A Holly, Jolly Murder Read online

  “Me?”

  She glared at him, then made a quasi-successful attempt to soften her expression as she turned to me “Mrs. Malloy, if you don’t mind, I think I need to have a word in private with my husband.”

  “Don’t mind me,” I said with my customary grace and charm. “I was once married to someone who was known to detour by a bar on occasion. Go right ahead.”

  “Dada is blotto,” sang a high-pitched voice from around the corner. “Dada is blotto.”

  “Can I have a pet demon?” asked another, somewhat deeper voice.

  Morning Rose grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet. “Thank you for coming by. Please let me know if there’s anything we can do to help. Now, if you don’t mind…?”

  I was on the porch by this time, and the grip she had on me made it clear I wasn’t going back inside the house unless I was versed in sumo wrestling. I pulled myself free and said, “If there’s anything else you want to tell me, call or drop by the bookstore.”

  She pulled the door closed behind her. “I would like an update on Roy. He’s been through so much, and I don’t believe that he realized what he was doing when he shot Nicholas. He doesn’t need to go to prison, where he’ll be abused by hardened inmates and tormented by his guilt. He’s only sixteen. He can be saved, turned around, aimed in the right direction. At the moment, he’s into drugs and some unhealthy philosophies, but he and I used to talk about poetry and light and goodness. Is there anything you can do for him?”

  “I’ll certainly try.” I heard Sullivan bellowing at the children. “I guess I’d better go.”

  Morning Rose looked at me for an uncomfortably long moment, and then went back inside and shut the door.

  As I drove toward Thurber Street, it occurred to me that by now Roy had proffered three versions of what had taken place on the eve of the winter solstice. The burglary version had held up only until Corporal Billsby had said there’d been no forcible entry into Nicholas’s house. That evening, Roy had come up with the purported sexual-advances version. Malthea and Fern had conveniently stuck wadding in the cracks, and Morning Rose had dropped dark hints about Nicholas’s secretive personal life.

  The current version was a real doozy. I didn’t know whether it would play in Peoria, but I doubted it would in Farberyille, USA.

  Caron would still have time to beat the crowd to the mall if I made a small detour, I decided as I turned onto a side street and made my way to the police station for the third time in less than a week. At this rate, I’d merit my own parking space in the lot next to the innocuous brick building. Lieutenant Rosen had one; the stenciled lettering on the sign was faded, but still legible. I considered yanking it up and tossing it in a Dumpster, then hurried inside before I gave way to the impulse.

  “Is Sergeant Jorgeson here?” I asked the shiny-faced rookie at the reception desk.

  “No, he’s out at a crime scene right now. You want to leave a message?”

  “Is he at Nicholas Chunder’s house?”

  “I’m not allowed to say, ma’am,” the rookie murmured, his ears turning as red as geraniums.

  “Please let him know that I’ll be there shortly.” I went back out to my car before I could be detained on some fictitious violation.

  Fifteen minutes later I parked next to a patrol car and a rather dismal car that was likely to belong to Jorgeson. After a brief argument, the uniformed officer at the door went inside to consult his superior, returned with a chagrined expression, and gestured for me to go inside. I found Jorgeson in the hallway, gazing pensively at an oil painting of one of Nicholas’s long-departed ancestors. If the artist had accurately captured his subject, this ancestor had died of bad hair.

  “Jorgeson,” I said in the resolute tone of a brollywielding spinster, “I’ve had a thought.”

  “I’m sure you have, Mrs. Malloy. Oddly enough, so have I.”

  I overlooked this less-than-warm reception. “If Gilda D’Orcher was willing to risk breaking in, she must have been looking for something. It could be a pentagram drawn in chalk on Nicholas’s bedroom floor, or proof that she’s his illegitimate daughter and therefore entitled to inherit Primrose Hill and all the rental properties.”

  “Could be,” Jorgeson said. “But I think we’d have noticed a pentagram the first time we searched. At the moment, we’re going through all the papers in the desk. I’m more inclined to expect to find a bunch of boring letters to county courthouses and genealogical libraries than a birth certificate, but what do I know? I’m just a cop.”

