Of course, checking out the object Vern had spotted wasn’t as simple as merely striding over to where he’d pointed. The space between us and the shiny object was still part of Horace’s search area, so he had to scrutinize every square inch of ground between us and it. When he finally got closer, he took a dozen or so pictures of the object in situ before picking it up in one gloved hand and holding it so we could see.
“It’s a pen.” His flat tone suggested that he wasn’t overwhelmed by Vern’s find.
“Odd thing to find out here in the woods,” Vern said.
“Maybe if we were far out in the woods,” Horace said. “This close to the house?” He shrugged. “Anyone could have dropped it. And it could have been here forever.”
“Not forever,” Vern objected. “Too clean for that. And can’t you test it for DNA and stuff?”
“Of course,” Horace said. “But even if we found someone’s DNA on it, there’s nothing to prove it was dropped here last night.”
“There might be,” I said. “Hold that thing up again, will you?”
Horace obliged.
“I think it’s a combination pen and LED flashlight,” I said. “Something Kevin and Casey ordered to promote their podcast. Take a closer look and see if it has Virginia Crime Time printed on the side, along with the podcast’s website and email address.”
Horace held it up, peered at it, and nodded.
“Should be useful, then—right?” Vern asked.
“A promotional item that they’ve given away by the hundreds.” Horace shook his head in disappointment.
“Should I be insulted that they never offered me one?” Vern asked.
“Something they will be giving away by the hundreds,” I said. “But the box of pens only just arrived yesterday morning. Kevin made a special trip back to the house to get them so he could start giving them away at the conference.”
“I won’t feel insulted, then,” Vern said. “And I bet that makes it a lot more interesting to Horace.”
“Yes.” Horace was looking at the pen with a much more favorable expression. If it had been a dog, he’d have been patting its head and offering it a treat. “Because that not only narrows down the window of time when it was dropped, it definitely ties the pen to someone who was at the conference. Good information!”
We all beamed at the pen, and Horace had Vern don a glove and hold the pen flat on his hand so he could take a few more pictures of it. Satisfying to think that I’d made a contribution to the investigation. Of course, methodical as Horace and the chief were, they’d have eventually found out the source of the pen anyway, but I had probably saved them some time.
We continued on in slow motion through Iris’s yard, although now Horace and Vern seemed to be cooperating better on our route, with Horace bent over to scrutinize the ground directly in front of him, and Vern searching the path ahead, looking for those telltale signs that an experienced tracker uses to follow a trail. Of course, not being an experienced tracker, I was clueless. Occasionally, Vern would utter a few words or just point to indicate a minor course correction to Horace. Very rarely, I could actually figure out what broken twig or partial footprint he’d spotted, but most of the time the clues were invisible to me.
At one point, Cordelia texted me.
“You still helping Horace?” she asked.
“Yes,” I texted back. “You need me for anything?”
“No,” she replied. “We’re fine here. Just being nosy. Find some good clues!”
Horace bagged a few more pieces of evidence. For example, Vern pointed out where a small branch had recently been broken off a tree—recently enough that it could be the ninja who’d done it.
“Of course, he may have touched it, but what are the odds he wasn’t wearing gloves last night,” Vern said. “It got down into the twenties.”
“Worth checking it out anyway for traces of fiber,” Horace said, as he deposited the branch in one of his larger evidence bags.
“Good point,” Vern said.
Aside from the pen, the other high point in our trip was when Vern spotted a footprint—only a partial print, but a good one that clearly showed the sole pattern. After Horace had taken a few dozen photos, he actually took a casting of it.
My excitement over the footprint faded during the half hour or so it took for the impression to dry. And by the time we resumed our trip, creeping over the forest floor like a trio of oversized snails, my initial enthusiasm had faded first into boredom and then into a curious sort of Zen state in which I stopped fretting about our slow pace and the racing clock and the penetrating cold and focused on trying to enjoy the moment. Appreciating the fading colors of the fallen leaves. Spotting the occasional interesting fungus. Listening to the birds’ songs, the squirrels’ chattering, and the crisp crunch of dead leaves underfoot.
