The Gift of the Magpie Page 21

“Did Ekaterina tell you about her idea of featuring shelter animals at the Inn?”

  “Yes!” His face lit up. “Rob’s going to take her over to the shelter tomorrow to pick out the first batch. I wanted to ask you for a favor—I’m heading out before dawn to pick up a load of animals from a kill shelter on the far side of West Virginia.”

  “Where are you going to put them all?” I asked, and then hoped I hadn’t accidentally volunteered to help with the solution to that problem.

  “Your grandfather’s got some vacant habitats at his zoo—he reintroduced a whole passel of black-footed ferrets into the wild this fall, and the new batches of kits won’t arrive till May or June. So he’s going to let me use them for the time being.”

  “Great,” I said. Actually, I wondered what Grandfather would do if Clarence’s new rescues were still around when the new kits began arriving. I’d let him worry about that.

  “But if all goes well, I’ll be gone at least twelve hours,” Clarence said. “Longer if there’s much weather in the mountains. Any chance you could drop by Harvey’s occasionally to check on the cat trap I set up there? Because the weather’s going to be nasty tomorrow, and if that feral kitten goes into the trap, she’ll be out of the rain—I set it up in the crawl space under the house—but it could get pretty cold, and she’ll be cut off from wherever she’s been sheltering. I told everyone to leave the little door into the crawl space open, so she can get to the trap, so check on that, too, when you go by.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “If you find her in the trap, just take the whole thing home and call Manoj out at the zoo,” Clarence said. “And he’ll come by to pick her up as soon as he can.”

  “Can do,” I said.

  “Thanks. Ooh—there’s that professor from the German department—the one who likes Weimaraners. There’s an alleged Weimaraner in the batch I’m collecting tomorrow—I should see if I can get him interested. Do you remember his name?”

  “No one remembers his name,” I said. “It’s about fifteen syllables long. Most people call him Professor Grimm, like the fairy tales, which happens to be his academic specialty. But just ‘professor’ will do.”

  “Thanks!” Clarence dashed off to greet the tiny white-haired and -bearded figure.

  I sipped my cider and half closed my eyes. It was nice, being here in the festively decorated lobby of the drama department, listening to the hum of conversation. It would be even nicer when the show started, and I could sit back in my seat to watch and listen, free from the occasional need to make coherent conversation with people.

  “Dammit, those are my magpies!”

  Chapter 25

  I opened my eyes to find Rose Noire and Grandfather glaring at each other a few feet away.

  “They’re wild creatures,” Rose Noire said. “They don’t belong to you. They don’t belong to anyone.”

  “They’re a valuable part of my research!” Grandfather snapped.

  “The value of a species does not lie in its utility to mankind,” I said, raising my voice so they could hear me. They both turned to glare at me.

  “Humanity,” Rose Noire said.

  “It was a quote,” I said. “And just for the record, I support the magpies’ right to freedom.”

  Rose Noire looked smug. Grandfather glowered at me.

  “But I also think it’s important to consider Grandfather’s point of view. When he brought them here from their native habitat, he made himself responsible for their well-being. For keeping them safe and healthy while they are participating in his experiment, and then returning them to their proper habitat when the experiment is over.”

  “Actually—” Grandfather began.

  “And consider what this experiment could do for the entire species,” I said, interrupting Grandfather, who was probably going to have an inconvenient moment of candor and say that he had no intention of returning the magpies to the wild. “If he can actually prove that their intelligence is as high as he thinks it is, it could significantly improve the way they’re treated! It could actually help their survival as a species!”

  I glared at Grandfather, willing him not to pipe up and explain that magpies were not even on the outer fringes of the endangered species lists.

  To my relief, Grandfather assumed what we all referred to as his heroic crusader pose, as if to suggest that he was ready to go into battle to defend the magpie. Rose Noire frowned and looked uncertain.

  “I’ll think about it.” She sailed off, head high.

  Grandfather took a step to follow, but I caught his arm.

  “Leave her alone for now,” I said. “Mother and I will work on her.”

  He nodded and strode off in the opposite direction.

  I closed my eyes and tried to regain my peace of mind.

  “There you are, dear.” Mother appeared, dressed in a long, elegant fitted gown of deep red velvet, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “How are you tonight?”

  “Dog tired.” It seemed like a good moment for honesty. “Can you do something for me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Make Rose Noire give Grandfather’s magpies back.” I related what I’d said, since it seemed to have made at least a small dent in Rose Noire’s stubborn determination.

  “I’ll take care of it, dear. Anything else?”

  “Talk for me if anyone comes over and wants conversation.”

  “Of course, dear. Did I tell you the good news about Mrs. Dinwiddie’s quilt?”

  “Good news?” I had the feeling I wasn’t going to like her definition of good news.

  “Apparently it’s not really her style,” Mother said. “So while she wanted it finished, in honor of her grandmother, she doesn’t want to keep it. She’s donating it to the Helping Hands, and we’re going to raffle it off to raise money for future projects.”

  “Damn,” I said. “I was hoping to talk her into selling it. To me, I mean.”

