A Holly, Jolly Murder Page 5

  “Yeah,” he said as he pulled a notebook out of his pocket. “Is this one of those oddball cults where you all get naked and have orgies?”

  Malthea swept across the patio in a bustle of white ripples and stuck her finger perilously close to his nose. “Your ignorance is shocking, young man. Druids worship nature, and we gather on holidays to invoke the inspirational presence of the Spirit. We chant, we dance, we meditate, and we offer benedictions to all the deities. We do not get naked, as you so crudely put it.”

  “And Wiccans rarely have orgies,” said Gilda.

  Corporal Billsby stared at her. “I thought she said you were Druids—whatever the hell that means.”

  “Well, I’m not, and if I could find a coven, I wouldn’t be here. I prefer the structure and exclusivity of the Wiccan religion.” She glanced at me. “We never allow gawkers to intrude on our ceremonies, and in particular, our initiation rites.”

  “Which are orgies?” said Billsby, visibly confused.

  Gilda smiled. “That’s an oversimplification of a religio-magical tradition that goes back more than five thousand years to the clay goddesses and cave paintings of the Neolithic era. Within the divine is a duality that is both male and female, and when the Great Mother Goddess and her consort, the Horned God, are reconciled ultimately in a divinity which is one, we achieve transcendency. It’s as much spiritual as it is sexual. Want to give it a try some time, big boy? You can wear a mask and a cute little fur codpiece.”

  I wondered if Corporal Billsby might shoot me in the back if I attempted to dash around the house. It seemed likely, I concluded. His expression was that of someone awakening from a coma surrounded not by loved ones, but by large, green, tentacled creatures. Regrettably, I could tell he’d placed me in the latter group.

  “Listen up,” he said, backing toward the kitchen door. “No one moves till the sergeant gets here. Don’t talk to each other, either.” His eyes swiveled nervously toward Gilda. “And don’t go taking off any clothes. The sergeant won’t like it, and he’ll already be pissed on account of getting a call at this hour.”

  I felt a wave of relief as I realized Peter would not be arriving momentarily to take charge of the crime scene. My presence at past crime scenes had never made his eyes light up and his lips curl into a smile of delight. One would think he’d appreciate the observations of an intelligent, perceptive witness, but that hadn’t happened to date. On more than one occasion, he’d visibly bristled like a hedgehog. This time, I thought, I’d be spared the lecture and admonishments to mind my own business.

  And there was no reason for me to involve myself in this investigation. I barely knew any of the Druids, and had met the victim only briefly. The winter solstice had arrived without dramatic fanfare, and all I wanted to do was to depart in the same fashion. However, Corporal Billsby had recognized me, so there was little hope my name would slip through a crack in the reports. The media would lapse into an unattractive feeding frenzy when details were made known to them; words such as “witches” and “pagan rituals” would dominate the headlines. The dispatcher could anticipate several new pages in the infamous scrapbook.

  As soon as Billsby was safely inside the house, I sat down next to Malthea and gave her an encouraging smile. “Don’t worry too much about this. The medical examiner is the only person qualified to attest to the cause of death. He’ll probably determine that Nicholas had a heart attack and there was nothing unnatural about his death.”

  “But there was,” she said.

  My eyes instinctively widened. “Why do you say that? Does it have to do with whatever happened last night that resulted in what you referred to as a ‘calamity’?”

  “No one ever forgets where the hatchet is buried.”

  “I suppose not,” I said carefully. “What exactly took place last night?”

  “We gathered in Nicholas’s living room to decorate for the climactic finale of our celebration to be held this morning. Fern and I brought bushel baskets of holly, ivy, and whatever greenery we could procure at this time of year. Morning Rose and Sullivan brought tinsel and string. Roy had cut down mistletoe from the oak trees surrounding the grove. We draped all the furniture with sheets, then hung garlands everywhere. It looked so peaceful, like a secluded glen on a snowy morning. I could sense the approval of the deities and the blessing of Mother Earth.”

