Owls Well That Ends Well Page 6

  I decided to avert trouble by meeting the trunk procession before it reached the checkout table.

  “There’s a line, you know,” I said to the man.

  “This lady wants to buy the trunk,” Dad said.

  “But only if you can find the key,” said a short, blonde woman, appearing from behind the trunk. “It’s no use to me if I can’t even get it open.”

  The mutinous comments from the line were growing louder.

  “It had a key when we put it out,” I said, frowning. “Did you look around where you found the trunk?”

  “Someone had dragged it into the barn,” Dad said.

  “Gordon-you-thief,” I said, nodding. “Put it down while we look for the key. No, don’t block the cashier’s line—it could take us some time to find the key.”

  Following my gestures, Dad and the other man maneuvered the trunk down behind the cashiers’ tables, into the small roped-off area we’d set aside so we’d have a place to put our own stuff and hide from the customers.

  Pacified, the customers in line grew quiet again. For now.

  The man dropped his end before Dad did, and I heard something thump inside the trunk.

  “We definitely need the key before I can sell you the trunk,” I said. “It was empty when we put it out; the price doesn’t include the contents, whatever they are.”

  “I don’t want the contents,” the woman said, with a sniff. “I didn’t put them there. I just want the trunk. In working order. With a key.”

  She’s a customer, I told myself. I tried to smile, and then decided not to bother; the Groucho mustache hid my mouth anyway, and the smile wasn’t likely to reach my eyes.

  “Dad, could you go and see if you can find Gordon McCoy,” I said. “The jerk probably locked some stuff he wanted into the trunk and took away the key.”

  The woman remained, tapping her foot and looking pointedly at her watch while Dad and Rob went up and down the aisles, looking for Gordon. I began to worry. What was Gordon trying to pull? I didn’t think there was any way he could get out of the yard sale area without our seeing him—certainly not with anything valuable. Anyway, despite the nickname, literal larceny wasn’t really Gordon’s style, only sharp business practices.

  “Maybe he went to lunch,” Dad suggested, returning after his third or fourth sweep through the grounds. “But I got these from your cousin Fred’s table. I suspect those trunk keys don’t have too many variations—see if any of these fit.”

  He handed me a shoebox full of keys—probably several hundred of them, in a variety of sizes—and dashed off again.

  Cursing Gordon-you-thief under my breath, I sat down beside the trunk with the shoebox in my lap and began trying keys. The metal plate around the keyhole was slightly scratched. It hadn’t been when I’d put it out, which meant that she’d probably tried to pick or force the lock before bringing the trunk to me. A fact I’d bring up if, as I anticipated, she tried using the scratches to dicker over the price when I finally got the damned thing open.

  To my complete astonishment, the seventeenth key I tried actually fit.

  “Victory!” I exclaimed.

  “It’s about time,” the woman who wanted to buy the trunk exclaimed.

  I heaved the lid up and looked inside.

  “It’s Gordon,” I said.

  “Yes, he’s probably the one who locked the trunk,” Michael said, over his shoulder. “What did he put inside?”

  “No, I don’t think he locked the trunk,” I said. “I mean, it’s Gordon inside the trunk.”

  Chapter 8

  “Gordon?” Michael exclaimed, leaping up from his chair. “In the trunk? Is he—?”

  “Definitely,” I said. “I think his head’s bashed in.”

  I hoped I sounded calm. I’d seen dead bodies before, and as a doctor’s daughter, I like to think I have a pretty strong stomach. But there’s a difference between hearing your father prattle on at the dinner table about dead bodies, real or on the pages of the mystery books he loves, and finding one in your own backyard. I inhaled deeply, as my yoga teacher always recommended in moments of stress, and then decided to postpone further deep breathing until later. Even through the reek of Gordon’s aftershave, I could smell the unmistakable odor of blood.

  Gordon’s red pirate bandanna was askew, revealing his thinning, straw-colored hair, and both bandanna and hair were clotted with clumps of darker red.

