Owl Be Home for Christmas

by Donna Andrews

  “Do you know if he had any history of heart or circulatory system problems?” Dad looked up at Czerny. “Or—”

  “His heart was fine! Don’t pretend this is a heart attack! He—”

  “The more I know about his medical history the better able I’ll be to figure out what killed him,” Dad said. “That includes any medications he was taking that might have interacted with whatever he ingested at dinner. So did he have heart problems?”

  “No!” Then his face fell and his shoulders slumped. “At least not that I knew. Then again, what do I know? He would consider that a weakness. He wouldn’t want anyone else to know about his weaknesses—not even me. When he had his gallbladder out, he didn’t tell anyone, not even me, until he was on his way to the hospital.”

  I was about to leave them to it when something occurred to me. Two somethings. I sent a quick text to Michael. And then I turned back to Dad and Czerny.

  “Dr. Czerny,” I said, “the police are going to want to notify Dr. Frogmore’s next of kin as soon as possible. Do you know who that would be?”

  He blinked and froze, looking stricken.

  “I have no idea,” he said finally. “I doubt if he’s in touch with either of his ex-wives, and he didn’t have kids with either of them. I’ve never actually heard him talk about family.”

  “I suppose we’ll have to call the Buckthorn College human resources department,” I said.

  “They’d know.” His voice was flat. “But they won’t be there tonight, and tomorrow’s Sunday.”

  “If Buckthorn College is anything like Caerphilly, a call to the right person would get the HR people scurrying in on a weekend,” I said. “Of course, finding that right person’s not going to be easy.”

  Czerny looked at me blankly for a few moments. Then a curiously triumphant smile lit up his face.

  “Would the college president do? Because I can give you his number. His home number.”

  While he pulled out his phone, I grabbed my notebook and pencil.

  “Dr. Hosmer Peverel,” he pronounced, and rattled off a phone number with a 541 area code. Then suddenly he looked stricken again. “But don’t mention my name. Just Dr. Frogmore’s. I’m sure once he understands the circumstances he won’t mind that I gave out his number, but—”

  “But it would save a lot of explaining if we just let him think we found the number in Dr. Frogmore’s belongings,” I said. “No problem.”

  “Getting back to Dr. Frogmore’s medical history,” Dad said. “Apart from the gallbladder surgery, do you remember him mentioning any other medical issues?”

  The door from the kitchen opened and the server who’d shown me the way ushered in two of the scientists—Dr. Lindquist and Dr. Green. I’d asked Michael to send them back. They stopped just inside the door and I met them there.

  “Whoa,” Lindquist said. “Not a false alarm, then.”

  “The poor man,” Dr. Green muttered.

  “Dr. Czerny’s pretty upset,” I said quietly enough that I didn’t think Czerny could hear. “Can you figure out who knows him well enough to take care of him right now?”

  They looked at each other. Lindquist shrugged. Green winced.

  “I think he already lost the only friend he had here at the conference,” Green said.

  “If not in the world,” Lindquist added.

  “We’ll look after him,” Green said.

  “See if you can coax him away when Dad’s finished talking to him,” I said. “Because I don’t think having him around will help Dad figure out what happened to Frogmore.”

  “It wasn’t a heart attack?” Green sounded surprised.

  “They’ve got a guard over his place at the table,” the more observant Lindquist said. “I figure you’re suspecting poison.”

  “Right now we have no idea,” I said. “Dad and Horace have a lot of work to do. So if you can take care of Czerny, it would be a big help.”

  “You’ve got it.” Lindquist straightened his spine and headed for where Czerny was sitting. Dr. Green took a few deep breaths before following.

  I left the Lafayette Room, crossed the Gathering Area, and closeted myself in the tiny convention office.

  And then I froze. I knew how to work the radio. But I had no idea what I was supposed to say on it. What if I didn’t use the proper police lingo or—

  “Just call,” I told myself. “They’ll know who you are. You don’t have to pretend to be an officer.”

  Chapter 12

  I took a deep breath and pressed what I hoped was the right button to let me talk over Horace’s radio.