I was actually surprised when we emerged from the woods and I found myself looking at our backyard. I was suddenly struck by how familiar and domestic the scene was. How welcoming. The copper-and-black Welsummer hens were busily scratching around the yard, and the bird feeders were swarming with customers. Mostly chickadees, titmice, and various little brown sparrows, but it made a lively show. Skulk, a gray-striped behemoth who was the larger of our two feral barn cats, was sunning himself atop one of the picnic tables. As I watched, Rose Noire, bundled up in her lavender wool cape, came to pour hot water into the bird bath to break up the ice, distracting me for just a moment as I wondered if she’d like the electric bird bath deicer I’d gotten her for Christmas. Then I focused back on the scene ahead of me. The llamas were ranged along the fence at one side of the pen, watching what we humans were up to. A charming scene.
Until you noticed what the llamas were watching. Sammy, another Caerphilly deputy, was standing guard over the crime scene. Well, not actually standing—he was pacing to keep warm, up and down the fence between our backyard and Rose Noire’s herb garden. The ambulance and the Gadfly’s body were long gone, but yellow crime-scene tape still surrounded the area, fluttering in the breeze, and if I got closer, I’d also see the drying pool of blood.
Would the blood disappear, or would we have to do something to get rid of it? It was organic, so surely something would eat it in time. But what? Would the Welsummers go after it when Sammy was no longer there to guard it? What about Skulk and Lurk, his fellow barn cat? Would the smell of blood draw them in?
And what about the chickadees and the rest of the feeder crowd? Not all birds were vegetarians—the chickadees relished suet, especially this time of year.
I thought of asking Horace, but he was still absorbed in his inch-by-inch inspection of the ground. A seasoned hunter like Vern might know, but he was wholly focused on figuring out the ninja’s path, so Horace could examine all the right square inches.
I wasn’t sure why I was so focused on when and how the blood would disappear. I could ask one of them later. Meanwhile …
“Mind if I peel off?” I asked. “I’d like to check on Delany, and then see if Cordelia needs any help down at the conference.”
“That’s fine,” Vern said. “I can handle the rest of Horace’s stuff.”
I handed over the equipment bag I was carrying and Vern slung it over his shoulder.
“And your gran asked me to make sure Horace showed up for his afternoon panel,” Vern said, in a tone low enough that Horace probably wouldn’t hear it.
“Good,” I said. “I know Horace will probably see it as a ridiculous interruption to the important work on the case—”
“He might,” Vern said, with a grin. “If the chief hadn’t given us all orders to spend as much time as we can down at the Inn, observing what all his suspects are up to. So Horace will be hoping to spot some behavioral clue that will crack the case.”
“Good plan.” I glanced over at where Horace was squatting down, scrutinizing a patch of dirt. “So have we been following the killer’s path, or his victim’s?”
“Both, probably,” Vern said. “I can’t prove it yet, but it looks to me as if two people passed this way along a very similar route.”
“Together?”
“Maybe,” he said. “More likely one following the other,” he said.
“Or the same person coming and going?”
“Probably not. Directionality on both seems to be heading this way, and when I was guarding the crime scene earlier, I saw what I’m pretty sure were signs of someone leaving in the other direction, instead of heading back toward Mrs. Rafferty’s yard.”
“And that would definitely not be our victim.”
“Right. Going to check that out when we eventually get there.”
I was tempted to ask him to explain what subtle clues he’d observed to lead him to his conclusions, but I knew from past experience that I wouldn’t understand more than half of what he said, and that was assuming he could even articulate the clues. I’d figured out that a large part of Vern’s legendary tracking ability was based on the instincts he’d developed from his years of roaming the fields and woods of Caerphilly. And both he and the chief knew that “I could just tell” wouldn’t fly in court, which meant that unlike Horace’s finds, Vern’s contribution wouldn’t be admissible as evidence—never mind the fact that he’d successfully tracked down any number of lost people and animals over the years, not to mention the occasional dangerous fugitive and enough deer and other game to keep most of the Shiffley clan well fed in even the hardest winter.
