Gone Gull Read online

  “Oh, my.” Amanda shook her head in sympathy as we got up and headed back toward our studios.

  “By the second day, we started searching the crawl space under the terrace to see if anything had died under there.” We were crossing the great room, and I lowered my voice to make sure none of the students who might be nearby overheard me. “And since by that time we’d already started seeing the first acts of vandalism, we thought the smell was another in the series. Then the third or fourth day we deduced from the number of birds and animals swarming all over the hillside that there was something untoward happening on the slopes below us and figured out it was Marty instead of the saboteur.”

  “Unless, of course, he was the saboteur,” Amanda suggested. “Did you consider that?”

  “We’re still considering it,” I said. “There’s no evidence pointing to him, but there’s nothing that definitely clears him, either. Well, except for the fact that he seems to begrudge spending even a few minutes on anything not related to food. Anyway, we had to hire several workers to help us pick up all the rotting garbage—not an expense we had planned on—and harsh words were exchanged in the kitchen.”

  “From the sound of it, I should enjoy his cooking while it lasts, then.” Amanda sighed and patted her stomach. “Because even with you to keep the peace, I have a hard time imagining Ms. Cordelia putting up with that kind of nonsense for long. Well, here’s my studio.”

  I peeked in, just for a second. I had to admit that the fiber arts studio was a lot more festive-looking than mine, and I was very proud of the way we’d arranged it to support a wide variety of classes. Just inside the door were several rows of sewing machines, with the half dozen looms beyond them in the main body of the studio. The walls were covered with cloth hangings and racks of brightly colored cloth and thread. Dangling overhead on a pulley system were several spinning wheels and quilting arms that weren’t in use this week. The sewing machines could also be hoisted on high when not in use, and we even had a plan that I hoped we wouldn’t have to execute this summer for rolling the looms into storage if we needed the space they occupied.

  Then I glanced at my watch and realized that I needed to hurry back to my own studio before the students showed up and began beating down the doors.

  Only two of them were waiting, thank goodness, which would make it easier to ensure that I was the first one in the room—the better to deal with anything our vandal might have done while I was gone. I unlocked the door and flung it open—and realized that I was holding my breath until I could see what was inside.

  Chapter 4

  Fortunately the studio was just as I’d left it. I strolled up and down the neat row of anvils and forges, making sure. The students were so busy chatting that they probably didn’t notice my brief flurry of anxiety.

  The afternoon passed slowly—but not quite as slowly as the morning. Shortly after class resumed, we lost Victor the Klutz—at least for the rest of the afternoon. For reasons he never satisfactorily explained, he felt it necessary to pick up one of my anvils, and proceeded to drop it on his left hand. Fortunately he did it early enough in the afternoon session that Dad was still at the craft center rather than wandering the woods with the photo class. Performing first aid on Victor and then escorting him down to the county hospital greatly enlivened Dad’s afternoon. And although I felt a little guilty about it, I had to admit that Victor’s absence made for a serene and productive class.

  At six o’clock my students all hurried off to clean up before dinner. I battened down the studio and then sat down and opened my phone to see if any voice mails, texts, or e-mails had come in while I’d been teaching. I smiled over a couple of texts from Michael with pictures of what the boys had been doing. I sighed upon reading the e-mail from next week’s jewelry-making teacher, asking if the meals included vegetarian options. I sent a quick reply: “Briefly, yes. Can send more details when I’m at my computer.” Apart from the fact that I’d already answered the same question for her at least twice, did people really even need to ask anymore? Were there really that many places that ignored the growing numbers of committed vegetarians? Probably, but Biscuit Mountain wasn’t one of them. Later today I’d reassure her that not only did we have vegetarian options, we had a cook who was passionate about ensuring that the vegetarian options were at least as delectable as the carnivorous ones. But I didn’t feel like tapping that out with my thumbs.

  Then I realized I had an e-mail from Kevin.