  “Someone probably hit him with that bookend,” Michael said, pointing to an object lying at the other end of the trunk, by Gordon’s feet.

  “Oh, damn,” I muttered. The last time I’d seen that owl-shaped bookend, Giles had been carrying it.

  The woman who wanted to buy the trunk looked in, shrieked, and fainted. I looked around. The people in line hadn’t been paying much attention to what I was doing before, but now, thanks to the unconscious woman, they were starting to gawk.

  “Shut the trunk,” I said, and then followed my own orders. “Mrs. Fenniman, can you take care of her? We need to keep people behind the ropes—maybe if they don’t see what’s happened we won’t have a panic. And can someone go tell Dad not to let anyone in the barn?”

  “We should call the police,” Michael said.

  “No need to call,” Mrs. Fenniman said. “I saw Chief Burke a few minutes ago, looking over some fishing gear at Professor Hutson’s table. Shall I get him?”

  “I’ll do it, and then enlist Meg’s dad,” Michael said, shoving back his Groucho mask as he turned. “You make sure no one leaves the scene of the crime.”

  “Will do,” I said.

  Not hard, since the only people planning to leave were the dozen standing in the checkout line, and at least for the moment, most of them seemed enthralled at having a front row view of what would doubtless be the most exciting thing to happen in Caerphilly in months.

  Though they didn’t know about the murder just yet. At the moment, they were watching Mrs. Fenniman minister to the fallen customer. Some of them looked puzzled—probably the ones who knew that the Heimlich maneuver wasn’t necessary or even useful in cases of fainting. Of course, Mrs. Fenniman knew that, too, but she’d been dying to practice the technique ever since Dad had taught her how a few weeks ago. Thank goodness he hadn’t yet taught her how to perform a tracheotomy.

  I scanned the crowd, looking for Giles. I couldn’t imagine him killing anyone, and I suspected he’d absentmindedly set the owl bookend down someplace. If he could remember where, that might help us—correction, help Chief Burke—identify the killer.

  “I’m off duty, you know,” said a mellow baritone voice at my elbow.

  “Chief Burke, thank—” I began, and then my mouth fell open. Apparently the chief had decided to take advantage of the costume discount—if not for the familiar voice, I’d never have recognized him. He wore a black leather coat, wraparound shades, and at least a foot of glossy Afro. Was he supposed to be Shaft, I wondered. I thought Shaft was bald, though, so I wasn’t sure who Chief Burke was impersonating, but he dwarfed the miniature Darth Vader who stood beside him, tugging on his hand.

  “If you have a shoplifting problem, I can have one of the duty officers cruise by,” he said.

  “It’s not a shoplifting problem,” I said. “It’s a murder problem. I thought you’d want to be the first to know.”

  I’d spoken too loudly. I could hear gasps and whispers from the people in line, and several of them ran off, presumably to tell their friends.

  “Lordy,” the chief said, shaking his head. “I wish I thought you were kidding. Frankie, you go find your Grandma and tell her she’ll have to find you some lunch. Grandpa has to work.”

  Darth Vader nodded and scampered off.

  “So where is this alleged murder?” the chief said.

  I pointed to the trunk. He walked over, used his handkerchief to lift the lid, and peered in.

  “That poor rascal!” he exclaimed.

  “I see you know Gordon,” I said.

  �
��Well, of course,” he said. “He’s had that eyesore of a shop on Main Street nearly fifteen years. I’m not surprised, really. Lord knows, no one deserves to be murdered, but if anyone could provoke Saint Peter himself into forgetting that fact, it would be Gordon.”

  With that, he pulled out his cell phone. Calling the station for reinforcements, I hoped.

  Michael returned.

  “Your Dad’s got the barn under control,” he said.

