A Holly, Jolly Murder Read online

  I found a notebook and sat down at the kitchen table to contemplate the cast of characters from the Sacred Grove of Keltria. I wrote down what I knew of Roy’s background; none of it seemed very positive, from his splintered family to his alleged use of drugs. Fern’s husband had died ten years ago, leaving her with a minimal income and a passion for all things botanical. I added what Jorgeson had told me about Nicholas Chunder. The fact that he’d been married did not have significant impact on Roy’s credibility. The lack of alcohol in his blood, on the other hand, did.

  I moved along. Sullivan Sawyer was a grad student in anthropology. Morning Rose home-schooled her children and prepared vegetarian casseroles. Gilda D’Orcher worked at the hospital, lived in a trailer, and traveled by bicycle (and broom, possibly). I drew a question mark beside her name as I tried to come up with an explanation for her peculiar behavior.

  When nothing suggested itself, I wrote Malthea’s name at the bottom of the page. I didn’t need any more space, since I knew nothing about her except her address for the last two years. Had she lived in another state or in another part of town? Was she widowed, divorced, or steadfastly single? She’d spent more than a hundred dollars on books, so she had some discretionary income. From a pension or from selling nosegays of holly and mistletoe on the street?

  I turned to a clean page and wrote down a timetable that began with the arrival of the group at Nicholas’s house to decorate and concluded with Malthea’s return after midnight. I wondered where the others had been during that period. Despite their indisputable idiosyncrasies, they were liable to have been performing commonplace rituals, such as watching television, reading, and sleeping. In Fern’s case, misting plants; in Nicholas’s, cruising the Internet. The Sawyers had children to be bathed, disarmed, and put to bed. Gilda might have been poring through dusty old volumes of curses for something suitably malevolent for Nicholas.

  I kept coming back to Roy’s confession. He’d taken a risk by hiding in my car so that he could tell me his story. His reluctance to do so at the police station was understandable. It just didn’t quite play.

  I was staring at my notes, my chin resting on a fist, when the telephone rang. It seemed as though every call lately had been disastrous, and it was tempting to let it go unanswered. However, Caron was not safely ensconced in her bedroom, so there was the possibility she might be calling about bail.

  As soon as I’d said hello, Peter said, “Good, I caught you at home.”

  “Where did you think I’d be—down at the gym playing basketball with the college boys?”

  “I thought you might be out shopping or having dinner with Luanne.”

  “I couldn’t handle that much excitement. What do you want?”

  He gave a rueful chuckle. “I was wrong when I said Myron was after my mother’s money. He’s rolling in it. He has a lodge in a ski resort in Vermont, and has invited all of us to go up there for Christmas.”

  “All of us?” I echoed.

  “Yes, all of us. Leslie doesn’t need to be back in her office until after New Year’s Day, and the kennel’s agreed to keep Boris and Igor. She’s a serious skier. I, on the other hand, will undoubtedly break a leg and have to be brought down the mountain on one of those silly-looking sleds.”

  “I’m sure you’re an excellent skier,” I said.

  “It’s been a while. Anyway, I wanted to let you know not to expect me for nine or ten days. I’m sorry I won’t be there for Christmas or New Year’s Eve, but this will be a good opportunity to get to know Myron.”

  “I guess you already know Leslie—or has she changed since the divorce?”

  I was hoping to hear how she’d gained a hundred pounds and lost her teeth, so I was disappointed when Peter said, “Not that I’ve noticed, but she only arrived this afternoon. Everybody’s waiting in the limo for me, so I’d better say good-bye.”

  “Have a lovely time in Vermont, Peter.” I hung up and sat back down at the kitchen table, ashamed of my acerbic remarks. He’d had the decency to pretend not to notice, but neither of us was fooling the other.

  I was in the terminal stage of the Sour Grape Syndrome, and it was not pretty.

  I debated calling Luanne and spilling out my pitiful plight, but decided against it. What I needed to do, I told myself resolutely, was to put all of this out of my mind and recover a modicum of self-respect by resolving Nicholas Chunder’s murder to my own satisfaction. If Roy had committed it, then all I needed was an explanation for the enigmatic brandy decanter and glasses. This would require me to question him, which was a bit of a problem since no one knew where he was.