“Oh, and that footprint we found,” he added. “I don’t think it’s going to turn out to be our victim’s. He was wearing athletic shoes, and that looks to me more like a boot print. But don’t mention the footprint to anyone. We don’t want the killer getting rid of the telltale footwear before we find it.”
“Roger,” I said. “Actually, given how focused everyone at the conference is on unjust convictions, I bet the killer wouldn’t be the only one unloading suspicious-looking boots if word got out about what we’d found.”
“You could be right,” Vern said, shaking his head.
“Well, keep me posted if you find anything interesting,” I said. “Like signs that the killer might still be lurking nearby.”
“Roger,” he said. “Chief already gave us orders to drive by here a lot more than usual, so there’s that.”
I glanced back at the house. Delaney was back in the sunroom, tucked up under a blanket on the chaise longue, with her binoculars trained on one of the bird feeders.
I felt a sudden surge of protectiveness. For Delaney, and my unborn niece or nephew. And Rose Noire, who should have been having a joyful solstice. And Dad and Horace and Vern and all the other deputies who would be suddenly pulling extra shifts during a season when they had a right to expect to spend some time with their families. Heck, I could probably even manage a little sympathy for the Gadfly if I worked at it.
My face must have given away what I was feeling.
“Don’t worry,” Vern said. “We’ll find whoever did this.”
“I know,” I said. “But it can’t happen too soon to suit me.”
“Yup,” he said. “I don’t think there’s any good season for a murder, but I have to admit, Christmas time’s the worst.”
He went back to hovering over Horace. Time for me to check on the household, and then maybe head down to the Inn. See what I could do to keep Cordelia’s conference on track.
And maybe help the chief.
But for starters, I went out to the barn and unlocked the door to my office. I wanted to use my laptop to do a little snooping about the Gadfly and some of the people who might have it in for him. I probably wouldn’t find out anything that Kevin, Festus, and Cordelia didn’t already know—or anything the chief wouldn’t be finding out. But I was starting to feel that everyone knew more than I did about the Gadfly—and why someone might want to do away with him. An unfamiliar feeling, and one I didn’t like.
But my laptop wasn’t on my desk where I’d left it. Since I normally kept my office locked, either a burglar with excellent lockpicking skills had broken into my office, taken the laptop, and then locked up again after himself … or, more likely, Kevin had taken it away for some kind of update or maintenance. So I headed back to the house.
Rose Noire and several of her Wiccan or pagan friends were in the kitchen, fixing the refreshments for their solstice celebration. When she saw me, her expression changed from relaxed and happy to anxious. It wasn’t me, I knew, but the fact that my return reminded her of what she’d seen.
So I put on my most cheerful, optimistic face and gave her a thumbs-up sign.
“Have they caught whoever did it?” she asked, her expression suddenly joyful.
“No, but Horace and Vern both had useful finds,” I said. “I’m sworn to secrecy, but they’re definitely making progress. Is Kevin around?”
“In his lair,” Rose Noire said. “He’s doing some kind of forensic work for the chief.” Her tone suggested that I should refrain from interrupting him, lest I impede the progress of the case.
“Just collecting my laptop,” I said. “I want to take it with me when I go back to the Inn. So I can help the chief if the opportunity arises.”
She nodded, as if giving me permission.
I was just starting down the basement stairs when she called out something.
“Can you check on Delaney before you go?”
I retraced my path back into the kitchen.
“Check on her?” I echoed. “Why?”
“I don’t quite know.” She frowned slightly. “She’s suddenly being very secretive about something. If I walk into the room when she’s on the phone, she hangs up. And she’s been texting furtively.”
I thought of pointing out that this close to Christmas, a lot of us had reasons for being secretive. At any given moment, most of the family were tiptoeing around plotting various holiday surprises. And for that matter, Delaney could be starting to feel the signs of impending labor. And while I had no doubt that she was grateful for all of Rose Noire’s care over the last five months, if I were in her shoes I wouldn’t be in a hurry to announce that I was starting to feel contractions and cause Rose Noire to escalate her ministrations.
“I’ll see what I can figure out,” I said. Then I descended into the basement and entered Kevin’s computer-filled lair.