient time?”
“Agreed,” Michael said. “Besides, even if Terence wanted a meeting, why would Nigel go? Although probably not an idea to push that thought too much. A prosecutor might say he jumped at the chance to do Terence in. Nigel’s been pretty vocal about how much he hated Terence. Not quite saying ‘good riddance to bad rubbish’ but damned close.”
“Damn,” I said. “Is that ex-student of yours still coming? The Game’s getting a little short on players.”
“He should be there sometime this evening,” Michael said. “I told him if he gets there late and no one’s up to help him settle in, he should just crash on one of the sofas in the Great Room.”
“So will he be replacing Terence or Nigel?”
“Good question. Depends on whether or not Nigel’s in jail.”
“Maybe we need to switch it up even more,” I suggested. “Let George replace Terence or Nigel, and have the new guy be your rival—if he’s right for it.”
“Someone who can give me a run for the money with the audience, you mean,” Michael said. “Yeah, the new guy will be the right type for that—too pretty to be the villain, and not much older than Dianne, so I already let George know I might be asking him to change roles. Probably as troublemaker. Not sure who can fill in if Nigel’s in jail.”
“Stan the beggar,” I suggested. “He could spend most of the time sitting in state at one of the outdoor tables at the Dragon’s Claw, and everyone could bring the Game to him. We could make it work. But before we switch George out of being your rival—could we maybe let him win the sword fight? Just once?”
Michael’s initial reaction was a heavy sigh.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m starting to feel guilty about always coming off the winner. And I thought we could wangle it today, but somehow it never came off. Maybe Nigel did too good a job of filling in Terence’s shoes. And George was at his whiniest today—probably the stress from the murder investigation. It has everyone on edge. But yeah—let’s figure out a way to give him a win.”
“We can worry about it tomorrow.”
“Yes. Right now, I’m going to follow Nigel down to the police station. See about getting him a lawyer and arranging bail.”
“You’ve still got all the family lawyers in your phone?”
“Of course,” he said.
Mother’s vast extended family had a disproportionately high number of lawyers. Including a reasonable number of capable criminal defense attorneys whose contact information Michael and I had long ago learned to keep handy, since our circle of friends contained rather a lot of people with a penchant for getting themselves in trouble.
“Keep me posted,” I said.
“Will do.”
I hung up and looked around. The studio looked uninviting—a great bare space with only a small heap of our belongings in the middle of it. Maybe I’d feel differently if the rain had started already.
Then again, maybe it wasn’t the studio that was bringing me down. Nigel, whom I’d always considered one of the good guys, was under suspic
ion for murder—or was he under arrest by now? Or would the Mad Monk turn out to be the killer? And what about O’Malley? At least the chief has told him not to leave town—but was she trying to find out why he’d been looking for Terence’s tent? Maybe it had something to do with the murder. Or maybe O’Malley had some other nefarious scheme in mind.
I needed distraction. And I needed dinner.
I left the studio, locking it behind me, and headed for the stairs. And was slightly spooked when I heard footsteps somewhere nearby. The only things down here were Cordelia’s office, the storage room, the jewelry studio, and the laundry, none of them usually occupied at this time of day. Why—
“Oh! I didn’t know anyone else was here!” A young woman had stepped out of the laundry, startling me as much as I’d startled her.
“Don’t tell me you’re still on duty?” I asked. “The feast is starting.”
“And I intend to head up there in a few minutes,” she said. “But anything I can do now is something none of us have to face in the morning. And your mother’s always so delighted when the place is in perfect shape when she comes in. I thought I’d load all the machines before I go.”
In the interest of making Mother happy, I pitched in to help. We spent the next quarter of an hour grabbing armloads of costumes and setting the dozen big commercial washers going.
“I hear you kicked out that O’Malley creep,” she said, as we were pondering the right amount of stain remover stuff to add to a load of unusually muddy tights. “Good riddance.”
“I agree,” I said. “But how did you manage to run into him? Aren’t you usually backstage?”
“Mostly,” she said. “But he was always snooping around the costume shop.”
“Why?” I asked. “I mean—was he harassing people or doing a Peeping Tom number or anything gross like that?”
“Goodness, no,” she exclaimed. “We’d have straightened him out right away if he’d tried that, and sicced your mother on him if he didn’t listen to us. No, it was more like he was obsessed with the costumes.”
“The costumes?” I echoed.
“Yeah. The fancy ones, not the rank-and-file peasant ones. He was always touching them and asking who they belonged to, and exclaiming over the workmanship. And then when he thought we weren’t looking he’d rummage through the pockets.”
“Did he take anything?”
“Not that anyone saw,” she said. “But then, who leaves anything in the pocket of a costume after they take if off for the day? Apart from the occasional used tissue.”
“Ick.” I made a mental note to always check the pockets of my costume before turning it in.
“So the only people who aren’t glad he’s gone are a few of us who were looking forward to figuring out if he was a perv or a klepto,” she said. “Does he get his jollies caressing crushed velvet? Or was he looking for stuff to steal? There was a rumor that someone saw him rummaging in the pockets of the civvies—you know, the modern clothes a lot of people leave on the rack when they get into costume. But once we heard he’d been booted, we were trying to figure out who saw that, and all everyone admits to seeing is him molesting the costumes, so maybe that was just one of those rumors that gets started about someone nobody likes.”
“Still, interesting,” I said. “Mind if I tell the chief about that?”
“No problem,” she said.
“Good. In fact, let’s give her a head’s up now.” I pulled out my phone, opened up a text to the chief, and typed “one of our costume crew has some information about O’Malley.” Then I handed it to the woman. “Text her your name and cell phone number,” I said. “I doubt if she’ll get back to you before tomorrow, but this way neither of us will have to remember to tell her then.”
