Gone Gull Page 2

  “We could blame Spike,” I suggested. “Since only Michael has seen the lingerie hanging in the art room, why not gloss over where we found it.” The Small Evil One, as we called our eight-and-a-half-pound canine fur ball, had already come in handy as a scapegoat for some of last week’s damage. Though Spike wasn’t completely alibied for every night, we were reasonably sure he had never left his comfy berth in the caravan with the twins, the only human beings he had never been known to bite.

  “I could say that someone unwisely let the dog loose, and fortunately the only mischief he committed was dragging a few undergarments out of someone’s suitcase or bureau,” Cordelia mused. “Anyone missing any items can reclaim them by describing them to me, and please, everyone, be careful with the dog gates. Yes, I think that would work.”

  I watched with approval as she wrote something in the small flower-covered binder that was her equivalent of my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe. Tasks that made it into that flowered binder didn’t get overlooked.

  “Great idea!” Dad beamed with approval now that the problem seemed well on its way to solution. “And when you come down to it, this latest problem is an improvement, right? Really just a silly prank—so that’s good news!” He sounded pleased. In fact, now that we’d stopped discussing risqué lingerie, he was beaming with enthusiasm—until he noticed that the rest of us were scowling. “Isn’t it?” he added, more tentatively. “I mean, now we can narrow down our pool of suspects—we can eliminate anyone who wasn’t here both this week and last week, right?”

  “Actually, we were hoping to eliminate the vandalism itself,” I said. “Preferably by figuring out the culprit before the first week of classes ended. But I could have lived with never knowing who was responsible if the problems had stopped when last week’s faculty and students went home.”

  “I agree,” Dad said. “But since they’re still continuing—” He stopped, and I realized that the main reason he was so excited was that he hadn’t been here last week, and had thus missed the chance to try his hand at solving the mystery. “But at least now we’re that much closer to figuring out the culprit,” he went on. “It’s one of the people who came back this week. That’s a much smaller number. We can narrow down our suspect list. Let’s figure out who was also here last week.”

  “I already did.” I realized it was time to trot out my statistics. “Fourteen students returned to take new classes this week, four faculty members are teaching again this week, and the eleven staff who made it through all of last week are still around.”

  “But that’s assuming an individual is responsible,” Cordelia said. “And I’m not at all sure that’s the case. I could name several groups who might have good reason to target Biscuit Mountain.”

  “Nonsense,” Grandfather said. “It’s pretty obvious to me who their target is—me! I can think of any number of people and organizations who would love to cause me problems. Greedy developers! Corporations with heinous environmental track records! Individuals with—”

  “Then if you’re so all-fired certain you’re the target, why don’t you do something about it?” Cordelia demanded.

  “Like what?” Grandfather snapped.

  “Like leaving!” Cordelia shot back. “If you’re the target and Biscuit Mountain is just collateral damage, then you could solve our problem by going away.”

  “And what about my class?” Grandfather asked. “We have twenty students signed up for this week’s nature photography class with Baptiste and me. What happens to them if I just run away?”

  “Baptiste can do the class just fine without your help,” Cordelia said. “And James could lead the nature walks on his own.” Dad cringed, as he usually did when caught in the crossfire between his parents. “For that matter, Caroline’s here to help you this week—she could handle it.”

  “Nonsense!” Grandfather bellowed. And then, since even he realized that of course Dad and Caroline and Baptiste, the photographer, could handle both the class and the nature walks just fine, he cut the conversation short by storming out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

  “Oh, dear.” Dad looked back and forth between the door and us, as if unsure whether to dash after his father and calm him down or stay in his mother’s office to continue with one of his favorite pastimes, discussing crime and detection.

  “I do hope he doesn’t really decide to leave,” he said finally.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “He’ll be fine once he cools off.”

  “And if you think he’s likely to give up the chance to lecture to a captive audience all week, you don’t really know him,” Cordelia added. “Getting back to what I was saying—what if it’s a group behind this rather than an individual?”

