Horace nodded and glanced at something he was holding—the list of times when the key card was used, which he’d remembered to take off the wall before Lindquist had come in.
“And you didn’t borrow the card again later that evening?” the chief asked. “Or at any time on Saturday?”
Lindquist shook his head and then belatedly said, “No.”
“Horace? Any other points you want to ask about?”
“No, Chief.”
“That will be all for now, Dr. Lindquist.”
The emphasis he put on “now” was very subtle, but it didn’t escape Lindquist’s ear.
Chapter 21
Dr. Lindquist stood and hesitated for a moment.
“But don’t leave town without telling you, right?” he said sardonically.
When the chief didn’t say anything, Lindquist stood, nodded to Horace and me, and left. Horace and I stayed silent until thirty seconds after the door closed behind him.
“I don’t like it,” Horace said. “There’s no proof he returned the card. We have only his word.”
“There’s also no proof he ever stole it,” I pointed out. “The chief bluffed him into admitting it.”
“Should hold up in court if it comes to that,” Horace said.
“But would he have so readily admitted it in the first place if he’d hung on to it longer and done something else less innocent with it?” I asked.
“A good point,” the chief said. “And there’s also the fact that we haven’t figured out what, if anything, the illicit access to the freight elevator, Dr. Blake’s cottage, and Dr. Lindquist’s own room have to do with Dr. Frogmore’s murder.”
“That’s true.” Horace slumped slightly and blew out a frustrated breath. “I forgot that. He’d have no reason to use the stolen card to open his own door.”
“No reason,” I said. “But the two times the card was used on Saturday were during the half hour break between the end of the last panel and the start of dinner, right?”
“That’s right, “Horace said. “Five thirty-nine p.m. and five forty-seven p.m.”
“So if he went up to his room before dinner, he’d have been in a hurry,” I said. “He could have pulled out the stolen card by accident, thinking he was grabbing his own.”
“Quite possible,” the chief said. “And let’s not forget that just because the stolen card wasn’t used on Dr. Frogmore’s room doesn’t mean no one accessed it without his knowing. Horace, have you made arrangements with Ekaterina for us to interview the housekeeping staff who handle that floor?”
“To see if any of them got any requests from guests to let them into Dr. Frogmore’s room,” Horace explained to me.
“Or any other rooms, for that matter,” the chief added.
“The first few should be here anytime now,” Horace said. “I have to say, hunting down witnesses and suspects is a lot easier with nobody able to skip out on us. By the way, Meg, thanks for telling Ekaterina to bring us the bug spray.”
He pointed to a corner of the long desk where half a dozen different spray containers rested. There were several different kinds, all with either “eco” or “natural” in their names. And all boasted in large letters that they were nontoxic to children and pets.
“Smart lady,” the chief said. “Apparently she brought us all the containers that were not sealed. If necessary, we could have them all tested to make sure they only contain what’s on the label.”
I heard something outside, so I got up and peered out the door.
“I think your first few interviewees are here.” Serafina, Chantal, and a male housekeeping staff member whose name I didn’t remember were all sitting on the bench outside the Command Post. None of them looked very pleased to be there, and I was willing to bet that none of them would admit to letting anyone into anyplace. Still, Horace had to try. “I’ll leave you to it.”
I stepped out into the lobby and looked around. About the usual number of people were watching the snow, debating how many inches had fallen, and gasping over whatever ghastly new low temperature the thermometer revealed. Mother, Mrs. Ackley, and another woman were sitting together by the fire. Mother waved to me, and although a casual observer would never have noticed, I picked up a certain frantic note to her manner. I strolled over to see what was up.
“Meg, dear.” Mother gave me a kiss that almost landed on my cheek instead of the air. “This is Mrs. Voss—her husband’s attending your grandfather’s conference. And this is Mrs. Ackley—she and her husband came to visit Caerphilly and didn’t manage to get out before the storm began.”