  “I decided to start with the faculty,” it began. “Nine of the twelve names you gave me have some past association with the Jazz Hands Craft Academy. Details follow.”

  Nine out of twelve? Holy cow! Maybe Cordelia wasn’t just being paranoid. Though I calmed down a little when I read through the details. Still—my grandmother needed to hear about this.

  I locked up my studio and hurried upstairs. I found her getting ready to leave her desk.

  “Got a minute?” I asked, stepping inside.

  “For you, always.” She sat back down.

  I shut the door and took one of her guest chairs.

  “I asked your great-grandson Kevin to do some research for me,” I began. “Apparently, of the twelve craftspeople on the faculty last week or this, nine of them have some past association with Jazz Hands.”

  “Nine? Holy sh—I mean good grief.”

  “Forwarding Kevin’s e-mail to your computer,” I said. “Let’s print it out and study it.”

  A few minutes later we were both peering down at printouts of Kevin’s e-mail.

  “This is bad.” Cordelia was shaking her head in apparent dismay.

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “Two of these people took classes at Jazz Hands, twelve years ago in one case, ten years ago in the other. From what I remember of their résumés, that would be early in their careers. And you’ll notice that they didn’t go back for any refresher courses.”

  “True,” she said. “And for that matter, it was early in Jazz Hands’s history as well. I think twelve years ago would have been their first year of operation.”

  “The other seven taught there, but only one of them recently.”

  “Edward Prine.” She grimaced as she said the name. “I knew there was something I disliked about that man.”

  “There’s much to dislike about him,” I said. “But I wouldn’t necessarily hold Jazz Hands against him. I mean, would you have hired him if you’d known what a jerk he was? Maybe until you came along, they were the only ones who would hire him to teach. Of the others, Gillian the potter taught there in two consecutive years, but she hasn’t done so in four years. The rest all taught classes for one session during the first three years Jazz Hands was in existence. Doesn’t sound as if they’re Jazz Hands stalwarts. More like maybe they felt the same way about the place as you did.”

  “Maybe.” Her words came out through a tightly clenched jaw. “Or maybe I invited the Trojan horse in the door.”

  “Let me talk to some of them.” I tucked my copy of the list into my tote. “I’ll start with Amanda—I’ve known her longer than Jazz Hands has been in existence.”

  “Good,” she said. “Keep me posted. While Kevin’s checking people out, can he do a few more? Well, a lot more, I guess if—”

  “I also gave him a list of this week’s and last week’s students, plus our staff,” I said. “He’s going to check them out, too, but yeah, there are a lot of them. It will take time.”

  “Remind me to do something nice for that boy when he gets down here—assuming we keep our prankster from destroying the place before he comes.”

  She sounded worried. My stomach tightened briefly. How badly would failure of the craft center hurt her? I couldn’t figure out a diplomatic way to ask, so I pushed down the worry and gave what I hoped would look like a reassuring smile.

  “Whatever Kevin finds, we’ll deal with it. Don’t forget, the entire Langslow/Hollingsworth clan has your back.”

  She smiled at that, though it wasn’t exa
ctly a carefree smile.

  I hurried back upstairs to Amanda’s studio. She was still talking to a couple of her students. I waited till she finished with them, then stepped into the studio and shut the door.

  “May I pick your brains for a minute?” I asked.

  “I hardly have any left,” she said. “And I’m still not sure half of my students know their warp from their weft. But what brains I have left are at your disposal.”

  “What do you know about the Jazz Hands Art Academy?”

  “Those miserable crooks!” she exclaimed. “If you ask me, they’re part of the reason your grandmother had so much trouble recruiting craft teachers for this summer.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Were they bad-mouthing her?”