  “Um … hello, this is Meg Langslow at the Caerphilly Inn. I’m trying to reach Chief Burke. Chief Burke, can you hear me?”

  Static for fifteen seconds or so. Should I have said something to signal that I was done talking? Then the radio crackled into life.

  “Meg, this is Debbie Ann. What’s the problem? And how did you get a police radio?”

  Not surprising that Caerphilly’s dedicated dispatcher was monitoring her radio even in the middle of a blizzard.

  “I’m on Horace’s radio,” I said. “Don’t worry, he’s fine. But we’ve had a death here at the Inn. A suspicious death. Dad and Horace thought that they should secure the scene at least until Dad can figure out if the guy died of natural causes or was poisoned. So Horace is securing the scene and asked me to get in touch with the chief.”

  “Oh, dear.” Debbie Ann packed a lot of emotion into those two words. “Okay, I’ll keep calling the chief. You or Horace should keep the radio nearby, so—”

  “I’m here, Debbie Ann. Meg, this is Chief Burke. Are you saying you have a homicide?”

  I should pick my words carefully, I realized. Almost anyone could be listening on the police band.

  “Dad’s not calling it a homicide yet. Suspicious death. But he told me to secure the victim’s plate and glasses—it happened during the banquet. So Michael’s guarding them. And for the moment most of your suspects should be still in the ballroom, listening to the keynote speech.”

  “Ballroom,” he groaned. “I bet that means you’ve got a whole passel of suspects there.”

  “About two hundred. Three hundred if you count the hotel staff and the handful of guests who aren’t part of the convention, but I suspect most of them don’t yet know Dr.— Don’t know the deceased well enough to want to kill him.”

  “No way we can keep that many people cooped up until I can get there. It’s not as if anyone can travel tonight. The temperature’s already down to fifteen, and could drop below zero before morning. And the snow just won’t quit. If I can get hold of Randall—”

  “I’m here, Chief. Eavesdropping on y’all’s conversation. You want me to run you out in the snowmobile as soon as it’s safe to try? That probably won’t be till morning.”

  “I’d appreciate it. We’re holed up at New Life Baptist. Not that I mind roughing it without power, but it’s hard on Minerva, and the kids were excited about having a big snow slumber party at the church and I wanted to be where I could keep my radio charged. And thanks to that generator you lent us, we’re eating pretty high on the hog. You bring an appetite, and the ladies will cook you a gourmet breakfast before we set out. Or lunch, or whatever meal it’s time for when the storm lets up enough for that snowmobile of yours to make the trip.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  “Meanwhile,” the chief went on, “let’s do what we can. Meg, hearing from Randall just now was useful, but if we’re going to talk any more about this case, let’s do it over satellite phone—if you have one.”

  “We have several,” I said. “I have Grandfather’s, and Ekaterina has at least one for the hotel.”

  We exchanged satellite phone numbers and in another minute we were continuing the conversation by phone.

  “Much better,” the chief said. “And by the way, I appreciate your discretion on the radio. Now give me the whole story. Who’s the deceased?”

  “One of our con
ference attendees,” I said. “Dr. Oliver Frogmore, from Buckthorn College in Oregon. We had just finished the banquet, and a distinguished visiting Japanese owl expert was about to give the keynote speech when Frogmore interrupted and started mouthing off—insulting the speaker and the conference generally. Then he got up to make a toast, tossed off the contents of his champagne flute, and collapsed.”

  “And your dad’s sure it’s not a heart attack?”

  “I don’t think he’s sure of anything yet. He looks puzzled. And upset. The guy didn’t die immediately, but Dad and Horace weren’t able to save him. I think if it was a common or garden-variety heart attack, Dad would know it. He’s seen enough of those.”

  “Poison, then? If he collapsed immediately after drinking the champagne?”

  “Possibly. At least Dad must think so—as I said, he told me to secure Frogmore’s plate and glasses. I assume Horace will bag them when he’s free—you heard he was here, right?”

  “I did, and was relieved to hear he was safe. We were worried for a while. And useful to have him there, since there’s no way I can get there tonight. Does the deceased have family there with him?”