Mrs. Voss was a pleasant fiftyish woman who was doing an intricate crewelwork picture of an owl. She nodded and smiled at me before going back to squinting at her work. Mrs. Ackley was a little older—in her sixties, I’d have guessed, and seemed nice enough, if a little anxious.
“That’s lovely,” I said to Mrs. Voss.
“Thanks.” She smiled briefly. “Wish my husband thought so. Apparently whoever designed the pattern took liberties with the owl’s plumage. Or as George puts it, ‘there is no such owl.’ They can be so literal.”
“Tell him it’s a new species Dr. Hirano hasn’t yet published about.”
She burst out in chuckles at the thought and plied her needle with a happier expression.
“My daughter Meg is helping her grandfather organize the conference,” Mother was saying to Mrs. Ackley.
“That must be very interesting for you, dear.” Mrs. Ackley turned to me. “And what a nice opportunity—there must be a few young, single scientists here, I suppose.”
“There probably are,” I said. “But I haven’t seen any nearly as handsome as my husband, so I think I’ll stick with him.”
“Oh, silly me,” she said. “You hardly look old enough to be married.”
I could get to like this woman.
“Then again, ever since we moved to Florida, I hardly ever get to see anyone under retirement age,” she said. “I try not to let Jim know, because I know he meant well, but I really wish we hadn’t moved. We had a couple of acres at our old house, and this new one doesn’t have a yard to speak of. And in our old house we’d have had plenty of room for the kids and grandkids—in Florida they’re staying in a hotel. It just won’t feel like Christmas. If we even get there. We could be stuck here. And even if we do get out, there won’t be time to cook. And there’s a lot of cooking. Jim insists on prime rib, and the kids want ham, because we used to have Christmas with my parents and that’s what their grandmother always served, and of course, as soon as they went to college, hardly a holiday went by without one or another deciding to be a vegetarian just in time for the holidays. So I always make a big dish of macaroni and cheese. The children have settled down, thank goodness, but I know it’s only a matter of time before the grandchildren start going through vegetarian phases.”
Mrs. Ackley went on at great length about the particular way she had to make the macaroni and cheese, although if there was anything special about her recipe it must have been a subtlety that escaped me. She also had much to say about the preparation of the vegetables and the need to make what sounded like a different pie for every member of the family. Mrs. Voss looked up and rolled her eyes from time to time. Mother was gazing at Mrs. Ackley with an expression of rapt attention on her face, but I knew her well enough to suspect that she wasn’t listening to a word.
Was there some reason we were sitting here listening? Granted, Mrs. Ackley looked happier than she had before. But if Mother didn’t have things to do, I certainly did.
I could pretend to spot someone across the room who needed to talk to me. Yes. A good plan.
I was about to put it into practice when Mrs. Ackley suddenly did exactly what I’d been planning to do. Although a quick glance across the lobby showed that she wasn’t feigning. Her husband had arrived.
“There’s Jim.” Mrs. Ackley stood, and dithered a bit, as if unsure whether to stay and continue talking or leave. “My hus
band, Jim. He seems to be looking for me. I should go. It was so nice talking to all of you. We must do it again soon!”
With that she tripped across the lobby.
“Not if I can help it,” I muttered.
“Amen.” Mrs. Voss glanced over at where the Ackleys were talking. “No offense, but I’m leaving before she decides to come back.”
She gathered up her canvas and her threads and beat a hasty retreat to the elevators.
“Well, I hope it was at least useful,” Mother said.
“Useful?” Was this some form of unusually subtle sarcasm that completely escaped me?
“For the case, dear.” Mother was patience itself. “I know you’re doing your best to help Horace and your father. I thought if we got her talking, you might notice a clue that would help you solve the case.”
“Getting her talking doesn’t seem to be a problem,” I pointed out. “Shutting her up, maybe.”
“Yes, she could talk the hind leg off a donkey.”
