The Gift of the Magpie Read online

  “A horrible story.” Tabitha shuddered. “A lot of people on the forum have nightmares about it—at least the ones who aren’t in denial.”

  “What forum would that be?” Aida asked.

  “An online forum called A Perfectly Good Place.” Talking seemed to be reviving her. “That’s where I first met Harvey. It’s for people who have issues around clutter.”

  Yeah, that would be Harvey, all right.

  “A Perfectly Good Place?” Aida seemed to find the name as peculiar as I did.

  “It’s named after something we all say a lot,” Tabitha explained. “As in ‘I can’t throw it away—it’s a perfectly good whatever.’”

  “You say you first met there,” Aida asked. “Had you also met him in person?”

  “Not yet—I mean no.” Tabitha took a gulp of water and a deep breath. “We started private messaging each other, and then eventually calling and texting each other. We … we found we were soul mates. We even hoarded some of the same things. We were making this plan, you know? We were going to meet in person, and help each other declutter our houses, and while we were doing that we could figure out if we had a future together. We were hoping—I mean, like I said, we were soul mates, but we needed to figure out how to make room in our lives for each other. But I guess that’s not going to happen now.”

  She looked as if she were about to burst into tears, and I glanced around to make sure the box of tissues I kept in the car was within reach. But instead of opening the floodgates, she just snuffled in very loudly and took another gulp of water.

  “Anyway,” she went on. “When this whole thing about forcing him to clean up happened, I told him if he wanted me to, I could drive up and help. Or at least provide moral support—I knew people who didn’t have clutter issues wouldn’t understand how hard it was for him. So when he called last night and sounded so stressed, I packed my bag and set my alarm to get up really early, and, well, here I am.”

  Odd. I’d have sworn Harvey was feeling rather cheerful when I’d dropped him off at his house. Had going back into the still-cluttered house destroyed his good mood?

  Or had it been talking to Tabitha that brought him down?

  Or maybe he’d been fine, and she was the one who’d felt stressed. Worried, perhaps, that someone else was coming in to do the decluttering that she’d expected to serve as a bonding experience for them?

  What if she was the one who’d killed him? In which case pretending that he’d been stressed and she’d driven up to provide moral support would be a good cover story.

  Why was I so suspicious of her? Just because her reaction struck me as overly theatrical didn’t mean it was fake. And for that matter, even if she was faking—or at least exaggerating—her grief, that only made her self-centered—it didn’t make her a killer.

  “But I was too late,” Tabitha was saying. “Too late to do any good. So what happened?” Suddenly her mouth and eyes both flew open. “He didn’t kill himself, did he? I know he was under tremendous stress, but surely he didn’t.…”

  Her voice trailed off and she looked from Aida to me, clearly dreading the answer.

  “No,” Aida said. “He didn’t kill himself. I’m afraid someone else killed him.”

  Tabitha was speechless for at least thirty seconds. Then her face hardened into a mask of anger.

  “It must have been those hateful neighbors of his!” she spat out. “Or his cousins. They never left him alone, and one of them must have sicced the county on him. I guess they couldn’t wait to get rid of him!”

  Chapter 16

  While Tabitha briefly succumbed to noisy but curiously dry sobbing, Aida and I exchanged a look. I wondered if she was thinking the same thing I was—that just because Harvey’s relatives and neighbors had reported him to the county didn’t mean they had murderous intentions toward him. In fact, I’d have assumed that having the county—or at least the Helping Hands program—show up to help him clean up his act would have calmed the worst of their rage rather than inciting them to murder.

  “I don’t suppose you could let me see inside,” Tabitha asked, making a show of drying her eyes. “I’ll never be able to meet Harvey in person, but if I could see where he lived … it would make me feel closer to him somehow. And give me some kind of closure.”

  “I’m sure that can be arranged later,” Aida said. “But right now—well, it’s possible that you know Mr. Dunlop better than most of the people here in town. And the more we know about him, the better chance we’ll have of catching whoever killed him. May I ask you to come down to the police station so our chief can interview you? It could be a big help.”

