A Holly, Jolly Murder Page 9

  She was out of the room before I could protest, which would have been a waste of perfectly good breath. I used up most of it with a drawn-out sigh, tucked a pillow behind my back, and resigned myself to incipient starvation. I was wondering how Leslie would have handled the situation when Malthea returned with a tray laden with the necessary accessories.

  “Last night,” she said as she sat down and poured the tea, “the room was thick with tension. Gilda and Morning Rose were sulking because of our decision to disallow them to perform the solstice ritual while skyclad. Sullivan was pacing about like a caged animal, shooting dark looks at the rest of us. Fern was complaining about the placement of the greenery and tinsel, the smoke from the fire in the fireplace, the effect of the dampness on her rheumatism, and Roy’s lack of participation. I had to agree with her about Roy. He refused to so much as climb the ladder or tack a clump of mistletoe to the wall. It wasn’t like him at all.”

  “That’s not how you described it this afternoon,” I said. “What happened to the pagan songs and tankards of mead?”

  “I did everything I could to create a festive air, but it was almost impossible. I’d just proposed a toast to the rebirth of the Earth Goddess when Nicholas made his announcement. After that, I’m sorry to say, there was no hope that any of us could maintain even a facade of gaiety. Harsh words were exchanged. Fern was in tears as I helped her out to the car, and Sullivan drove away with so much fury that we were left in a cloud of dust. It was very inconsiderate of him.”

  “What did Nicholas say to upset your happy little grove?” I asked.

  Malthea took a tissue out of her pocket and touched it to the corner of her eye. “Nicholas told us that he’d made arrangements to put all of his property, including Primrose Hill and his rental holdings, on the market. He’d decided to move to Wales and continue his genealogical efforts to trace his lineage back to the Celtic Druids at the dawning of the Christian era.”

  I thought for a minute. “You, Fern, and the Sullivans were renters. What about Gilda and Roy’s family?”

  “Gilda rents her trailer from the man who manages the park. I’m not sure about the Tates, but I suspect not. Their home is in a lovely neighborhood. Nicholas’s properties are of a lesser quality and rented primarily to students, with the exception of a few retirees such as myself and Fern.”

  “I can understand why those of you paying minimal rent might be perturbed, but surely not to the extent of harsh words, tears, and abrupt departures,” I said. “Farberville has a goodly number of low-income rental properties. Moving might be inconvenient and the rent might increase, but still…”

  Malthea rose and crossed the room to look out the window at the dark street. “The Sacred Grove of Keltria is very dear to me, as are its members. I’ve always considered us to be a spiritual family, and assumed Nicholas felt the same way. He was so brusque last night, so uncaring. He refused to discuss it further and said we had thirty days to vacate the property. When Fern tried to convince him to reconsider, he ordered all of us to leave.”

  “Even Roy?”

  “He said that suitable arrangements would be made,” she said, not turning.

  I could see her face reflected in the windowpane. Rather than sad or even distressed, she seemed to be battling to suppress an anger that might have rivaled Nicholas’s purported display the previous evening. Her eyes were narrowed, her lips squeezed together, and her cheeks flushed. I could easily imagine her at the stone altar in the grove, intoning an ancient prayer as she raised a dagger above a sacrificial victim.

  Neither of us had moved when Fern opened the front door and came into the room. She stared at me for a paralytic moment, then swallowed and said, “I didn’t realize you had company, Malthea.”

  Malthea’s shoulders relaxed, and her expression was cordial as she turned around. “Claire came by to discuss how best to deal with the problem.”

  “She did?” said Fern. She put her hand on her face to conceal her mouth from my view and mutely communicated something.

  “Frankly,” Malthea said as she came to the sofa and took my cup and saucer out of my hand, “there’s nothing any of us can do. The police are searching for Roy. He can’t go too far without transportation, and I should think he’ll turn himself in rather than sleep outside.”

  Fern began to twist her bony hands, squeezing the blood out of her fingers. “Don’t let us detain you, Claire.”