“Can do.” She typed with enviable speed, and then handed me back my phone. “And now I’m off to dinner.”
“If I have any energy, I’ll see you there,” I said. “And we’ve done a good job here.”
We gave each other a high five, and then she trotted off toward the stairs. I followed more slowly.
What if O’Malley had been searching for the phone Mother had given me? Cell phones were one of the few things people actually carried around in the pockets of their costumes. But if he’d lost his cell phone, the logical thing to do was to report it missing. Borrow someone else’s phone to call it—or better yet, use the Find My iPhone app, if he’d bothered to set it up. Curious. If it was anyone else, I’d have gone back upstairs to ask if he’d lost his phone. But O’Malley? He could go through channels.
Upstairs in the Great Room, I found Cordelia. She was in modern dress again, and carrying her purse and a small tote.
“Good,” she said. “I was about to call you. This has been a difficult day, so I’m going to get away for a bit.”
“Get away where?” I asked.
“I’m going down to my house in town.”
Probably a good idea—she had also been up before dawn. But—
“You’re not going by yourself, are you?” I asked aloud. “The chief may have two potential murder suspects in custody, but there could be other thugs roaming the countryside.”
“Your mother’s there,” she said. “And Jacks and Dianne are coming with me. Some wimps canceled, so I’ve got a room to offer them.”
“Canceled why?” I asked, suddenly anxious. “Because of the murder?”
“No,” she said. “That’s still being billed as a body found in the woods near the Biscuit Mountain State Park. And consequently getting almost no coverage. No, these wimps canceled because the weather forecast calls for rain tonight, and possibly a little more tomorrow. Which is why I wanted to see you before I left—can you go around and check the doors and windows before bedtime?”
“Of course.”
“And your Dad’s going to bunk in my room,” she said. “He wants to be nearby in case Faulk needs him. The boys can keep an eye on your grandfather. I think I see Jacks’s car now.” She gave me a peck on the cheek and strode out, looking remarkably energetic. I trailed out onto the front porch in her wake and waved good-bye as the car set out.
And as I was about to go back inside, I spotted Dad struggling to carry his medical bag, his duffel bag, a backpack, and a couple of tote bags filled with who knows what.
“Let me carry some of that,” I said. He didn’t protest—in fact, he let me take the lion’s share of his load, and we headed upstairs for Cordelia’s room.
“I feel bad about deserting the investigation,” he said. “But I think Tad will feel much better if I’m around to help with Faulk. So will I, in fact.”
“Is there really that much to worry about?” I asked. “I mean, I see you’re bringing your portable defibrillator.” I’d peeked into one of the totes I was carrying and recognized the defibrillator’s bright-yellow case.
“I doubt if we’ll need it,” he said. “But having it around seems to raise a cardiac patient’s morale. And they don’t really need me that much for this stage of the murder investigation—Riverton’s lucky to have such a highly qualified M.E.”
Clearly Dad, though determined to do his duty, was a little wistful at missing out on what could be the grand finale of the investigation.
Maybe I should try to distract him.
Chapter 38
“By the way, Dad,” I said. “I have a question for you.”
“A medical question?”
“Well, a psychological question. And one that could relate to the investigation.”
As we unpacked his stuff and found places to stow all of it in Cordelia’s bedroom—which, though not large, was uncluttered enough to feel spacious—I told him about Dianne sleeping in the maid’s closet Friday night.
“This is fascinating,” Dad said. “From what you describe, it sounds as if Dianne could have a genuine phobia. It would be interesting to find out which one.”
“Not a big mystery,” I said. “She’s afraid of sleeping in the woods.”
“Wh
ich would mean that she probably has nyctohylophobia.” Dad nodded. “Fear of being in forests or dark wooded areas at night. But if she’s also afraid of them in the daytime, then it would be just plain hylophobia. Probably not dendrophobia, which is fear of trees. I’ve always considered that a lot less rational, as fears go.”
“And phobias have to be rational?”
“Well, there’s usually a reason for them if you dig back enough,” Dad said. “But no, phobias aren’t rational.”
“She also seems pretty nervous about the possibility that bears will invade the camp. Is there a name for that?”
“Arkoudaphobia,” Dad said readily. “Of course, it’s only a phobia if it amounts to an irrational fear of them. Nothing wrong with a healthy respect for a wild animal as powerful as a bear. Respect and maybe even a little perfectly reasonable fear. Being fearless around bears can get you killed.”
“So fear of spiders in general might be a phobia—”
“Arachnophobia,” Dad said.
“But being afraid of the brown recluse that just landed on your arm is merely a rational response to the situation.”
“Precisely.”
“So how do we find out if Dianne really does have nycto-whatsit-phobia or if she’s only pretending to have it to account for being absent from her tent at around the time Terence was being stabbed?”
“That’s a tough question.” Dad frowned, but it was the slight frown of concentration you usually saw on his face when you’d just given him a difficult but interesting project. “Let me work on that. Are you coming down to the feast?”
“I’m beat,” I said. “If there’s anything left in the kitchen, I may just grab a plate there and curl up in my sleeping bag.”
“If the cupboard’s bare and you want me to bring you a plate, just let me know,” Dad said as we headed down the stairs again.
“Will do.”
I ventured into the kitchen and found, to my relief, that someone had thought to arrange a small makeshift buffet for those too tired to make it down to the feast—a dozen bowls and platters containing most if not all of the delicacies that would be served around the fire pit. I filled a plate with my favorites. Then I made another with the items Michael would like, wrapped it up, and put it in the fridge with his name on it.
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