“She could talk all the legs off a whole herd of centipedes, and I can’t imagine she’d drop any useful clues.”
“Isn’t her husband a suspect?” Mother asked. “I thought all the scientists were suspects.”
“Her husband isn’t a scientist,” I said. “Retired businessman. They’re two of the precisely three hotel guests who have no connection whatsoever with the conference. Mrs. Voss’s husband is a scientist, so feel free to take another crack at her.”
“I would have, if Mrs. Ackley had given me half a chance.” Mother closed her eyes and sighed heavily. I resisted the urge to apologize or feel guilty. Had I suggested that she interrogate Mrs. Ackley? “The time I wasted on that tiresome woman.”
Mrs. Ackley, heading for the restaurant in her husband’s wake, waved at us in passing. Mother waved back with a smile that didn’t get anywhere near her eyes.
“Well, I’m going up to the spa,” she said. “I assume except for that third unconnected guest, the other people there will be either scientists or partners of scientists.”
“Definitely,” I said. “And actually, our conversation with Mrs. Ackley wasn’t completely wasted. Ekaterina has a project.” I explained about the need to find out what everyone was expecting in the way of Christmas food.
Mother, as I had hoped, was charmed by the idea.
“Splendid! Ekaterina’s right—that will go a long way toward building Christmas spirit. I’ll start immediately in the spa. Just one thing—do you happen to remember what the Ackley’s Christmas meal was like? I confess, I’d rather tuned her out by that time. I was thinking of chintz and passementerie—that always improves my mood.”
“Prime rib, ham, mac and cheese for any transient vegetarians, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, cloverleaf rolls, and four kinds of pie.”
“Lovely.” Mother took out her pocket notebook—a far cry from my bulging, utilitarian notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe. It was tiny and elegant, and had a little loop to hold the minuscule gold-colored pen. She quickly scribbled down the list I’d rattled off, then returned it to her purse.
“You can tackle that, then?” I asked. “Given that I’ll be pretty busy, between the conference and the investigation.”
“Leave it to me, dear.”
“And one more thing,” I added. “Have you noticed that Dr. Green—”
“Seems rather taken with Rose Noire,” she said. “And we don’t really know much about him, do we? So I’m having him checked out.”
“Don’t interrogate him too harshly,” I said. “He’s already pretty shook up at being a murder suspect.”
“Don’t worry, dear. I borrowed a satellite phone and asked Kevin to see what he could find out.” I nodded with approval. Information my nephew Kevin couldn’t find online probably didn’t exist. “So I can concentrate on finding out what everyone eats for Christmas.”
She sailed off toward the elevators with a look of cheerful determination on her face. Woe betide the hotel guest who tried to withhold information about his family’s customary holiday menu.
During our conversation with Mrs. Ackley, two of the three hotel staff members had, in their turn, entered the Command Post and eventually departed looking relieved. I watched as the third entered and glanced around. Shouldn’t there be more arriving for their turn?
Ekaterina’s problem, not mine.
I was about to return to the conference area when I spotted two figures sitting in front of the huge glass wall of the lobby—in fact, they appeared to have turned their chairs, the better to watch the falling snow outside, although they were also engaged in a lively conversation. Melissa McKendrick and the Australian scientist. I decided to see what they were up to.
Chapter 22
Both Melissa and the Australian ornithologist said a quick hello when I neared them, although they continued on with their conversation. I took a surreptitious peek at the man’s badge: Dr. Lachlan Pearce from Sidney.
“But the most amazing thing about the tawny frogmouth is its ability to camouflage itself.” It sounded rather dashing in Pearce’s Aussie accent. “The brown, gray, and white plumage is perfect for blending in with tree branches. They’re nocturnal, like owls, and after hunting all night they spend most of their day perched in a tree, camouflaged to look like part of it. In fact, they often sit on a broken branch and then twist themselves into a posture that makes them look like a continuation of the branch.” He contorted himself into a weird posture. He didn’t look much like a tree branch, but then he didn’t look much like an edible bird, either. Maybe if he had the tawny frogmouth’s feathers to help, his tree impersonation would be a lot more believable. “It’s brilliant.”