  He’d taken refuge in Fern’s greenhouse the previous evening and might have returned; it was not a night for camping out under a bush. Anyone dressed in black would have no problems avoiding being spotted by a cruising patrol car.

  I put on my coat and went down the steps to the garage. I made sure Roy wasn’t there, either, then drove to Fern’s and Malthea’s duplex and parked. Lights were on in both sides, but drapes were drawn. I approached with admirable stealth and found a slit that gave me a limited view of Malthea’s living room.

  She was talking on the telephone while toying with what I recognized as tarot cards on the table in front of her. Her expression was so absorbed that I was reluctant to interrupt her.

  Fern did not respond to my repeated knocks. I went around the side yard to the gate. This time I found a latch, let myself into the backyard, and was pleased to see a glow inside the greenhouse.

  The glass panels were milky with condensed humidity, but there was a hint of movement. I wasn’t sure of the etiquette for barging into a greenhouse and startling its occupant into overmisting. I finally tapped and let myself inside.

  Fern looked up at me. “Claire?”

  My lungs were clogged with air so warm and wet that I could barely breathe. “Steamy, isn’t it?” I croaked.

  “Some of the tropical species require it,” she said without inflection. “Is there a reason why you’re here?”

  Most of my resolve was leaking through my pores and forming beads of sweat on my surfaces. “I’m concerned about Roy. No one’s heard from him all day. Did Malthea tell you what happened?”

  “Some of it, yes.”

  “He needs to turn himself in,” I said, fanning my face with one hand. The heat and humidity were more like an equatorial rain forest than a sunny island. Admittedly, the plants were thriving. Everywhere I looked I saw brilliant oranges, pinks, yellows, and reds. Leaves were dark green, tendrils thick and hardy enough to strangle a small dog.

  Or a bookseller.

  “I haven’t seen Roy,” Fern said.

  “He didn’t come back here?”

  She gave me a pinched smile. “Wouldn’t I have seen him if he did?”

  Time for a new tactic, I told myself. “These are all so lovely, Fern. You must have a green thumb.”

  “They do thrive here, don’t they? I used the last of the insurance money to have this built, and it’s been a pleasure and sanctuary for me ever since.” She put down a trowel and came around the edge of a table. “What will happen now? Will Nicholas’s heirs sell the property?”

  “I don’t know, but probate takes a long time and you may not have to move anytime soon. Malthea said you were distressed about giving up your greenhouse.” I waited a moment, then added, “I can see why. This is a different world, isn’t it?”

  “It’s different,” she said as if speaking to a particularly dim child. “Do you see these yellow berries? One of them can kill an adult in a matter of minutes. I find it odd that they’re so attractive and yet so fatal. Mother Nature can be naughty.” She pointed at a plant with spiky orange pods. “This is a castor-oil plant. The seeds are very poisonous.”

  I eyed it, then edged back toward the door in case it was exuding fumes. “Did Malthea tell you that she returned to Nicholas’s house after the brouhaha?”

  “I don’t believe that,” Fern said as she began to dig into the soil
surrounding a feathery fern. “I would have seen her.”

  “You would have seen her drive away?”

  “Is your hearing defective? I would have seen her at Nicholas’s house, or at least passed her car on the road.” She yanked the plant out of the pot and grimly thrust it into a larger one, seemingly oblivious of the soil spilling on her shoes. “I am more than capable of recognizing her car. It’s dreadfully noisy and emits billows of black smoke. I don’t know how many times I’ve told her to have the oil changed, but she’s too stubborn. My husband stressed the importance of proper automobile maintenance. I have my oil changed every two thousand miles.”

  I frowned at her. “You went back to Nicholas’s house the night he was murdered?”

  “I just said so, didn’t I?” She took the newly repotted plant to a sink and turned on the tap. “Setting the roots is a vital step in the process. It packs down the dirt and compresses air pockets. Air pockets can lead to bacteria.”

  I felt as though I had more than one such pocket in my brain. “Let’s talk some more about this, Fern. When did you go back—and why?”