  “Well…” Tabitha sniffled some more, and cast a few longing gazes at the house. “I suppose that would be okay.”

  “I’ll drive you over to the station,” Aida said. “It’s not far, but the directions can be a little confusing. And then afterward, I can bring you back here to your car and see about arranging that look inside the house.”

  “Okay.” She sounded more interested now. “Let me get my purse.”

  She hopped out of my car and clomped over to her van.

  “Interesting how eager everyone is to get inside that house,” I said in a low voice, once Tabitha was too far away to hear me.

  “Isn’t it?” Aida was keeping her eye on Tabitha. Did she have some reason, or was she only feeling the same instinctive, groundless dislike and suspicion I’d noticed in myself? And what would she do if the woman made a break for it—would she just call it in and let the other deputies intercept her? Probably, since her cruiser was—well, not completely blocked in by Horace’s cruiser, but it would take a little maneuvering to get it out. Or would she snatch my keys and give chase in the Twinmobile?

  “Maybe this isn’t the first time Tabitha has driven up here,” I suggested. “Maybe it was her sneaking around that made Harvey think he had prowlers.”

  “No.” Aida shook her head. “At least not all of the incidents. The first time I got called out it was that Mrs. Gudgeon next door, trying to take pictures of the inside of his house so she could report him to the county. But it wasn’t all Mrs. Gudgeon, either. The other time I came out here on a ten-seventy, I could see Mrs. Gudgeon in her window with her binoculars, watching me chase the prowler. But yeah—we should check Tabitha’s story. For starters, I bet the chief has already requested his phone records, so we’ll see about this late night phone conversation. And there’s another even more puzzling question—no matter who the prowlers were, what were they after? What could they possibly think he had in there that was so all-fired interesting?”

  “Beats me.” I shook my head. “Incidentally, since the chief’s still in the garage, I assume you’re taking her downtown to avoid letting her know that’s the murder scene.”

  “Partly,” she said. “She does seem to be pretty focused on the house, doesn’t she?”

  “You mean, if she were the killer, she’d be at least a little interested in the garage?”

  “Yeah.” Aida nodded. “Of course, maybe she’s smart enough to figure that out and is doing a great job of pretending to be fixated on the house. And maybe I’m a bad person for suspecting her. Maybe she’s just a poor lonely soul who thinks she’s just lost her last chance at romance and happy ever after, and I’m doing her an injustice.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “And maybe there’s a reason she keeps darting looks back here, as if she’s hoping you’ll turn your back.”

  “Yeah,” Aida said. “Squirrelly, if you ask me. But some people are just like that.”

  Tabitha appeared to have found her purse—a large shapeless lump of black suede. But now she was rummaging through the floor of her van, picking up things and stuffing them into the purse.

  “Would you call her a Goth?” Aida asked.

  I studied Tabitha for a moment.

  “No,” I said. “I think you need a little more … flair to be a Goth.”

  “Trying to be a Goth, but not really succeeding?”<
br />
  “That’s more like it.”

  “Why is this taking so long?” Aida was visibly fretting. “How hard can it be to find your damned purse?”

  “She’s a hoarder, remember?” I said. “Maybe she’s got a hoard-infested car.”

  “Good heavens.” Aida shuddered. “I had a great aunt who was at least halfway to being a hoarder. But with Great-Aunt Minnie you could kind of understand why—she went through the Great Depression. That left a mark on people. But Ms. Tabitha isn’t old enough to have that particular excuse. What could possibly bring on this hoarder thing in someone her age?”

  “No idea,” I said. “Do we have any idea what brought it on in Harvey?”

  She shook her head.

  Tabitha finally hoisted her refilled purse over her shoulder and began slowly walking our way.

  “Vern’s on his way to take over guarding the place,” Aida said. “Any chance you could hang around for a few minutes till he gets here? Chase away any nosy onlookers?”