  “No—actually, if they had, it would have sent craftspeople flocking to her. They suckered me into teaching there one summer—this would be, oh, maybe nine or ten years ago. Only job I ever had that lost me money. My own fault, really, for not reading the fine print in the contract. They pay you by the student, so I figured if I did a little marketing for myself, I’d make out like a bandit. What I didn’t realize—because, stupid me, I didn’t read the fine print in the contract—is that if the student drops out, they dock your pay, even if the student dropped out for something that wasn’t your fault—like the fact that Jazz Hands had only one working loom for a dozen students and no air conditioning in a Charlottesville summer. And they docked our pay for what they called a materials fee—at marked-up prices; I could have filled a dump truck with fiber for what they charged me for the materials fee. Complete crooks. I never went back, and from what I’ve heard, hardly anyone ever does. So when your grandmother started contacting people about teaching here—well, no one knew her, and too many of us had been burned by those Jazz Hand jerks, so it wasn’t till you came on board and reached out to people that we figured out it might be legit. Why are you asking about them, anyway?”

  “They have it in for Cordelia and Biscuit Mountain,” I said. “They keep threatening her with legal action for supposedly stealing the idea of having a craft class center.”

  “Yeah, that sounds like them. What’s-his-face, the owner—”

  “Calvin Whiffletree,” I put in.

  “Yes, that’s him. He was always was a litigious son-of-a-biscuit-eater.”

  “Cordelia’s wondering if he might be behind the vandalism,” I added.

  “Wouldn’t put it past him.”

  “So if you notice someone here, faculty or student, that you know is associated with Jazz Hands—”

  “I’ll let you know,” she said. “Though I have to say, I haven’t been anywhere near them since that summer I taught there, and neither has anyone else I know. So I might not know who’s been hanging with them lately. Apart from Eddie Prine, of course. He’s been teaching there for years, which should tell you all you need to know about them.”

  “Eddie?” I repeated. “You’re on friendly terms with him?”

  “Not hardly,” she said. “But I do know how he hates being called Eddie. Try it sometime if you want to see him go ballistic.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.” I had to smile at the suggestion. “But I’m more likely to want to calm him down.”

  “Purrs like a kitten if you call him a genius. So if you think you can pull that off with a straight face.…”

  “Probably beyond my powers,” I said.

  “Just out of curiosity, did your vandal do anything to him?”

  “Splashed his studio with red paint. Ruined a bunch of paintings. He was pretty philosophical about it until he realized a painting he’d just started was one of the casualties.”

  “Yeah, that sounds like his style.” She shook her head ruefully.

  “So what are your plans for the evening?”

  “I plan on taking a long, hot soaking bath. Rose Noire gave me some of the herbal bath stuff her class was making today. And then I plan to make a pig of myself at dinner, after which I’m undecided between movie night, bridge, or your cousin’s yoga class.”

  “All good options.”

  “From what I’ve seen so far, word of mouth should make it no problem getting faculty for next year. You definitely know how to treat people here. Good studio spaces, nice amenities. Assuming you can solve this vandalism thing, of course. I’m off for that bath. Laters.”

  “Laters,” I replied.

  Assuming we could solve the vandalism thing. Easier said than done.

  I headed for the dining hall.

  On my way, I ran into Rose Noire.

  “I had a fabulous idea this afternoon,” she said. “And you were busy with your class, so I just decided to go for it.”

  “Go for what?” I was mentally bracing myself.

  “Horace!” she exclaimed.

  “What do you mean, going for Horace?” I asked. Horace Hollingsworth—my second cousin and Rose Noire’s fifth cousin once or twice removed—had a long-standing crush on Rose Noire, who either didn’t reciprocate his interest or perhaps hadn’t quite noticed it yet. Rose Noire was the reason Horace had given up his job as a crime scene technician for the York County Sheriff’s Department in favor of being a mere deputy and part-time criminalist in Caerphilly. Odds were Horace would do just about anything if Rose Noire coaxed him into it, so I needed to make sure her latest idea was a sensible one. Sensible and Rose Noire did not often travel together.

  “I’ve asked him to come up to help your grandmother find the person who’s doing all these unpleasant things,” she said. “He has some vacation coming anyway, and Chief Burke said okay. He hopes to be here in time for supper.”