  “Thank you for dropping by,” added Malthea, conveniently forgetting who’d issued the directive.

  Five minutes earlier I would have chewed off my leg to escape, but the scenario had taken a peculiar direction and I was tempted to resist being dismissed like a chastised child. However, I picked up my purse, nodded, and went out onto the porch. I hesitated, but when no one opened the door and begged me to come back inside, I continued out to my car. Curiosity may have been gnawing at me, but I told myself it was more likely to be the combined effects of inadequate sleep and an empty stomach.

  As I pulled away from the curb, two figures emerged from Malthea’s side of the duplex. By the time I’d turned the corner, they had scurried into Fern’s side. I slowed down, then caved in and parked the car. Mindful of the irregularities in the sidewalk, I cautiously approached the duplex and went across the yard in hopes I could see Malthea and Fern in the living room.

  The drapes were drawn, and there were no telltale shadows. From one of the nearby houses I could hear a television blaring, and in the distance, a baby crying. There was no indication of any kind of activity, nefarious or innocuous, in Fern’s apartment. She’d been agitated, though, and dismayed by my presence. Why?

  I eased into the side yard and found yet another set of closed drapes. A thorny branch raked my hand as I tried to move closer to the window, underscoring the folly of allowing my overly active imagination to stifle my common sense.

  I resisted the impulse to dive into the rosebushes as a car drove by, and instead dropped to my knees and turned my face away from the glare of the headlights. Once the car had passed, I arose and continued toward the back of the duplex, hoping to see them through a kitchen window.

  Away from the glow of the streetlight, the only illumination came from a curtained window in the house next door. I felt my way toward a particularly impenetrable shadow that proved to be a high wooden fence. I was groping for a gate when I heard a door open and Malthea say, “How did he get here?”

  “I have no idea,” answered Fern, “and I must say I was not pleased to find him under the potting table. I like to keep everything arranged in a logical order so that I can easily put my hands on whatever I need. He’s moved several stacks of flowerpots and pushed the bag of sphagnum moss against the wall. I do not look forward to having to crawl under the table to retrieve it.”

  I had a fairly good idea who was under the potting table, but I wasn’t sure what to do. If I returned to my car and drove to a telephone to call the police, Roy might be long gone before they arrived. And turning him in wasn’t necessarily the right thing to do. He’d been frightened when Corporal Billsby appeared at his door, and he’d certainly behaved suspiciously by climbing out the bathroom window, but as far as I knew he hadn’t been charged with anything. If in fact he had, Fern and Malthea could be charged with harboring a fugitive. I had no desire to find myself in a courtroom, testifying against elderly ladies. Peter would not be amused when he saw the headline: BOOKSELLER IMPLICATED IN DRUID CRIME SPREE.

  Perhaps I could persuade Roy to turn himself in, I thought as I gave up trying to find a gate and headed toward the front of the house to determine if I could go through Fern’s apartment. I’d reached the edge of the porch when I saw two dark figures advancing toward me.

  “Hold it right there!” one of them said in a decidedly unfriendly voice.

  “Keep your hands where we can see them,” said the other. His voice, although no doubt meant to sound equally menacing, ended with a squeak.

  I noted the light glinting off both their wea
pons and their badges, so rather than swoon or bolt for the bushes, I said, “Do we have a problem, officers?”

  “I don’t know what you have, lady, but we had a call about a burglary in progress.”

  “In this neighborhood?” I said skeptically. “Is someone stealing beer cans out of garbage bags?”

  The officers considered this for a moment, then lowered their weapons and gestured for me to move into the light. Neither was familiar, which I found heartening; I’d experienced entirely too much of Corporal Billsby’s charm at various moments during the day—and it was feasible he would seize upon the most feeble of excuses to shoot me.

  “Let’s see some ID,” Squeaky demanded.

  “My purse is in my car,” I said. “I’d like to add that I came here at a friend’s behest. She lives in there.”

  “So why are you prowling around in the yard?” he countered.