  “Can do,” I said.

  Aida escorted Tabitha to her cruiser and, after some careful maneuvering, escaped from the driveway and headed for the station.

  I locked up the Twinmobile and set out to patrol the yard.

  Although I stopped by Tabitha’s car long enough to glance inside. Yes, if there was such a thing as a car hoarder, she was one. The front seat was merely bad—about as bad as the Twinmobile had looked after I’d returned from taking the boys and five of their friends on a field trip to Williamsburg and Jamestown. The back seat was completely filled with stuff up to the window level, and the cargo area was just solid junk. A quick inspection showed that while McDonald’s was Tabitha’s fast-food venue of choice, she did not entirely neglect Burger King, Taco Bell, Popeyes, Wendy’s, Pizza Hut, and KFC. Given her North Carolina license plate it probably wasn’t a surprise that she read The Raleigh News & Observer. And—wait. Were those letters strewn along the top of the hoard in the back seat?

  I moved to a window on the opposite side of the van and confirmed that yes, they were letters. And one of them—from Duke Energy—was right-side up, and close enough for me to read the address. I jotted it down—you never know when a bit of information like that will come in handy.

  Then, remembering that the neighbors might be watching, I ostentatiously tried all the van’s doors, nodded officiously when I’d confirmed that they were all locked, and strode on to continue my patrol.

  Harvey’s backyard—and most of the backyards on the block—bordered the now-empty parking lot of a large, nondescript three-story building that belonged to Caerphilly College. It was a building to which the college’s Building and Grounds Department exiled the unloved. Junior faculty members of departments that were not on good terms with B&G could find themselves housed in overflow offices there. Adjuncts were almost guaranteed a berth there. Faculty committees and work groups that had outlived their usefulness went there to die lingering deaths. Even when college was in session, the people who ostensibly had offices there seemed to avoid it, and I sometimes made use of Michael’s faculty sticker to park there when some big event filled all the closer-in and more convenient lots.

  But the winter break had begun some days ago. The lot was empty now, and probably had been overnight. A pity. If there had been anyone in the building, they’d have had the best view of Harvey’s backyard—especially from the second and third floors, where they could have easily seen over his scraggly hedge.

  Of course, there were still Mr. Brimley and the lady of the binoculars, who might have seen something, Although I wasn’t sure I trusted them—and not just because they were probably suspects, although there was that. They were also so hostile to Harvey that I wasn’t sure they were trustworthy on anything that involved him.

  Thank goodness all this was the chief’s problem, not mine. And besides—

  I had come around the back of the house and was in the front yard now. A good thing, since I spotted Mr. Haverhill as soon as he parked.

  I pulled out my phone and called the chief.

  “Yes.” His voice held that “this had better be important” note.

  “Morris Haverhill, Mr. Dunlop’s cousin, just drove up.”

  “I was expecting him,” the chief said. “Notified him this morning, since he and his siblings would appear to be the closest relatives. Thank you.” He hung up.

  I hoped he was coming right out. Mr. Haverhill had popped the trunk of his car and took out three brightly colored boxes. I recognized the packaging of the same industrial-strength black plastic garbage bags we’d been using for Harvey’s trash.

  I planted myself in the middle of the front walk.

  “Out of my way,” Mr. Haverhill said when he saw me.

  “Sorry,” I said. “No one’s allowed in.”

  “It’s my house now,” Mr. Haverhill said. “And I’m finally going to do what should have been done years ago.”

  He tried to sidestep me, but I stepped with him.

  “I said out of my way!” He barged ahead, evidently trying to knock me down, but I stood so firm that he actually bounced back.

  “Get out of my way!” He drew back his arm as if about to throw a punch, and I braced myself to dodge. “Or I swear I’ll—”

  “Police! Don’t move!”

  Mr. Haverhill and I both started, and turned to find Horace in the approved stance, pointing his weapon at us.