  “But Nicholas was not happy?”

  “I think he’d been exasperated by certain members of the grove for quite some time. He fancied himself to be a purist in matters of Druidry, although he based his interpretation on the nineteenth-century revival. That was absurd, of course, since they were heavily influenced by Freemasonry—and attracted some unsavory occult practitioners as well. ‘Balderdash!’ I said to him time and again. ‘Rosicrucians and cabalists were no more Druids than the poets who frequented Mumsy’s salon in Budapest.’”

  I heard voices from the front of the house and made an effort to steer her back to the subject at hand. “What did Nicholas do that upset you and the others?”

  “I was not upset, dearie,” she said chidingly. “I was concerned. Fern, on the other hand, did seem agitated as we drove out here this morning. I clutched my crystal all the way so that its healing power might soothe her. It’s so important to conduct rituals with the proper attitude, you know.”

  The voices were growing louder. I gave up trying to get a coherent response from her and moved across the patio to a neutral, and I hoped inconspicuous, spot. The first person to come around the corner was a rabbity little man with a medical bag. He went into the kitchen as Sergeant Jorgeson and several other men arrived on the patio.

  Jorgeson was Peter’s minion, which no doubt explained his dyspeptic nature. He gave me a discouraged look, then gestured at the rest of the crime-scene team to follow him into the house. I tagged along, and despite a scowl from Corporal Billsby, squeezed my way into the room.

  “From the looks of it, I’d say he died maybe six to eight hours ago from a bullet wound to the chest,” said the man I assumed was the medical examiner. “The shot was fired from less than three feet away. Any sign of a weapon?”

  “No, sir,” said the other uniformed officer.

  Jorgeson squatted down to study the bloodied face. “He was beaten before he was shot.” He looked up at the officer. “Anybody else live here?”

  “No, sir. Only one bedroom appears to be occupied; the others are kinda dusty. But you ought to take a look at the front room. I don’t know what this dude was into, but it sure wasn’t interior decorating. It’s spooky, if you ask me.”

  Jorgeson stood up. “Rather than asking you, why don’t I take a look? Would you like to join me, Mrs. Malloy? You’ll undoubtedly do it anyway unless I have you handcuffed to a tree.”

  “I did not come in here in order to interfere, Jorgeson. I simply want to ask that the people outside be allowed to wait someplace warm. Two of the women are elderly and beginning to turn a bit blue. Hypothermia is not conducive to cooperating in an investigation.”

  He gave me a dry smile, then said, “Billsby, you and Cliffern get their names and addresses, then send them to the station to give statements. I want all of them to be available the rest of the day if I have questions. Mrs. Malloy, why don’t we have a look at the living room?”

  As we went down the hall, I said, “Roy said there’s a broken window in Nicholas’s study. Have there been other burglaries in the area?”

  Jorgeson stopped so abruptly that I almost bumped my nose on his shoulder. Without turning, he said, “Mrs. Malloy, the only reason I’ve allowed you this much leeway is because you seem to have some idea of who these people are. Once you have shared that with me, you will be free to go home and have a nice hot cup of coffee. I’ll need to get your statement when we have time. God knows I’d pay big bucks to be able to see the lieutenant’s expression when he hears you were here. His nose will light up like that reindeer’s.”

  “He’s terribly worried that his mother is goin
g to elope with a gigolo named Myron. There’s really no reason to add to his troubles.”

  “I’m not going to lie to him,” Jorgeson said as he resumed walking.

  I caught up with him in the doorway to the living room. I’d planned on an insightful comment about the subtle difference between sins of commission and those of omission, but I found myself speechless. The room had been decorated as Malthea had said, and it did bear some resemblance to a forest glen—if said glen had been seized by hyperactive elves obsessed with pine-scented disinfectant.

  “What’s the deal?” Jorgeson asked me.

  I told him about the aborted celebration in the clearing, stressing that my presence was motivated solely by my adventurous spirit and openness to novel experiences.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Does the lieutenant know you’re a closet Druid?”