  “I am not prowling,” I said.

  “Look,” said his partner, “the lady who lives in the next house saw you go by her window. According to her, you were prowling. Maybe you’d better explain why you went to visit your friend who lives there”—he jabbed his finger at Malthea’s door—“and ended up out here in the dark. Maybe you were checking to see if the windows were locked in case you wanted to come back later.”

  I plucked a dried leaf off my jacket while I tried to decide how much of the truth I was willing to relate. “As I was driving away, I realized I had something else to tell my friend. She was not in her half of the duplex, so I assumed she and her next-door neighbor were in the greenhouse in the backyard.”

  Squeaky leaped on this tidbit as though it were a morsel of ripe cheese. “And you thought you’d break in and make off with her grocery money! I think we’d better take you down to the station and hear more of your fascinating story.”

  “Sergeant Jorgeson isn’t going to like that,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  It was time for a brief moment in the confessional before I was faced with a long moment in a cell. “He’s eager to interview a possible witness in a murder that took place early this morning. The witness, Roy Tate, is in the greenhouse, too. Why don’t I wait here while you fetch him, and then we’ll all go to the station together? If you’d like to stop for doughnuts on the way, I’ll pay for them. Better yet, let’s order a pizza.”

  The officers looked at each other. “I guess it can’t hurt to see who’s out there,” Squeaky said at last. “You aren’t gonna wait here, though. Show us how to get to this greenhouse.”

  I led the way to Fern’s front door. It was not locked, so we proceeded through the cluttered living room. As we went into the kitchen, I nearly tripped over the sill as I saw Malthea seated at a small table and Fern taking porcelain cups out of a cabinet.

  “Goodness gracious!” said Malthea, although her performance was less than convincing. “I thought you’d gone home, Claire.”

  “Who are those men?” asked Fern. “Did you let them into my house? Why would you…? Oh dear, Malthea, they’re policemen.”

  Malthea cocked her head and gave them a beady look. “You really must explain this, gentlemen. This is a private residence, and unless you have a search warrant, you have no right to barge in like this.”

  “She,” Squeaky said, pointing at me, “claims there’s a fugitive hiding in the greenhouse out back. You’d better show me where it is.”

  “A fugitive?” repeated Malthea. “What a quaint notion. Fern and I were out there only minutes ago, and we saw no one.”

  I shook my head. “Sorry, but I heard you and Fern talking about Roy Tate’s unauthorized presence in the greenhouse. He needs to stop being foolish and cooperate with the police. If it turns out that he needs a lawyer, I’ll make sure he gets one who’s had some experience.”

  Malthea stood up and gestured dramatically at the back door. “Officers, go see for yourselves that there is no one in the greenhouse. Fern discovered a stray dog earlier in the evening, and asked me to accompany her to make sure the creature had not returned.”

  The two policemen dutifully went through the door. Malthea, Fern, and I waited in stony silence. I mentally reviewed the snippet of conversation I’d overheard and concluded that Roy—or someone else, albeit unlikely—had been in the greenhouse. It was clear from their demeanor that whoever it had been was gone by now.

  “No sign of anybody,” Squeaky said as he and his partner came back into the kitchen. “We’re going. Lady, stay out of other people’s yards—okay?”

  Fern managed to step on my toes as she went past me to escort the policemen to the front door. I looked down at Malthea, who was celebrating her minor victory with a contented smile.

  “Roy was here,” I said coldly.

  “Only if he’s reverted to a past life and taken the form of a large yellow dog,” she said. “I was an eagle once, and what a lovely life it was. Soaring in the sky, swooping down on unsuspecting rodents and sinking my talons into warm flesh—”

  “Did you give Roy money?”

  Malthea’s smile widened. “To buy dog biscuits?”

  “If you know where he is, you need to convince him to call Sergeant Jorgeson at the police station and arrange to be picked up. Otherwise, Jorgeson will have no difficulty obtaining an arrest warrant and putting out an APB.”