  Correction: at Mr. Haverhill. I snuck in a couple of backward steps, and Horace’s gun remained steadily pointing at him. And make that just plain Haverhill. I wasn’t going to keep mentally giving him the polite “Mr.”

  “Thank you, Horace.” The chief had been a few steps behind Horace. “I think we have Mr. Haverhill’s attention now.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Haverhill snarled. Considering that both Horace and the chief were in uniform, that struck me as a singularly stupid question.

  If the chief thought so, he didn’t let it show.

  “Chief Henry Burke of the Caerphilly Police Department,” he said. “I’m afraid I can’t let you go in there right now.”

  “But it belongs to me,” Haverhill said.

  “We don’t know that, Mr. Haverhill.”

  “I’m next of kin,” Haverhill protested. “Harvey doesn’t have any relatives other than me and my two siblings.”

  “And if he died intestate, or executed a will leaving his estate to you, then the house will be yours in good time,” the chief said. “But we don’t yet know who owns it. And even if we did, the house is presently part of my crime scene. Anything in the house or on the property could be evidence in a murder investigation.”

  “But he was killed in the garage,” Haverhill said. “At least that’s what you told me.”

  “His body was found in the garage,” the chief said. “We don’t yet know for sure where he was killed.”

  Haverhill muttered something under his breath. I caught the phrase “damned hick cops.” If the chief or Horace heard, they didn’t show it.

  “Mr. Haverhill, allow me to express my sympathy on the death of your cousin,” the chief said.

  Haverhill nodded as if grudgingly accepting something he was owed.

  “I’m sure you’re as eager as I am to find whoever did it,” the chief went on. “And the more we know about him, the better chance we have of doing that. I’d like to ask you to accompany me to the police station. I have a few questions I’d like to ask you.”

  Evidently Haverhill wasn’t completely clueless. He recognized that the chief had just issued a command rather than an invitation.

  “If you tell me where it is, I can drive over there myself.”

  “I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” the chief said. “Ah! Here comes Vern. He can drive you.”

  He strolled over to talk to Vern. Horace stayed where he was, keeping a wary eye on Haverhill. I went over to stand by Horace.

  “Chief must be pleased,” I said, too low for Haverhill to hear. “Useful w
itnesses piling up down at the station.”

  He nodded, visibly suppressing a grin, and went back to staring fixedly at Haverhill, with his hand hovering near his service weapon.

  The chief returned from his conversation with Vern.

  “Deputy Shiffley will take you down to the station,” the chief said. “Your car will be safe here, and we can bring you back after we’ve had that little talk.”

  We watched as Haverhill popped his trunk, flung the boxes of trash bags inside with obvious temper, and got into Vern’s cruiser, his every move telegraphing resentment.

  “Meg, Aida’s on her way back from dropping Ms. Fillmore at the station,” the chief said. “And we’re a little shorthanded. If you could just keep an eye out for trespassers here until she arrives, I’d appreciate it. That would let Horace get back to his work.”

  “No problem,” I said. “This is a lot less strenuous than most of the Helping Hands jobs I could be working on.”

  And a lot more interesting, I added silently, as he strode off.

  Chapter 17

  Once the chief was safely back in his car and couldn’t hear me, I turned to Horace.

  “So is there some doubt about where he was killed? I’d have thought from the size of the pool of blood—”

  “No doubt at all,” Horace said. “The chief was probably just saying that to shake up Haverhill. But that doesn’t mean Harvey’s house isn’t part of the crime scene. What if he was killed for something in his house?”

  “Then why didn’t whoever killed him go inside and take it?”

  “Maybe they couldn’t get in,” he suggested. “Place was locked up tight when you arrived, right?”

  “Yes, we tried all the doors, and any of the windows we could reach. But someone could have used his keys to search the house and locked up afterward. Or tried to break in.”

  “With Mrs. Gudgeon and her surgically attached binoculars on one side and Mr. ‘I pay your salary’ Brimley on the other?” Horace shook his head.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “You’ve responded to one of Harvey’s prowler reports.”