  “I am no such thing,” I said. “Perhaps you don’t need my cooperation after all. Start with the Arch Druid. The only thing you’re liable to get out of her is a long-winded account of her mother’s childhood among the cannibals. The boy in the black jacket, known around the high school as Mr. Mortician, has a reputation for refusing to speak to authority figures. Fern’s snappish, but Morning Rose will be happy to share her skewed take on developmental psychology, and—”

  “Okay,” he said, holding up his hand, “I get the point. Let’s find a less leafy room where you can tell me who these people are and why”—he glanced into the living room—“they do whatever it is they do.”

  “So that you can tell the lieutenant how deeply involved I am?”

  “You are obligated to cooperate fully with us, Mrs. Malloy. Anything less could be construed as impeding an investigation.”

  “Our definitions of ‘fully’ may differ, Sergeant Jorgeson. I will certainly give a factual accounting of any interaction I may have had with those people. It won’t take long.”

  Peter would have had me hauled to an interrogation room and left me to ponder my transgressions over cold, oily coffee and a floor show featuring fleas.

  Jorgeson grimaced. “All right, I won’t say anything to Lieutenant Rosen, but I can’t falsify the reports or drop your statement in the trash. When he gets back, he’ll have to be briefed.”

  But only if the investigation had not been concluded to the prosecutor’s satisfaction, I told myself in a slightly optimistic voice. Otherwise, Peter would have plenty of ongoing cases that he’d temporarily abandoned. Someone in the police department might take a wicked pleasure in telling him all the details of the case. I might even do so myself—when time has blunted the impact.

  I nodded at Jorgeson. “Shall we take a look at the broken window in the study?”

  Chapter 4

  Jorgeson allowed me a quick look at Nicholas Chunder’s study, but the room was unremarkable except for the broken shards of glass on the hardwood floor. It was all very masculine, as I’d expected. The desk was large, with a computer and printer protected by plastic covers, neat stacks of folders, and an expensive-looking gold pen and pencil on a block of marble. There were bookcases against three walls, an antique globe on a wooden stand, assorted leather chairs for visitors, and between the two windows behind the desk, a framed chart of a multilimbed family tree. Oak, no doubt, with lots of acorns.

  “Six to eight hours ago,” I said as we walked toward the kitchen. “That would put the time of death between midnight and two. I suppose after they’d decorated the living room, the others left and Nicholas turned off the lights and went to bed. When he heard the window break, he went downstairs to investigate. Bad decision.”

  “Could have happened that way,” Jorgeson commented.

  “Which means,” I continued, “that the members of the grove had nothing to do with this.”

  “Didn’t say they did.”

  I held in a growl of frustration. “They’re not your basic Sunday-morning congregation, and their beliefs are out of sync with traditional theology, but that doesn’t make them a gang of cold-blooded killers.”

  Jorgeson toured the front rooms and made sure all of his men were busily dusting for fingerprints, taking photographs of the scene, and measuring pretty much everything in sight. The paramedics had put Nicholas’s body in a bag and transferred it to the gurney. The medical examiner mumbled a promise to do a preliminary autopsy as soon as possible, then followed the squeaking gurney out the door. We continued into a dining room with wainscoting, drab wallpaper, and a somewhat menacing chandelier above a table that could accommodate two dozen guests without any bumping of elbows.

  We sat down next to each other rather than at opposite ends of the table, where megaphones might be required to communicate. Before Jorgeson could open his notebook, however, one of the officers came into the room. “I checked out the broken window,” he said, shaking his head. “The dust on the sill hasn’t been disturbed. Somebody broke the glass, but nobody came into the house that way.”

  “What about the locks on the doors and windows?” said Jorgeson.

  “All the windows on the ground floor are locked, and the dead bolts on the doors are sturdy. We’re still looking for signs of a forced entry. I’ll be damned surprised if we find anything, though.”

  “The back door was locked when we arrived,” I volunteered.