  “We’re not even sure he has family anywhere.” I relayed what little I’d learned from Dr. Czerny, including the Buckthorn College president’s name and number.

  “I guess it’s not too late to call this Dr. Peverel,” the chief said. “He’d want to know one of his professors was dead. And it’s only nine thirty.”

  “Which means only six thirty in Oregon, where Dr. Peverel should be,” I said. “And Frogmore’s not only a professor, he’s a department head. And Dad would feel a whole lot better trying to figure out what the man died of if he knew more about his medical history.”

  “Understood. I’ll call him right now, and call you back if he’s able to offer any useful information. Meanwhile, tell Horace he’s in charge of the investigation, but he should keep in close contact. I want to know exactly what’s going on.”

  “Will do.” I could only imagine how frustrating it was for the chief to have the storm cut him off from a murder investigation. Before coming to Caerphilly he’d been a longtime Baltimore homicide detective. Most of the time he was happier living in a small town where serious crime was relatively rare. But as he once admitted himself, the mere suspicion of murder got him revved up like a cat who hears a can opener.

  “And a good thing my medical examiner’s there on the spot, although I suspect your father won’t be able to do a proper autopsy with no facilities.”

  “Right. I should probably reassure Ekaterina that Dad won’t be using any of her food prep tables to cut up one of her guests.”

  “That would be a kindness,” the chief said. “Although we’ll need to use one of her refrigerators to preserve the body. I doubt if she’ll like that.”

  “She doesn’t, but she’s already arranging it.”

  “Good. Why don’t you go find Horace, give him back his radio, and tell him to call me on the satellite phone to brief me on what he’s finding as he works the crime scene.”

  “Can do.”

  But before I walked out of the tiny office, Dr. Green walked in escorting a dazed-looking Dr. Czerny.

  “Can we let Ned sit in here for a bit?” Dr. Green asked. “He’s kind of in a state of shock.”

  “Of course.” I stood up and stepped outside, and Dr. Green steered Dr. Czerny into the chair I’d vacated. “Do you think Dad should check him out?”

  “When he has time,” Dr. Green said. “I don’t think it’s urgent, and I know Dr. Langslow has a lot to do. But when he has time, yeah. Nils went to get him a drink.”

  We both studied Dr. Czerny, who sat slumped limply in the chair, staring into space.

  “Can you keep an eye on him while I tell Nils where he is?” Dr. Green asked.

  I nodded, and he ran off.

  “My career is over.” Dr. Czerny buried his face in his hands.

  “Now, now,” I said, and immediately regretted it. At least I’d refrained from patting him on the shoulder. When I was upset about something, few things irritated me more than people patting me on the shoulder and now-nowing me. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

  “Actually, it is.” He lifted his head and then grabbed both sides of it in what I assumed was a despairing gesture. And he was rocking again. “I’m not going to fool myself. I’m not a genius like he was. I have talents—talents he found useful. Organization. Hard work. And loyalty. He appreciated me. He protected me. But with him gone, they won’t want to keep me around.”

  “But you’re tenured, aren’t you?”

  “Tenured doesn’t mean they can’t fire you.” He glared at me. “It just means it’s harder. If they really want to get rid of you, they can find a way. You should know that.”

  “But it will take them time,” I said. “Time you can use to find a way to make them want to keep you around. Time to find some other professor who would appreciate your organizational abilities and hard work.” Surely with Frogmore running the department there must be other lazy and disorganized professors he could latch on to, though I couldn’t think of a graceful way to say that aloud. And while I thought of adding “Someone who might treat you a little more nicely than Frogmore did,” I decided that it was probably too soon to be speaking ill of the dead.

  “I suppose they will want to keep me on to finish up his projects.” Czerny’s flat tone suggested that he wasn’t all that sure. “I mean, everyone else has their own projects, right? They won’t want to drop their own projects to work on something where they’d have to share the credit with a dead man. A dead man that most of them didn’t like anyway. None of them ever really appreciated him.” His voice turned angry, and he glared at me as if I was one of the unappreciative Buckthorn College faculty members.