  “Oh, dear.” Mother sounded genuinely sorry. “I wish I’d known that. I’d have tried to talk her into selling it and donating part of the proceeds. But don’t worry. We can all buy lots of tickets.”

  “Buy me a whole bunch,” I said. “As many as you can. Do you want me to give you some money now?”

  “I’ll trust you, dear.”

  “And also take lots of photos,” I said. “Because if none of our tickets pay off, I want to find someone to make me one just like it.”

  “I’m sure that can be arranged.” Mother was using her most soothing voice. “And—they’re blinking the lights. Time to take our places.”

  As I settled into my seat, I felt a pleasant and rather surprising sense of anticipation. Surprising because this wasn’t the first time I’d seen Michael’s one-man performance of A Christmas Carol. How many years had he been doing this each Christmas? I couldn’t quite remember. A few years ago we’d escalated to a full-cast production, with Michael directing and a well-known actor imported from Hollywood playing Scrooge. And that had been well-received, and made a satisfactory amount of money for that year’s charity, but most people had been perfectly happy when the word went out that we were going back to the one-man show the following year. Not that we wouldn’t ever do the bigger production again—we were thinking maybe once every ten years or so. And maybe next time Michael could play the lead—I liked his Scrooge better, anyway.

  But for now, we were back to the one-man show. And not only had I seen at least one and sometimes several of his performances every year, I got to hear him rehearsing at home. Christmas in the Waterston/Langslow/Hollings-worth family played out with a soundtrack that included both Christmas music and Dickens’s prose, in what sometimes seemed like equal measure.

  And yet every year words from the book would hit me with sudden freshness. It happened now in the first few minutes, when Michael read the line about Scrooge being Marley’s “sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend, and sole mourner.”


  Harvey, locked away in solitude all those years. As solitary as Marley, or as Scrooge himself. Though at least he’d had Clarence as a friend. If only we’d known. And at least Clarence wasn’t his sole mourner.

  We’d failed Harvey. But we could help others. Mrs. Diamandis. She wasn’t the first person who’d started out as a Helping Hands client before becoming a volunteer herself. Mrs. Dinwiddie, who seemed to enjoy her quilting lessons. Maybe doing the Helping Hands project at Christmas wasn’t a totally stupid idea after all.

  “At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge,” Michael was saying, “it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time.”

  Yes. Most of the Helping Hands clients weren’t destitute, but more than one were poor. Poor, yet embarrassed to ask for help. Or unable to ask. Like Harvey, sitting in his increasingly cluttered and uncomfortable house. By making the project open to anyone, regardless of whether they needed it or not, we’d probably increased the odds that someone in real need would reach out to us.

  But before he shut his heavy door, he walked through his rooms to see that all was right. He had just enough recollection of the face to desire to do that. Sitting-room, bedroom, lumber-room, all as they should be. Nobody under the table, nobody under the sofa; a small fire in the grate; spoon and basin ready; and the little saucepan of gruel (Scrooge had a cold in his head) upon the hob. Nobody under the bed; nobody in the closet; nobody in his dressing-gown, which was hanging up in a suspicious attitude against the wall. Lumber-room as usual. Old fire-guard, old shoes, two fish-baskets, washing-stand on three legs, and a poker.

  Just like Harvey, checking his house last night when we took him home. Had he missed something—an open window, an unlocked door, an intruder hiding behind some pile of clutter? No, Aida had checked, too. Between his visible nervousness and her professionalism, I was sure they hadn’t missed anything. And besides, he hadn’t been killed in the house.

  But how had someone lured him out of the house and into the garage?

  Maybe that meant the killer was someone he trusted. Which would leave out all our main suspects except Tabitha. Maybe. If you bought her story that they’d formed a friendship online, and I wasn’t sure I did.

  Or someone he didn’t find physically threatening. That seemed more plausible. Which would whittle it down to Mrs. Gudgeon and Tabitha.

  Maybe no one had lured him out. Maybe he’d just wanted something that was in the garage. If he’d carefully checked and felt sure no one was there …

  I forced my attention back on Scrooge.

  “It is required of every man, that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow-men, and travel far and wide; and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death.”

  Required of every man? I had a sudden image of a transparent, spectral Harvey, hovering protectively in his house as we dismantled the clutter that had imprisoned him, box by box, paper by paper. Did he resent our interference? Would he be freed when we finished his decluttering? Or would he follow his stuff and haunt the furniture store?

  You’re getting fanciful, I told myself.

  Still. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we owed it to Harvey to finish the project. Sort his papers—and not just to see if there were any clues that would help the chief solve his murder. Find the proper home for all of his stuff, even if most of it went to a junk shop or the dump. Get his house fixed up so whoever moved in would have a happier life.

  And then I tried to banish Harvey from my mind, to focus on Michael’s show. There would be time enough to think about him tomorrow.

  Like Mrs. Cratchit’s pudding, the show was universally acclaimed to be a great success. Which meant that between the ticket sales, and the refreshment sales, a decent sum of money would make its way to CAWF.

  Though probably not enough to solve its problems in the long term. But we’d worry about that after the holiday.