  “Roy is a child.”

  “No, he’s not,” I replied levelly. “He’s old enough to be tried as an adult and sentenced accordingly—if he killed Nicholas. His behavior certainly suggests it.”

  Fern came back into the kitchen. “Claire, in the future I’d appreciate it if you do not bring men into my home without my permission. It endangers my reputation in the community.”

  I threw up my hands, literally as well as figuratively, and stomped out of the duplex and down the sidewalk to my car. I knew what I’d heard, and it wasn’t a discussion about a yellow dog. Roy Tate had taken refuge in Fern’s greenhouse. My exchange with Officers Unfriendly and Squeaky must have carried to the backyard and sent Roy over the fence.

  Scowling, I yanked open the car door and settled myself behind the wheel. As I reached for my purse to retrieve the car key, a male voice (neither squeaky nor unfriendly) said, “I gotta talk to you.”

  Chapter 7

  “Talk to me about what, Roy?” I said, annoyed with myself for not checking the backseat before I got in the car. It was something I always did, except, of course, when I’d been jerked around by a couple of gray-haired Druids.

  “Start driving.”

  “Driving where?”

  Roy breathed heavily for a moment. “I don’t know. Just drive around and keep both hands on the steering wheel.”

  “And if I don’t?” I said.

  “I have a gun, Mrs. Malloy. I don’t want to use it, but I’m in such deep shit already that it probably doesn’t matter what I do.” He thumped the back of my seat hard enough to rattle my teeth. “Let’s go!”

  I couldn’t see him in the rearview mirror, so I had no idea if he was bluffing or not. It did not seem wise to press the issue. I pulled away from the curb and drove in the general direction of Thurber Street, where there might be a few cars and pedestrians. Roy had said he’d moved to Farberville only a few months earlier, so he might not have been aware that we were also headed in the direction of the police station.

  “About last night,” Roy began, cleared his throat, and tried again. “You seem to have some inside edge with the cops. If I tell you what really happened, maybe you can explain it to them. I could tell from the way they were looking at me this morning that they think I’m some kind of psychopath who’d decapitate his grandmother for the price of a hamburger. I wouldn’t be surprised if they dug up the flower beds at my father’s house today in search of graves.”

  His supposition was likely to be accurate, but I saw no advantage in saying so. “Tell me what happened, Roy.”

  “Nicholas got pissed and yelled at everybody to get out of his house. Everybody did. I went up to my a
partment, stuck a frozen dinner in the oven, and turned on some music. Around midnight, Nicholas knocked on my door and asked me to go back to the house with him. He was acting real odd, grinning at me and patting me on the back like I had colic. I could smell booze on his breath. I should have refused, but I was hoping maybe he’d changed his mind about selling all his properties. Living in the carriage house was a lot better than sharing a crappy little bedroom at the Sawyers’ dump. Sullivan’s a tight-ass, and Morning Rose fixes these weird vegetarian casseroles. Their kids give me the creeps.”

  “I’m sure it was an improvement,” I said as I turned onto Thurber Street. Cars were scarce, pedestrians nonexistent. In the dark, the Book Depot looked more like an abandoned warehouse than a haven of intellectual enlightenment. I made a note to buy a few strands of Christmas lights—presuming the passenger in the backseat was not a psychopath who’d shoot a mild-mannered bookseller on a whim.

  “So I was thinking I might not have to move out after all,” Roy went on, “as long as I didn’t do anything to set him off again. We went into the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of brandy and asked me if I wanted some. I said I didn’t. He got all huffy and kept insisting until I finally said okay. Then he said for me to sit down at the kitchen table because there was something he needed to share with me. I was—well, I was getting really nervous at this point.”

  “Had he ever offered you alcohol before?”

  “Never. He hardly spoke to me unless there was something he wanted me to do, like go down to the end of the driveway to get the mail or do minor repairs on his rental stuff.” He tapped my shoulder. “Don’t turn here, Mrs. Malloy. I’m not ready for the cops.”