  I stifled another “now, now.”

  “Don’t you think they’ll feel differently under the circumstances?” I asked instead. “I mean, he was a very strong personality, so it’s not surprising that there would be some friction while he was alive, but don’t you think now that he’s gone they’ll start to realize what they’ve lost?” Actually, I suspected there would be champagne toasts in many circles when the news got out, including some at Buckthorn College—and, no doubt, in the Inn’s bar—but this idea seemed to comfort Czerny.

  “Yes—they’ll be sorry.” Not quite the effect I’d been aiming at. His voice had taken on a note of … menace? More like peevish satisfaction. “Really, really sorry.”

  Just then Dr. Lindquist ambled up carrying a glass.

  “Whiskey.” He handed the glass to Dr. Czerny, who took it mechanically and then looked down at it with a slightly puzzled expression.

  “Take a sip,” Dr. Lindquist advised. “You’ve had a shock.”

  Dr. Czerny obeyed. In fact, what he took was more of a gulp than a sip. He gasped, coughed, and then took another swallow.

  “You know who else will be sorry?” He looked up at me, ignoring Lindquist. “Whoever did this to him. I intend to make sure whoever did this is brought to justice.” He fell silent and nodded to himself. “Yes. I’ll make sure they pay. Virginia’s a death penalty state, isn’t it?”

  With that he got up and ambled away, glass in hand—clearly lost in thought and with a slightly creepy smile on his face.

  “Stay with him,” I told Dr. Lindquist. “He’s still in a state of shock.”

  “I liked him better mute,” Dr. Lindquist said, but he did as I asked.

  “Just what we need,” I said to myself. “A vigilante.” I figured I should warn Horace, so I set out to look for him. I could start in the Lafayette Room.

  As I crossed the Gathering Area, I heard the sound of doors opening down the hallway that led to the ballroom. Followed by voices. I decided it might be a good thing to guard the door to the Lafayette Room.

  Which was locked. I knocked, just to see what would happen. The door opened a foot, and Rose Noire stuck her head out.

&nb
sp; “It’s Meg,” she called.

  “She can come in,” Dad replied.

  “If you’re going to be in here, maybe I can watch the door from the outside.” She grabbed one of the ubiquitous stackable hotel chairs, dragged it just outside the door, and sat with a stern expression on her face. Why was I suddenly reminded of Gandalf, as played by Sir Ian McKellen, shouting “You shall not pass!” to the balrog? Rose Noire looked as if she was ready to challenge a balrog, and quite possibly capable of foiling it. Mere nosy ornithologists didn’t stand a chance.

  Dad was sitting on another stackable chair, gazing down at Frogmore’s body.

  The door to the kitchen opened, and I hurried over to fend off the intruders. But it was two kitchen staff members wheeling a long metal cart of some kind, and Dad seemed pleased to see them.

  “Just what we need,” he said. “Help me lift him onto it.”

  I decided that was addressed to the hotel employees, although they didn’t look any more thrilled at the idea than I was. But they lifted Frogmore without difficulty, and scurried off looking relieved when Dad said he didn’t need them anymore.

  “Going to keep him here until Ekaterina has the refrigerator ready,” he said. “And—oh, good; that must be her.”

  Actually, it was Horace, but Dad looked happy to see him anyway.

  “How goes the processing?” he asked.

  “Found something,” Horace said.”Maybe it’s nothing—or rather, maybe it’s completely unrelated. But I found this under the table—the one Dr. Frogmore was sitting at.”

  He held up one gloved hand and displayed a small red-and-white bottle.

  “Oh, my.” Dad pushed his glasses up his nose to get a better view of the object. “Is that—?”

  Horace nodded. “And nearly empty,” he added.

  “That could account for it.” Dad steepled his fingers and stared into space, as if Horace’s find required him to completely rearrange his thinking.

  “Give me a clue,” I said.

  “Sorry.” Horace moved his hand so I could see what Dad had. The label on the little bottle read NITROGLYCERIN LINGUAL SPRAY.

  “That’s used for heart problems, right?” I asked. “So does that mean heart attack?”