  “Great,” I said. “Now all we have to worry about is them,” I said, pointing to the crowd. The line snaking away from the checkout table was becoming obscured by the increasing numbers of people showing up to gawk, and they’d begun shoving the ropes inward, a few inches at a time. “If Chief Burke doesn’t get some officers here pretty soon for crowd control …”

  “Don’t worry,” Michael said. “Also under control.” Just then the crowd parted, and Mother appeared, took up a position just inside the rope, and began issuing orders. Within two minutes, she had the ropes back to their original position and the crowd arranging itself in several rows, by height, so everyone would have the best possible view. Which might not be optimal in the chief’s eyes, but I thought it was an improvement over being trampled by curious onlookers while guarding the trunk.

  But while the gawkers were happier, the shoppers had grown surly.

  “Maybe I should start writing up people’s sales tickets while they’re waiting,” I said. I rummaged through the stuff on the checkout table for one of the little pads of sales receipts. “That’s what really takes time, and if they see things are moving—”

  “I’ll do it,” Michael said, plucking the receipt pad from my hand. “I’ll round up some of our elusive volunteers to help. You stay here and help Chief Burke.”

  He flagged Mrs. Fenniman and the cousin dressed as a white rabbit, and the three of them began working their way down the line. As soon as they started, I could see a decrease in the number of frowns and annoyed glances at wristwatches.

  And not only was morale improving, but I figured that once people had their sales slips all neatly written up, they’d be less likely to change their minds and leave us stuck with the junk they’d picked up. The man carrying Mrs. Sprocket’s near life-sized reproduction of the Venus de Milo, for example. I really wanted to see that leave.

  First things first. Murder trumped our yard sale, no question. I turned back to the chief. He had pulled off his wig and sunglasses and was struggling out of his leather jacket with one hand while holding his cell phone in the other. I went over to help him out. That doing so allowed me to eavesdrop was, of course, purely incidental.

  From the frown that crossed his face when he saw me, I deduced that he’d neither forgiven nor forgotten my so-called meddling in the last murder case we had in Caerphilly.

  “Yes, I know I gave Clyde the day off for his cousin’s wedding,” he was saying into the phone. “But we’ve got a situation here. You tell him to head on over here as soon as they’re safely hitched. And—hold on,” he said, with a look of alarm. “I’ll have to call you back.”

  I followed the chief’s gaze and saw a short, plump African-American woman swathed in white robes and wearing a Cleopatra-style headdress. She held Darth Vader’s hand and frowned at the chief.

  “I declare,” she said. “If you’re too triflin’ to buy your grandson a measly hamburger …”

  “Minerva,” the chief said, in a stage whisper. “We have a serious crime going on here.”

  “Dad, it’s probably time for Eric’s lunch,” I said. “Why don’t you take the chief’s grandson along and feed them both?”

  Dad looked crestfallen. He wanted to stay at the crime scene.

  “We’ll make points with the chief,” I whispered to him. “And with Mother; she won’t want Eric to see this. Come back when you’ve found someone reliable to watch them both.”

  Dad’s expression lightened.

  “Come along, Frankie,” he said, offering Darth Vader his left wing. “Do you like hamburgers or hot dogs?”

  “Yes,” Darth Vader said.

  Minerva Burke nodded approvingly and returned to whatever table interested her. Chief Burke looked relieved.

  “Thank you kindly,” he said. “Of course, she’ll want to take Frankie home when she learns we have to shut the shopping down for the time being.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that,” I said, with a sigh.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” the chief shouted. “Ladies and gentlemen!”

  I hadn’t realized before how loud the yard sale was. And it wasn’t a single, identifiable noise, but the general hum of several hundred people bargaining, conversing, and trading rumors about the murder with their friends and neighbors, mixed in with the louder, more sporadic noises of children playing, parents calling or scolding, radios pumping out tunes or talk shows, grills sizzling, and the occasional honking of my brother’s Harpo horn. About a third of the people in the yard seemed intent on ignoring the murder and continuing to shop. Another third clustered around the edge of the roped-off area, arranged in height order, frankly staring at the crime scene. The rest dashed back and forth, trying to do both at once and annoying everyone.

  The chief tried several times to make himself heard, with no success. Shoppers and rubberneckers alike ignored him.

  “Allow me,” Michael said. He stepped up onto the cashier’s table and drew himself up to his full height.