  “That’s actually a really good idea,” I said.

  “You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

  “I’m just surprised Dad didn’t think of it,” I said. “He’ll be very pleased. You know how much he enjoys working a crime scene with Horace, though thank goodness they don’t often get the chance.”

  “Yes,” she said. “And this is almost as good as a murder.”

  “Better, if you ask me. We don’t want any dead bodies blighting Biscuit Mountain’s reputation.”

  “But without a body there’s really not much medical stuff for your father to do,” Rose Noire pointed out.

  “He can use his vast knowledge of criminal psychology to probe the culprit’s motivation and predict what he’ll do next.” Of course, Dad’s knowledge of criminal psychology had been largely acquired from mystery books rather than through observation of actual criminals, but still, with any luck his favorite authors would have gotten most of the details right.

  “Ooh, yes—he’ll like that. I’ll go and tell him!” She hurried off with remarkable speed, considering that she was wearing a long, trailing, gauzy flowered dress that looked as if it came straight out of one of Arthur Rackham’s fairy paintings.

  I followed more slowly, checking my phone for e-mails and messages as I walked. Dad reported by text that Victor the Klutz had a broken hand and would be withdrawing from the blacksmithing class. However, since he did happen to have his camera with him, Dad had convinced him to transfer to the nature photography class, so luckily there would be no need to refund his tuition.

  “Awesome,” I muttered. Had even Dad picked up on Cordelia’s anxiety about keeping up enrollment?

  Michael and the boys were waiting for me at one of the long tables.

  “Mommy! I’m going to be Peter Pan!” Jamie called when he saw me.

  “Big deal,” his twin Josh said. “I’m going to be Captain Hook.”

  As usual, each boy wanted to be the first to tell me all about his day, and Michael and I might have had trouble keeping peace if Grandfather hadn’t arrived.

  “Guess what I found in the woods today,” he announced.

  Chapter 5

  In one of the murder mysteries Dad read by the dozens, the answer, of course, would be a body. Fortunately the boys read a different sort of book.

  “Bears?” Jamie guessed.


  “Pirates?” Josh ventured.

  “I was about to guess that,” Jamie protested. “What about a crocodile?”

  Clearly Peter Pan and Captain Hook were having their effect.

  “A family of weasels!” Grandfather exclaimed. “Caroline, show them the pictures.”

  Caroline pulled out her digital camera and began clicking through it to find the pictures she had taken of the weasels, while Grandfather regaled the boys with facts about weasels, such as their remarkably varied diet.

  “Mice, rats, moles, shrews, voles, chipmunks, rabbits, squirrels, and even bats,” he recited.

  “Curious,” Michael said. “My appetite’s not what it was a few minutes ago.”

  “Small birds, of course, and their eggs,” Grandfather went on. “Lizards, frogs, fish, earthworms, and insects generally.”

  “Do they eat them raw?” Jamie asked.

  “Of course, raw,” Grandfather said. “And they enjoy lapping up the blood of their prey.”

  “Perhaps just a small salad,” Michael murmured.

  Just then I saw Edward Prine enter. He paused in the archway and appeared to be scanning the room.

  “If he’s trying to make a dramatic entrance, he picked the wrong time,” Michael said to me in an undertone.

  “Yeah.” I kept my voice equally quiet. “We’re the only ones watching—everyone else is too absorbed in their food.”

  But when Prine spotted us he began striding across the room toward us.

  Or, more likely, toward Grandfather.

  “Uh-oh,” I muttered.

  I pushed back my chair in case I had to intervene, and I noticed Michael was doing the same.

  Prine arrived at our table and loomed up behind Josh and Jamie, who were sitting opposite Grandfather.

  “Here!” Prine flung something down on the table in front of Grandfather. Several sheets of eight-and-a-half-by-eleven paper. “Don’t tell me my paintings are all wrong! Take a look at those!”

  Grandfather rather deliberately averted his eyes from the papers and continued his nature lesson.