  “I went back at eleven, and obviously in hopes that I might persuade Nicholas to change his mind. This business about the Wiccans was ridiculous, and he no more would have enjoyed living in Wales than he would in a dwelling made of mud and wattle. He was not friendly, but he invited me inside and allowed me to sit at the kitchen table. I suggested we talk over brandy. I could sense that he was uneasy, but I had little sympathy since he’d brought this crisis on himself with his childishness. He brought out the decanter and glasses and poured a bit for both of us.”

  “And drank it?”

  Fern began rearranging a tray of seedlings in tiny pots. “I wasted no time in telling him what I thought of his petty display earlier in the evening. He spat out a mouthful of brandy and threatened to throw me out of his house. It was clear that he was beyond reason, so I returned to my car and sat until I felt calm enough to drive home. I am not accustomed to being treated that way. My deceased husband, rest his soul, was always solicitous of my feelings and never so much as raised his voice. Not, of course, that he ever had reason to do so.”

  I wasn’t interested in the late Mr. Lewis, no matter how he died. “How long did you sit in your car?”

  “Until I realized I was shivering not from shock but from cold. Ten minutes, I’d say.”

  “Did you see lights on in Roy’s apartment?”

  “I believe so, and I could hear the caterwauling that passes as music with today’s youth. It’s disgraceful. I don’t know why their parents allow them to listen to such garbage. Music should have a melody and lyrics that contain no obscenities.” She looked down at the rows and smiled to herself. “I’m finished for the evening, Claire. I suggest we walk through my apartment so you can leave through the front door like a proper guest.”

  Her rebuke was hard to miss, but I merely said, “It is rather dark in the yard. There’s something I don’t understand. If you arrived at eleven, it sounds as though you left no later than eleven-thirty. Malthea claims she was there after midnight.”

  Fern shoved me out the door and flipped off the lights in the greenhouse. I thought she might ignore my question, but after a moment, she said, “Then my previous statement was in error. I was confused about the time. This has been so dreadfully upsetting that it’s a wonder I can remember anything that’s happened. The winter solstice is meant to be a glorious celebration, not a nightmare of rage and violence. You must excuse this lapse on my part.”

  She continued to apologize as she propelled me through the apartment, and I found myself on the front porch before I could get in another word. “Good night,” she said, then closed the door. Seconds later, the lights in the living room went off.

  Good night, Fern.

  Malthea was still holding the receiver to her ear, but the tarot cards had been replaced with standard ones and she appeared to be playing solitaire. She spoke steadily for a few moments, paused to shift a card, and then resumed.

  Gilda was not available and it was too late to drop by the Sawyers’ house. I drove home, thinking about Fern’s account of her visit. It explained the presence of the bottle and glasses, and also Roy’s assertion that he’d smelled booze on Nicholas’s breath. There was no alcohol in Nicholas’s blood because he’d spat it out. It was all falling into place so neatly that I wouldn’t have been surprised to find Morning Rose in my garage, ready to tell me how she’d gone back to Primrose Hill at precisely twelve-fifteen and taken away the murder weapon.

  As I went inside, the telephone started to ring. It was not apt to be Peter, who was in a limo headed for a lodge in Vermont. Would he be sharing a bedroom with Myron, while his mother and Leslie shared the other one and stayed up all night, giggling and giving each other pedicures? If there were lots of bedrooms, how much tiptoeing might take place in dark hallways? Myron might be rolling in money, but what would Peter be rolling in?

  I realized the telephone was still ringing. I picked up the receiver and waited silently.

  “Mrs. Malloy?” said Jorgeson. “Are you there?”

  I exhaled. “Yes, I’m here. It’s eight o’clock, Jorgeson. Don’t you ever go home?”

  “I went home at five, and as soon as I got there, my wife dragged me out to the mall. It’s how I imagine the Black Hole of Calcutta would be if everyone had American Express and Visa. Haggard faces, dazed eyes, twitchy fingers, bad tempers. Not a healthy place.”

  “Are you calling me to pass along your sociological insights into a great American tradition, Jorgeson? Couldn’t you have waited until tomorrow?”