  “Oh, I see!” Dad exclaimed. “You mean that they could have sent in one operative last week, and a completely different one this week! How diabolical!”

  I’d have called it merely sneaky, myself, but I didn’t want to spoil Dad’s enjoyment of the situation.

  “That’s right,” Cordelia said. “So Meg’s list of who was here last week and came back again this week—well, it’s interesting data, but it doesn’t really narrow down our suspects that much, does it?”

  “I can understand why a lot of dastardly groups might want to target my father.” Dad looked thoughtful. “I’m afraid I’m not as up to date with who might have it in for Biscuit Mountain.”

  “What a very polite way of suggesting I’m not as important as your father.” Cordelia smiled as she spoke, but I could tell the idea rankled.

  “I didn’t mean—I wasn’t—” Dad spluttered.

  “You’re not as infamous, certainly,” I said. “But I’m sure that developer who wants to buy Biscuit Mountain to build a luxury resort hates you just as much as Grandfather. Possibly more.”

  “Smith Enterprises,” Cordelia said, for Dad’s benefit. “And yes, the guy who runs it certainly doesn’t much like me. You’d think I’d stolen something from him, instead of just saying a polite “No, thank you” when he asked to buy my land. But I think he’s still trying to work through legal means. And I’m not at all sure a slick outfit like that would resort to such petty tricks. No, if you ask me, the Jazz Hands people are at the bottom of this.”

  “Jazz Hands people?” Dad echoed. “That’s a choreography term, right? You suspect the students in the dance class?”

  “The Jazz Hands Art Academy is an arts and crafts learning center outside Charlottesville,” I explained. “Calvin Whiffletree, the owner, seems to view us as his archrival.”

  “No, he seems to view us as upstarts who have pirated his idea,” Cordelia said. “Never mind that there are any number of places all over the country that have been doing the same thing for even longer than Jazz Hands. There’s Touchstone in Pennsylvania, Arrowmont in Tennessee, Haystack, Pilchuck, Penland, Peters Valley, The Crucible—”

  “As you can see, there are quite a lot of them.” Cordelia’s memory was good enough that she could easily recite the whole list if not sidetracked. “I’ve taught at a few over the years, and before starting up Biscuit Mountain, Cordelia took classes at several, to say nothing of interviewing the people who ran them.”

  “And none of them were anything but welcoming and helpful,” Cordelia said. “Except for Whiffletree and his wretched people at Jazz Hands, who seem to think I’m copying everything they do. I’d be the first to admit that I was studying them to see how they operate—them and all the others, so I could figure out what the best practices were. And Jazz Hands was absolutely the bottom of the barrel—a more disorganized, customer-hostile, and utterly awful place you’ve never seen. But if Whiffletree sends any spies—and I’m sure he will, if he hasn’t already—he’d figure out that we’re making considerable efforts to do just about nothing the same slipshod, inefficient way he does.”

  She’d also spent a considerable amount of money to support her goal of doing things properly at her center. Was Cordelia merely irritated at Jazz Hands,
Smith Enterprises, and whoever was vandalizing Biscuit Mountain? Or was she worried—even scared? Michael and I had done enough renovating over the years to have an idea how much money she had to have spent on Biscuit Mountain. What if it was more than she could afford to lose?

  I filed that away as something to figure out later.

  “Getting back to the vandalism.” Time to change the subject. “If it’s going to start up again this week, maybe it’s time to call in Stanley.” Stanley Denton, the leading—well, and only—private investigator in our hometown of Caerphilly, had already indicated that if we needed his help he’d clear his schedule and dash up here to Riverton within the hour.

  “And how are we going to explain away his presence?” Cordelia asked. “To find out anything he’ll have to snoop around and ask questions. Aren’t people going to wonder about the balding, middle-aged student who shows up a day or two late and then starts asking nosy questions?”