  I glanced at the door of the study. “What about computer files?”

  “We’re not having much luck. Apparently, there’s a way to put secret passwords on files, and no easy way to determine what they are. Maybe Chunder was an agent for a foreign power and was sending classified documents about military breakthroughs, or maybe he was into pornography and weird sex, or maybe he just liked to play games. Hard to know until my guy gets into the files. It could take days, even weeks.”

  “Was he really going to sell everything?” I asked.

  “Now that we do know. He’d listed his property with a real estate agency, and was corresponding with a company in Cardiff. One of our college-educated boys says that’s in Wales. I wouldn’t know, myself. The most exotic place my wife and I have ever been is New Orleans. She didn’t like it because of all the topless bars and drunks urinating in alleys.”

  “I don’t blame her,” I said, disappointed that nothing startling had been uncovered. I went to the doorway of the living room and looked at the artificial winter wonderland. A few strands of tinsel had fallen, and the greenery was turning brittle and brown. Two pewter tankards had been left on a shelf near the fireplace. It looked like the aftermath of a party awaiting the attention of a hungover host.

  Jorgeson joined me. “Depressing, isn’t it?”

  “This entire mess is depressing,” I said. “Roy’s the same age as Caron. He’s either psychotic or the most polished liar I’ve ever encountered. He must have done it, though. He’s confessed twice now, and the weapon’s damning.”

  “There’s no doubt it was the weapon, and his prints were on it. There were a couple of smudges, but they’ve been identified as belonging to his father, who’s been gone for three months.”

  “What about the brandy decanter?”

  “We thought of that, too, Mrs. Malloy. It was in a cabinet over there, and covered with dust. No one, including your friends, moved it or wiped off prints or did anything with it before the murder. These people are giving me a helluvan ulcer. They’re all lying, and I don’t know why. We’ve got a perp, we’ve got a weapon, and we’ve got a confession, which is enough proof to dump on the district attorney’s desk. The doctors and the prosecutors can determine if the boy’s competent to stand trial.”

  “What about Malthea?”

  “The jury may have sympathy for the boy, but I don’t think they’ll feel anything but revulsion for her. Most people who serve on juries are parents or grandparents. They’re not going to let her go free to find another messed-up teenager.”

  “Particularly if she won’t defend herself,” I said.

  Jorgeson stepped into the hallway. “She may have something to say if and when she’s charged with first-degree homicide, as well as impeding an investigation, perjury, contributing to the delinquency, and whatever else the DA can find. His hemorrhoids flare up during the winter.”

  I asked Jorgeson for permission to go to the grove. He thought it over, shrugged, and told me to watch out for snakes. I assured him I would, then drove back to the main road and found the narrow lane that I’d taken the morning of the solstice. If only I’d missed it. in the dark, I thought as my car slid from rut to rut like an inept ice-skater. Or better yet, if I’d flatout told Malthea that I was unable to get her encyclopedia and other books. Aspirin, scotch, and gasoline would eat up the profits from that transaction.”

  The pasture was no more appealing in the daylight than it had been previousl
y, although it was easier to transverse. I found the tree where Gilda had waited for me, ducked under a branch, and headed into what appeared to be the primeval forest.

  I took a few false turns, but eventually floundered through a line of firs and found myself at the edge of the grove. Much of the greenery had fallen off the stone altar or been dragged away by rabbits to decorate their burrows.

  I sat down on a stump and tried to picture the scene Roy had described. Had Malthea really brought him here and convinced him that she possessed the power to summon a demon? That she belonged to a secret cult that performed human sacrifices? Twinkly Malthea?

  If Roy stuck with his story, he was apt to be sent away to a mental hospital until the doctors found the right balance of therapy and drugs. Malthea would spend the rest of her life in a prison. Fern might, too, since she’d implicated herself when she lied to me about the brandy decanter. She, like Malthea, had been familiar with Roy’s initial confession and done her part to substantiate it.