  Back at the house, what we called the cast party was underway. Technically, with a one-man show, even inviting the posse of backstage techies who made everything happen would result in a fairly small cast party. So Michael generally extended an open invitation to anyone in the Drama Department, student or faculty, who was still in town. When you threw in our family—the relatives who were staying with us, the ones who were staying with Mother and Dad, the ones who had found rooms at the Caerphilly Inn or one of the many bed-and-breakfasts in town, and the ones who had come to town for just for the show and were hoping to find sofas to crash on—it made for a large and lively event.

  There was caroling in the living room. Competitive cooking in the kitchen. Board games in the library. And food everywhere.

  To my astonishment, I spotted my nephew Kevin—in the dining room, of course, where he could refill his plate whenever he liked. How like him, not even mentioning that he was in town either of the two times I’d been talking to him. He was deep in conversation with Josh and Jamie. They were probably consulting him about their Christmas present dilemmas. That significantly increased the odds that many of us would receive strange software or tech devices for Christmas. And most of them would be just peculiar, but a few would turn out to be phenomenally useful, once Kevin or one of Rob’s tech gurus could be persuaded to set them up for us.

  If it solved the boys’ holiday stress, I was prepared to be enthusiastic about anything. Even a repeat of the electronic Rubik’s Cubes Kevin had gifted some of us with a few years ago.

  I ran into Dad sitting in a far corner of the living room, slowly and morosely eating his way through a plate of food. And it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen much of him in the last day or so.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I settled down into the chair next to him.

  “The case.” He sighed heavily. “Apart from the initial news that it couldn’t have been an accident, I haven’t been able to give the chief any information that will help him solve it.”

  “Sometimes that happens,” I said.

  “I suppose it’s still possible that the time of death will help,” he said. “Since we were able to narrow it down to a fairly small window, thanks to having such specific information on what and when he last ate.”

  “How narrow?” A dangerous question, I knew, since it could inspire him to share all sort of medical details that he found a great deal more fascinating than I did.

  “Most probably between six and seven thirty,” Dad said. “We might know better once we do the autopsy. Certainly not before five, and Deacon Washington got there at seven thirty with the Not Just Tacos Truck, and would have seen any activity by the garage after that. So at least it’s a fairly narrow window.”

  At least I could stop worrying that Aida and I had left him to the mercies of his killer when we thought we were leaving him safely locked up in his house.

  “But that hasn’t yet given the chief any help, I guess,” I said.

  “No.” He looked morose. “Awkward time of day when it comes to alibis. And I’ve been doing my best to find out more about hoarding—both in general and as manifested in Mr. Dunlop’s case. But even though the chief is very polite about it, I don’t think he finds what I’ve learned very useful.”

  “You never know,” I said. “It’s always possible that he’ll come across a new bit of evidence, remember a fact you told him, and have the solution to the case.”

  Dad sighed again. Clearly he wasn’t very hopeful.

  “So what have you learned?” I asked. “Do they know what causes hoarding?”

  “They actually don’t.” The question seemed to cheer him up a bit. “Which is astonishing when you consider that some sources estimate that between two and five percent of the population suffer from it. The most common hypothesis is that it’s a reaction to some kind of loss or trauma, and there may be a genetic component. It’s more common in people who suffer from depression, anxiety, or attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. An
d sometimes associated with alcoholism, paranoia, or schizophrenia.”

  “Harvey didn’t strike me as paranoid or schizophrenic,” I said. “And I think if he were an alcoholic we’d have found a whole lot of empty bottles, and we didn’t. But anxious or depressed, maybe. Ms. Ellie thinks maybe his father was the real hoarder, and Harvey just didn’t know how to deal with the stuff. And he was probably a bit agoraphobic.”

  Dad nodded.

  “And did you hear about his family’s bank?” I asked.

  “Bank? No. Tell me!”

  As I’d hoped, hearing everything I’d learned about Harvey and his family improved Dad’s mood significantly. Although it didn’t give him any new ideas about who had committed the murder.

  “But never mind,” he said. “You’re making great progress! I’m sure you’ll have the solution in no time.”

  “I’m not,” I said. “And anyway, I’m not the one who has to solve it. If you come up with any brilliant ideas, let me know.”

  His shoulders fell again.

  “Not sure that’s possible.”

  An idea struck me.

  “Why don’t you come over to the furniture store tomorrow and help us sort through Harvey’s papers? It’s a long shot, but there could be some bit of useful information in them.”

  He brightened again.

  “If you think I could be of some use.”

  “You could be a lot of use,” I said. “Meet us there at ten.”

  “Good. It will certainly be an improvement over trying to referee between Rose Noire and your grandfather. Two of the stubbornest human beings on this planet.” He glanced at the nearby clock. “And if I have to get up in time to get there, it’s about time I got your mother and your grandfather home.”

  He dashed off, looking much more cheerful.

  I shooed the boys up to bed at eleven, and everyone else seemed to take the hint and began making their farewells. By midnight, everyone had either gone home or gone to bed—with the exception of the Dungeons & Dragons players, some of whom had been in the library for days now.