  “They might already be wondering when we’re going to do something about the vandalism,” I said. “At least the ones who have noticed it. Hiring Stanley would at least be something. And what about installing a security system?”

  “Good idea.” Dad beamed his approval. “After all, what’s the use of having a son who’s a cyber whiz if you don’t let him help you with things like this?”

  I was tempted to point out that my brother, Rob, wasn’t a cyber whiz. He merely had a gift for coming up with ideas that could be turned into highly profitable computer and video games. Well, that and the good sense to hire people who knew what they were doing to take care of the small details like programming the games and running Mutant Wizards, the company that sold them. But I bit my tongue. If thinking it would be Rob who installed her security system instead of his highly skilled (and paid) staff helped convince Cordelia that she needed one …

  “Like all those the computers and cameras your grandfather has at his zoo?” Cordelia said finally. “I hate the idea of spying on people. So … Big Brother.”

  “How interesting,” I said. “That’s just what Grandfather said when Caroline suggested that he install a security system.” Cordelia bridled slightly at that, as I knew she would. Not for the first time, I wondered how she and Grandfather had ever gotten along well enough, however briefly, to produce Dad. And, for that matter, what would have happened if Grandfather had been nearby when Cordelia discovered she was pregnant, instead of off on the Galápagos Islands and unreachable by post. Odds are they would have married—it was what one did, back then, in such a situation. Would they now be an elderly divorced couple, still squabbling over the same things that had ended their marriage? Or would one of them have done the other in out of sheer exasperation?

  “I’ll talk to Caroline,” Cordelia said finally.

  “Good,” I said. “She can tell you all the things Grandfather should have done with his system to make it first rate.”

  A slow smile spread across her face. One-upping each other was one of Grandfather’s and Cordelia’s favorite hobbies. I made a mental note to brief Caroline, so she could work that angle and close the deal on a security system.

  “Incidentally,” Cordelia said. “You’ll notice that the Slacker is back.”

  “Yes.” Not welcome news—at least not to me. “I can’t help wishing he’d changed his mind.”

  “The Slacker?” Dad repeated.

  “A student who started off in Gillian’s pottery class last week,” I explained. “Then Tuesday morning he informed us pottery wasn’t his thing, and asked if he could switch to the papermaking class.”

  “Where he lasted a day and a half before hopping over into the watercolor class.” Cordelia’s tone left us in no doubt what she thought of the Slacker’s fecklessness.

  “He can’t possibly have learned much that way.” Dad shook his head in disapproval.

  “No—that’s why we call him the Slacker,” Cordelia said.

  “Perhaps dilettante would be a more accurate word,” I suggested.

  “He seems more interested in the meals and the social life than in the classes.” Cordelia seemed to find this strangely annoying. I figured as long as he paid his tuition, he could be as lazy or as diligent as he liked.

  “Maybe he just likes hanging out with creative people.” I’d had this conversation with my grandmother before. “And the meals and the social life are well worth it.”

  “He was originally signed up for a second week of Gillian’s classes,” Cordelia said. “Clearly that wasn’t going to work. Since I more than half suspect him of being the Jazz Hands spy, I wouldn’t have minded giving him a refund.”

  “Surely a spy would make more of an effort to blend in,” I said.

  “I suggested he switch to the nature photography class,” Cordelia went on. “Any fool can point and shoot a camera. Doesn’t make you a real photographer, but I imagine it’s easier to muddle on with that than pottery or watercolors. He bowed out, though, when he heard about all the hiking. Not for the faint of heart, hiking with Monty.” She sounded—well, affectionate would be an exaggeration. Proud of Grandfather.

  “So where did the Slacker end up?” Dad asked.

  “Rose Noire’s herb class.”

  “They have hikes, too.” Dad frowned. Was he miffed that the Slacker had scorned the class he was helping out with?

  “Her herb-gathering expeditions aren’t exactly hikes.” Not by my definition, anyway. “They drive a mile or two up the mountain until they find a nice pretty spot and then they set out the picnic baskets and wander around for a few hours within sight of the van, harvesting stuff. That’s just his speed.”