  “Attention, shoppers!” he proclaimed, and his resonant stage actor’s voice cut through the general noise and silenced it as a hawk’s cry would cut off the normal cheerful chatter around a bird feeder.

  “Attention shoppers!” he repeated. “Due to an unfortunate occurrence, we regret that we have to suspend the yard sale temporarily, by order of the Caerphilly Police Department. If you’ll all please take the items you now have and form an orderly line leading to the checkout area and stand by for instructions from our chief of police …”

  Murmurs of mingled outrage and curiosity ran through the part of the crowd still shopping, while the ones gathered around the murder scene pretended to think the announcement didn’t apply to them.

  People began to comply. At least the ones still shopping. They didn’t go happily, and they weren’t quick about it, and I suspect no power on Earth could have kept them from picking up a few more items as they passed various tables, like horses snatching a mouthful of grass every time their riders dropped the reins. But they began gradually ambling toward the checkout line. I overheard the chief making another phone call and ordering someone to stop by the station on his way here to pick up the departmental bullhorn.

  Mother, still keeping the onlookers in order, took a moment to draft Rob to take her place in the checkout line. I noticed, with alarm, that she handed him the orange and purple lamp shade I’d found so hideous. I hoped she was only holding it for someone else. Or maybe she liked the shape and was planning to strip off all the ghastly trappings and recover the frame with a nice unobtrusive beige. Surely the lamp shade couldn’t possibly be part of her decorating plans for Michael and me.

  I’d worry about that later. The first two of the chief’s officers had arrived. Given the speed of their arrival and the fact that they wore civvies with what appeared to be folded Nixon masks shoved in their pockets, I suspected they’d been here all along as customers. Burke assigned them to search the barn. I hoped the chief would assign the next arrivals to crowd control. Even Mother could only do so much.

  “Meg, your cousin Horace has found something,” Dad said, appearing at my elbow.

  “And just what has he found?” Chief Burke said, stepping between me and Horace.

  Cousin Horace stepped forward, holding a charred object at the end of a set of barbecue tongs.

  “We found this in one of our grills,” he said. “And there are some stains on the cover that might be blood spatter.”

  “And just why are you so familiar with blood spatter?” Chief Burke asked, frowning at Horace. “B
een watching CSI too often?”

  “Cousin Horace’s a crime scene technician with the sheriff’s department at home,” I said.

  “Ah,” the chief said, nodding with approval. I blinked in surprise at his ready acceptance of Horace’s credentials, and then realized that among so many costumed revelers, Horace’s habitual gorilla suit looked perfectly normal. The chief had already focused on the object Horace was holding.

  A book. The side toward me was so badly charred that I could only just make out the faint suggestion of pages, but Chief Burke found his side more interesting. I edged closer to look over his shoulder and found that the book’s front cover was only slightly scorched and perfectly recognizable, its faded red cloth binding stamped in gold and black with a chessboard motif and the book’s author and title.

  The Uttermost Farthing, by R. Austin Freeman.

  Chapter 9

  “Damn,” I muttered. A little too loudly.

  “What is it?” the chief said, looking back at me.

  “This is turning into a zoo,” I said, waving at the crowd of rubberneckers and interrupted shoppers, pretending that they rather than the book had inspired my exclamation. “I don’t suppose you’d let us collect their money so they could all haul their stuff away.”

  The chief lowered his head and peered disapprovingly over his glasses.

  “And you’re positive none of their stuff is evidence?” he said.

  “It was just a thought,” I said. “How about if I get my volunteers to go down the line and box up everyone’s stuff—we’ll have the carbons of the sales slips for an inventory. And then we can store everything until your officers are finished with it, and you could question people and get them out from underfoot.”

  He looked at me suspiciously, then nodded.

  “That should work,” he said, sounding faintly surprised that I’d come up with a good idea. “Get Sammy to help you,” he added, as a tall, gangling young redheaded officer strode up, still trying to button one of his uniform cuffs.

  Help me or make sure I didn’t pull anything?