  Could that have also been Gilda’s motive when she foolishly tried to break into the house? Had she intended to dust off the decanter and contribute a smeared fingerprint or two?

  A shadow fell across the altar, reminding me that it was getting late. I stood up and brushed off my derriere, took a last look at the somber circle of oak trees, and was about to leave when I heard a crackling noise from somewhere behind the firs. Not the rustling of a small animal, mind you, or the fluttering of dried leaves in the branches, or even the blazing of a satanic furnace as something slipped out for a field trip.

  At this time of year, bears were in caves and cows were in barns. I’d noticed in the local paper that deer-hunting season had passed. Not at all pleased, I took refuge behind a somewhat inadequate tree trunk (I am svelte, but not so that I can be toppled in a light breeze).

  Malthea stepped into the grove. In a heavy overcoat, gloves, and a scarf, she looked like an ordinary housewife on her way to the grocery store for frozen peas and a can of cat food. This, however, was not a grocery store, and she was far from ordinary.

  “I must speak to you,” she said to whatever of my anatomy was visible.

  I emerged, my face warm with embarrassment. “Have you been following me, Malthea?”

  “Earlier this afternoon I parked across from your store, but each time I started to get out of the car, someone would go inside. I was ready to give up when you drove away. You’ve been as busy as a squirrel in autumn, haven’t you? First to the Sawyers’ house, then the police station, Nicholas’s house, and now here. Was it the desire for solitude that brought you to the Sacred Grove?”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  She sat down on the stump I’d vacated and settled her satchel in her lap. “I’d like to hear exactly what Roy told you last night.”

  “You’ve been told the gist of it, and I don’t see any reason to go into detail.” I began to sidle around the perimeter of the grove, keeping an eye on her satchel. “If you want to discuss Roy’s allegation, I’m sure Sergeant Jorgeson will be happy to oblige you. My daughter’s waiting for me to get back to the bookstore so that she can have the car.”

  “I cannot discuss this with the sergeant until you tell me what Roy told you,” she said. “I was under the assumption that you wanted to help. This is your opportunity, if I am correct.”

  “I do, which is why I’m advising you to go to Sergeant Jorgeson.”

  “I can’t do that,” she said mulishly.

  “Why not? Roy’s told his side of the story, and you should be eager to tell yours. He wouldn’t be undergoing a psychiatric evaluation if he were stable. Trust me when I say he’s not. He may have started taking mind-altering drugs when he moved to Farberville, or he may have been experiencing schizophrenic episodes for years. How did he seem to you when you and Fern found him in the greenhouse?”

  “Cold and hungry. He’d hoped he could sleep there for at least one night, but you ruined that when you returned with the police officers, didn’t you? He barely had time to stuff a roll in his coat pocket before fleeing into the night.”

  Or into the backseat of my car, anyway. “Did he call you from a pay phone the next morning?” I asked her, still concerned about the contents of her satchel. Ambesek could not have fit inside, but a handgun scarcely would have created a bulge.

  “What makes you think he called me?”

  “I know he called you, Malthea. He told you what he’d told me, and you spotted his mistakes immediately. You came to the bookstore to do damage control. Later, after Jorgeson mentioned the lack of alcohol in Nicholas’s blood, you and Fern hatched up another fabrication to cover it. You and she ought to be writing screenplays in Hollywood. She could have a greenhouse with every species of plant known to science, and you could buy several thousand acres with a grove in the middle.”

  Malthea picked up her satchel and rose to her feet. “All that is irrelevant. You must tell me what Roy said to you and the sergeant last night.”

  “And if I refuse?” I said, easing backward until my back hit a tree trunk. Forests would be more hospitable with fewer trees. “Will you summon a demon to coerce me?”

  “When I first met you, Claire, you seemed like a calm, agreeable person. Lately you’ve been doing and saying the strangest things. Does the holiday season always disturb you this way? Mumsy had the same problem, which is why she took to opium so fervently. She claimed it was medicinal. To her surprise, the gentlemen from Interpol felt differently.”