  Jorgeson sat back and eyed the chandelier. “So the victim either admitted the perp, or the perp stayed around after everybody else on the decorating committee left.”

  For some odd reason, I was offended at his aspersion on the grove, since it was impossible not to share a sense of camaraderie with those with whom one rendezvoused before dawn. What’s more, their potential as steady customers at the bookstore could not be easily dismissed.

  “Isn’t it more likely,” I said, “that someone came to the door, posing as a stranded motorist, and asked to use the telephone? Besides that, he knew plenty of other people who might have been invited for a late-night drink. I’m sure he was a member of all sorts of organizations, like the genealogy society and the historical society and the”—it was getting tougher—“the Sons of the Celtic Revolution. He used the Internet, too. There have been numerous stories in the newspaper about people who strike up an acquaintance and then discover they’re electronic pen pals with inmates in prisons and serial killers.”

  “Very eloquently put,” said Jorgeson. “Tell you what, Mrs. Malloy—you go on home and write down anything you think might be helpful. Don’t leave out any theories, including leprechauns, the CIA, and the Mafia. I’ll send someone by later to pick up your notes.”

  “What about the others?”

  “They’ll be home within an hour. Until we get some feedback from forensics and the medical examiner, we can’t do much more than try to get an idea of what happened last night. The weapon may turn up and be covered with lovely, legible prints. One of the neighbors out on the road may have seen a hitchhiker—or better yet, disgruntled Boston basketball players.”

  “Jorgeson,” I said as I stood up and buttoned my coat, “you’ve been working too long with Lieutenant Rosen. Your feeble attempt at humor is indicative of the depth of your neuroses. Caron’s announced she’s entering a convent. Shall I inquire if it’s coeducational?”

  “Good-bye, Mrs. Malloy. Drive safely.”

  Vowing to order my own copy of Applied Magick so I could cast some ingenious curses, I went through the kitchen to the patio. The Druids were no longer present. I continued to my car and drove back to Farberville at an immodest speed, although I wasn’t sure that ending up in a ditch would prove I’d climbed out of a rut.

  I stopped by my apartment to change into dry shoes. Caron had left a note saying that—despite the indignity and source of further humiliation associated with the need to rely on public transportation—she’d taken the bus to the mall, and that she might linger after work to look at the Christmas decorations. Under no circumstances would she shop.

  And I, of course, might get an apology from Jorgeson and a teary request to conduct the i
nvestigation into Nicholas Chunder’s premature departure.

  I drove to the store, started a pot of coffee, and sat down on a stool behind the counter to write down a few observations for Jorgeson. After nibbling the pencil and staring at a blank page, I concluded that I knew next to nothing about any of the Druids. I knew where Malthea, Fern, and Roy lived, but that information had already been recorded. All I really knew about Morning Rose and Sullivan was that they disagreed in matters of child rearing, curses, and skyclad performances in their backyard. Gilda rode a bicycle, worked at the hospital in some unspecified capacity, and trimmed her hair in the dark.

  None of it seemed worth writing down, but I wrote a brief synopsis of what interactions I’d had on the slight chance that Jorgeson would keep his word, which meant Peter would not be immediately informed that I was involved in even the most minimal way. It would be best if the death turned out to be a suicide, but the team had not uncovered a weapon—and it was hard to envision Nicholas breaking the window, then beating his face on a kitchen counter before shooting himself with an invisible gun. He could have, I supposed, although my theory of a late-night visitor seemed more likely. Roy might have seen or heard something, including the shot; whether or not he’d share it with the police was debatable.

  I paced up and down the aisles, pausing to rearrange paperbacks and tidy up the rows of thin yellow study guides that accounted for much of my income during final exams. When I realized I’d covered the territory more than once and was mindlessly tapping the edges of the same guides, I went into my cramped office and called Luanne Bradshaw, a divorcée of a comparable age who owns a secondhand clothing store and has been responsible for a couple of my forays into deduction.