“You have them in Sydney?” Melissa asked. Was she interested in the bird, the bloke, or only hearing more of the bloke’s charming accent?
“All over. They’re amazing for pest control—almost everything they eat is either a household pest or a garden threat. I rescued one a month or so back—he’d hopped into a wheelie bin for a sticky and couldn’t get back out.”
“A wheelie bin’s what my Australian nieces and nephews call a garbage can,” I translated, seeing Melissa’s puzzled look. “And I guess a sticky’s a foraging expedition?”
“Close enough. Anyway, the frogmouth was so fierce-looking, the bin’s owners were scared to stick their hands in, so they called the ornithology department and I went out to save the day.” He basked in the memory for a few moments. Then he seemed to notice the snowy window again. “Damn, the snow’s slowed down a bit, but it’s not exactly stopping, is it? How long has it been now?”
“Closing in on thirty-six hours,” I said. “But you’re right—it’s not coming down as heavily as it was. Tapering off, thank goodness.”
“I suppose it’s time, but I’ve had a blast watching it. We don’t get much snow in Sydney. In fact, we don’t get any,” Lachlan said.
“Much the same for Atlanta, where I grew up,” Melissa said. “We had a white Christmas in 2010, but before that we literally hadn’t had one in a century.”
“This could be my first white Christmas ever,” Lachlan proclaimed. “Unless it’s all going to go away over the next few days.”
“The high temperature won’t get out of the twenties for the next few days,” I said. “So if you’re sticking around, the snow will be, too.”
“I warned the family that I might miss the usual festivities,” he said. “And they promised they’d do it all over again when I got home, even if I didn’t show up till Anzac Day.”
“If there’s anything that would make the holiday feel more festive, let Ekaterina know,” I said. “Especially when it comes to meals. What foods will you miss most if you’re stuck here?”
“Cold prawns for Christmas lunch,” he said readily. “Cold seafood generally. And a pav for dessert. Of course, we usually go for the cold foods for Christmas because it’s damned hot in December—in the twenties. Celsius. I think that’s the seventies in Fahrenheit. So most o
f us are running around in boardies and thongs.”
I wondered if my jaw had dropped quite as noticeably as Melissa’s. Not that the thought of the lean, muscular Lachlan in skimpy underwear was off-putting—quite the contrary. But still …
“Although I think here you’d say swimming trunks and flip-flops,” he went on. From the twinkle in his eye, I suspected this wasn’t the first time he’d had fun confounding Americans in this way.
“I suspect Ekaterina might manage the prawns,” I said. “Or at least some kind of cold seafood. Your thongs might be a little harder.”
“Not sure I’d want them in this weather,” he said with a chuckle. “There’s also the traditional game of backyard cricket, but even if we had the gear, I doubt if anyone would be up for it in the snow. And if I’m still stuck over here after Christmas Day, I hope I can find some channel that’s showing the Boxing Day Test Match—big five-day cricket match. Sometimes I think Boxing Day’s the best part of the holidays—plenty of leftovers that you’re not yet tired of, all the rellos have gone home, and you can just lie on the couch with a Carlton’s and a sanger and watch the test match.”
He looked almost dreamy eyed at the prospect, and I got the feeling he was just a little homesick. I made a mental note to ask Ekaterina about the prawns. I was about to ask what pav, Carlton’s, and sanger were when Grandfather’s voice rang out from across the lobby.
“Pearce!”
We all looked up to see Grandfather waving at us. Mostly at Pearce, I suspected.
“I should go see what the good doctor wants,” he said. “Talk to you later.”
He loped across the lobby at a good pace and disappeared into Mount Vernon Grill with Grandfather.
“Nice guy,” I said.
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