  “I’m leaving, Malthea. We can walk back to the lane together, or you can stay here and meditate until you’re blue in the face, which will be well before dawn.”

  Without waiting for her reply, I plunged back through the firs.

  Chapter 12

  When I got back to the Book Depot, Caron thrust out her hand and waited until I dropped the car key in it before saying, “Did you forget to mention that this errand of yours involved a trip to Another State? That’s probably where the only empty parking place at the mall is by now. Is it in Montana or West Virginia? Is there a shuttle?”

  “Did you have any customers?” I asked as I went in the office to hang up my coat.

  “Yeah, a few. Is there any gas in the car?”

  “Not enough to cross state lines, but ample to get to the mall and back. That is where you’re going, isn’t it?”

  “That’s what I said,” she said, suddenly finding the need to align the pens and pencils on the counter like neatly toppled (and nutritionally challenged) toy soldiers. “We’ll shop until nine when the mall closes, and then maybe get a pizza.”

  “I would have thought you and Inez were sick of the mall by now, particularly after what happened the other day.”

  She shrugged ever so innocently. “I’m not going to invite Mrs. Claus to share a pizza with us, if that’s what you’re implying. I don’t ever want to set eyes on her or her manual again. Inez is going to meet me a little after eight by the fountain at the opposite end of the mall.”

  “Be home by eleven,” I said, then stood by the window and watched her get into the car, twist the rearview mirror to inspect her makeup, and drive away. I was convinced she was up to something more insidious than wandering around the mall, but I couldn’t begin to think what it might be.

  I had a partial answer when an unfamiliar teenage girl with frizzy blond hair and unfortunately tight jeans came into the store an hour later. After a brief bout of stammering, she asked to speak to Caron.

  “She’s at the mall,” I said.

  “Drat! Even if I knew what she looked like, there’s no way I could find her in that madhouse and we’re leaving at five-thirty.”

  “You and Caron?”

  “No,” the girl said, wringing her hands like a heroine steeling herself to go up the dark, creaky staircase to the attic where things did not bode well for her. “I told her she could come over after supper, but now my mother’s decided she wants to leave for my grandma’s house as soon as she gets off work in
stead of waiting until tomorrow. I can ask my grandma’s permission to make a long-distance call, but she’ll most likely say no. She’s so cheap that she unplugs all the lamps and appliances at night so they can’t leak electricity.”

  “Would you like to leave Caron a note?” I said, pushing a piece of paper and a pencil across the counter and hoping I didn’t seem overly eager.

  Or rabid.

  “It’s kinda complicated for that. Can I just tell you?” I nodded with commendable restraint. “Darla Jean and I didn’t up and quit, although we sure wanted to after Miz Portmeyer started nagging us all the time and bawling us out over nothing. I mean, it wasn’t easy to keep the line moving, collect the money, and jam the photographs in the cardboard frames—all with mothers squawking because they didn’t like the stiff smiles on their kids’ faces and Santa getting lost every time he went to the rest room. Darla Jean said she’d work on her uncle’s hog farm afore she’d put up with that again.”

  “You were fired?” I asked before she could launch into a discourse on the merits of a career in porcine husbandry.

  “Miz Portmeyer said we took money from the cash-box when her back was turned. How could we have done that? It’s not like the costumes have pockets, and our purses were in our lockers. She just frowned and said that we must have passed the money to someone outside the fence. I was so mad I wanted to tell her to put one of those elves in a place where the sun don’t shine, but Darla Jean started crying and I had to take her to the lounge before she made fools out of both of us.”

  “Was there money missing?”

  “If there was, Miz Portmeyer took it herself. I don’t see why she would, though. She always wore real expensive clothes and jewelry, and once she sent me to get something out of the trunk of her fancy sports car. Thirty dollars is nothing but lunch money to her. Anyway, that’s what Caron wanted to talk about. Tell her I’m sorry, but I won’t be back home until three or four days after Christmas, depending on how long my mother can put up with my grandma. It’s usually not very long.”