  “But he’s a suspicious character,” Cordelia said. “Tell her to keep an eye on him.”

  “Will do,” I said. “We should also keep an eye on Victor the Klutz if you ask me. Granted, he wasn’t here last week, so he couldn’t be solely responsible for our problems, but I’ve already started wondering what the devil he’s doing here. Never have I seen anyone with less natural aptitude for blacksmithing.”

  “We will keep our eyes on him as well,” Cordelia said. Dad nodded his agreement.

  “And now I’m going to the dining hall.” I stood up and stretched.

  “There’s plenty of food left.” Cordelia waved at the spread. “In spite of your grandfather.”

  “I was planning to set a good example by mingling with the students,” I explained.

  But as I strolled down the hall, double-checking the studio doors along the way, just in case, I pulled out my phone. When I was upstairs again, well out of earshot if Dad or Cordelia stepped out of her office, I put in a call to my nephew Kevin, Eric’s older brother, who actually was a cyber whiz.

  “I have a job for you,” I said, when we’d finished with the social amenities.

  “One that actually pays?”

  “Only in goodwill.”

  “Rob actually pays me for the consulting I do for him.”

  And probably very handsomely, given Eric’s skills.

  “That’s true,” I said aloud. “But for him it’s a business expense. There’s also the fact that by helping me you might help keep some creep or creeps from putting your great-grandmother’s craft center out of business before you even get the chance to come down and teach those classes you’re doing in July and August. Remember those acts of vandalism we had last week? Well it’s starting again. We could use your help to find the perpetrator.”

  “Okay—what do you need?”

  “I’m going to send you a list of people,” I said. “I need to find out which of them have some kind of connection to Calvin Whiffletree and the Jazz Hands Art Academy.”

  “Who and what?”

  I spelled the names, and gave him the Web site address.

  “And while you’re at it, could you also see if any of them have anything to do with Smith Enterprises—that developer who’s been pressuring Cordelia to sell Biscuit Mountain to him?”

  “I’m on it,” he said. “At least I will be
once you send me the list.”

  “Hanging up now so I can send it.”

  I dropped back into my blacksmithing studio, unlocked the cabinet in which I’d secured my laptop, fired it up, and sent Kevin copies of this week’s and last week’s student and faculty lists, along with a staff roster. Then I locked up my laptop again and checked my watch. I might have enough time to eat lunch in the dining room after all. Though I waited for Kevin to confirm that he’d gotten my e-mail.

  Which didn’t take long.

  “Seriously?” his e-mail read. “I thought you said a list of people, not the whole freaking phone book.”

  I felt a twinge of guilt—yes, there were dozens of names on the list. But that was why we needed his help in the first place. I’d send a suitably soothing and grateful e-mail later.

  I headed down the hall toward the door that led into the great room, once more checking the studios on either side. And I spied a potential problem in Edward Prine’s art studio.

  Chapter 3

  I stood in the open doorway of Prine’s studio, assessing the situation. Grandfather was standing in the middle of the room, head tilted to one side, hands clasped behind his back, studying one of the paintings with a scowl on his face. And Prine was standing nearby, though his pretense of being totally focused on his partially finished canvas was wearing a little thin. Had Grandfather said something insulting already? Or was Prine merely vexed that his lair had lured in not an attractive woman but an outspoken old curmudgeon? In either case, the room seethed with tension, and I suspected they were on the verge of a heated confrontation.

  Well, at least it wasn’t another attack by the vandal, although I wasn’t sure a heated confrontation between Prine and Grandfather was much of an improvement. At least the vandal operated quietly.

  “Meg to the rescue,” I muttered as I stepped into the room. Though I wasn’t sure who needed rescuing from whom.

  “Afternoon.” I nodded to Prine, and then turned to Grandfather. “I think we can still make it to the dining room in time to grab some lunch. Let’s go.”