  “Thing is, I got beeped in the middle of Sears. The murder weapon’s been found, and I thought you’d want to know. It’s registered to Randall Tate.”

  “Roy’s father?”

  “Randall ain’t his dog, Mrs. Malloy. He’s owned the gun for ten years.”

  “And you’re sure it’s the murder weapon?”

  “The only thing I’m sure of is that my wife’s still at the mall, buying everything that’s left to teach me a lesson. You need any sheets? She’s real fond of sheets.”

  I sat down and rubbed my eyes. “Where was the gun found?”

  “In the hearse, which is appropriate in a screwball way. There’s a compartment under the carpet in the back part. I dunno why, unless the funeral director needed a place for his wallet during the cemetery service—or he plucked watches and jewelry off his customers during the ride. Anyway, you see the problem, don’t you?”

  If I’d rubbed any harder, I would have peeled off a layer of cells. “Yes, Jorgeson, I see it. Nicholas didn’t pull a gun on Roy, Roy took the gun with him when he went into the house. This seems a tad premeditated, doesn’t it? He either sensed what might happen and armed himself, or he had an entirely different agenda.”

  “The real reason I called was to warn you, Mrs. Malloy. Randall Tate owns another handgun. All of his furniture and personal belongings are in storage, and it’ll be a couple of days before we can determine if it’s there. You need to be careful. Roy lied to you.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s going to stalk me,” I said, glancing uneasily at the kitchen window. “All I know is what these Druids insist on telling me. By the way, I listened to yet another casual confession this evening.” I repeated the gist of Fern’s story. “Tidy, isn’t it?”

  “That’s what my wife puts in the toilet bowl,” Jorgeson said without amusement. “I wish the lieutenant was here to figure these people out. I don’t think even one of them is telling the truth.”

  “As in the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? I don’t think we’ve heard a pitiful fraction of the truth,” I said. “What are you going to do about Roy?”

  Jorgeson grumbled under his breath. “Same thing we’ve been doing, which is hoping to catch him on campus or walking down the street. We know where he’s not—and that’s about it. If he approaches you, Mrs. Malloy, don’t offer him eggnog and cookies. Get
hold of me or whoever’s on duty. The boy could be dangerous.”

  I replaced the receiver and went into the living room. Roy’s version of what had happened in Nicholas’s kitchen might inspire an R-rated Disney film, but not a documentary. It had been holding up rather well until now; Malthea and Fern had covered a few glitches, and Morning Rose had volunteered several comments about Nicholas’s questionable motive for living in isolation.

  Only two more shopping days till Christmas, I thought as I gazed at the packages under the tree. I’d planned to give Peter a hefty book about the history of some football organization; for reasons unfathomable to me, he seemed enamored of bearish men knocking each other to the ground.

  The book was among the other packages, meticulously wrapped and adorned with a big silver bow. Clearly he would not open it Christmas morning—or any other morning until January was under way. Leaving it there would only serve as a reminder of where he was.

  I considered putting the book on a closet shelf, but even its unseen presence in the apartment would wear away at me like an endlessly dripping faucet.

  I decided to take the book back to the store, and then see if I could persuade Luanne to watch a movie rather than plan a wedding. If she persisted in harping on the subject (and she could be very persistent after a few glasses of wine), I would feign the onset of flu symptoms and allow myself to be ejected.

  The wind was colder than it had been earlier, and gusting imperiously. Brittle leaves scratched across the floor of the garage. I quickly got in the car, started it, and gave it a moment to warm up. As I waited, I tried to recall the last time I’d had the oil changed. It was definitely more than two thousand miles ago.

  The streets were almost empty as I drove alongside the campus and turned on Thurber Street. Anybody playing with a full deck (tarot or conventional) was at home, wearing warm bedroom slippers and munching popcorn.

  I parked behind the Book Depot, grabbed the package, and hurried to the back door. My teeth were chattering by the time I managed to get the key in the lock and push open the protesting door. I stomped my feet to announce my presence to the nighttime denizens, some with six legs and some with brown fur, long tails, and an irksome habit of leaving traces of their presence along the baseboards.