I glanced over the chief’s shoulder at the large computer screen. Evidently Kevin was continuing to post information from Norton’s phone for the chief. I assumed wherever he was posting the stuff was secure from cyber eavesdropping. After all, this was Kevin. And I decided it would be diplomatic to make it obvious that I wasn’t trying to spy on what they were doing.
In addition to the desk, the credenza, and an impressive row of oak file cabinets, Ekaterina’s office featured a small, round oak table with three comfortable chairs. I settled in there and turned on my laptop.
It was curiously peaceful. The same soft, instrumental Christmas music you could hear in the lobby was emanating from a couple of well-camouflaged speakers. A bowl of seasonal potpourri sat in the middle of the table, and the mingled scents of cinnamon, clove, and spruce raised my spirits. I resisted the temptation to raid her bowl of miniature candy canes—she had both the red-and-white peppermint and my favorite green-and-white wintergreen ones. But I didn’t want to spoil my appetite for whatever the Inn’s kitchen was preparing for tonight’s feast. I hadn’t heard what the final menu was to be, but I had overheard Cordelia fretting about whether to choose ham, turkey, or roast beef for the carnivores, and Ekaterina asking why not serve some of each. And they’d roped in Rose Noire to sign off on the vegetarian options. For all I knew, Ekaterina might have offered to have the kitchen prepare multiple options there, too. And I’d definitely be sampling any of those they served—the perfectly grilled portobello mushrooms, the risotto aux fines herbes, the seven-cheese ravioli. I’d long ago decided that I might possibly be able to stick to a vegetarian diet if I ate at the Inn every day.
And Ekaterina had promised a special Christmas dessert buffet featuring plum pudding.
Maybe I should have a candy cane after all, to get my mind off food and back onto our suspects.
The chief’s suspects, I reminded myself. He was being very patient with my kibitzing, probably because so far I’d been reasonably useful. And maybe because exposure to some of the overeager self-proclaimed internet sleuths at the convention had made me look deferential and unobtrusive by comparison. None of them were quite as obnoxious as the Gadfly had been, but there were a couple who would seriously have gotten on my last nerve if I were a detective working a case with a high profile on the internet.
I looked at my phone, to see if I could get back to the page of links Kevin had sent me … and instead of the links, I saw the screenshots from Norton’s phone. Evidently Kevin was posting them in the same presumably safe space he’d used for the links he’d gathered for me.
After scrolling up a dozen times and still finding nothing but screenshots, I decided to do my own searching. I’d already asked Kevin to resend the links—he’d almost certainly do that when he had the time. I opened up a browser window and prepared to type in potentially useful combinations of words. I could start with Godfrey Norton, murder, and one of the potential exonerees.
No, wait. What was that name Amber had mentioned—the screen name for Norton’s archrival. The Real Scooparino. I added that to my search terms.
Bingo! In addition to holding forth on his own website, in the links I’d already visited, my search found links to posts Norton had made in quite a few true-crime discussion groups and Reddit threads. And conducted any number of pitched battles with people who disagreed with him—especially whoever was behind the Scooparino screen name. Good heavens, but the man had been busy. Just scrolling through my search results made me feel tired. And did I really need to read more of his venomous lies? Maybe I should move on to another case. Ezekiel’s case, or Mary Campbell’s or—
Suddenly a phrase caught my eye: “a just reckoning at Presumed Innocent.” Was that about the murder? And those words “just reckoning”—was someone suggesting that Norton deserved his fate?
But no—the post couldn’t be about Norton’s murder—it was dated three days before the conference began.
Still—it was probably about the conference. I clicked through to see what Norton had to say.
“Yikes,” I exclaimed, when I saw the page.
“Something wrong?” the chief asked.
“I don’t know yet,” I said. “Take a look at this.”
He came over to the table and I turned my laptop so he could see it, too.
“Good grief,” he muttered.
The link I’d found showed that Norton had been bragging about his plans to “invade” Cordelia’s conference “under a nom de guerre that I will not be revealing here.” Which wasn’t exactly the truth—he’d registered under his own name. It was the one he used online that was the pseudonym.
“This is unsettling.” The chief pulled up a chair beside mine and motioned for me to scroll down. “We’ve been operating under the theory that while many people might have had it in for Mr. Norton, only attendees at the conference would have reason to know he was here. But if he announced his intentions to come to Caerphilly this publicly … Wait, just how public is this post of his?”
“Posts,” I said. “Quite a lot of them. And it appears to be a Reddit thread.”
“Does that mean anyone could see it?”
“Even me,” I said. “And I do not ordinarily hang out on Reddit. Worse, this seems to be a pretty … combative discussion. One step away from being a flame war. Norton has allies here, but also a lot of people who really, really dislike him. Especially this Scooparino person.”
“What’s going on?” Kevin said through the speakerphone.
“Can you send him a link to that page we’re looking at?” the chief said, as he rose and returned to the desk. “And copy me.”
“Roger,” I said.
“Meg has found some unsettling information,” the chief told Kevin. “She’s sending you a link. It appears that we may need to widen our pool of suspects.”
“Like it isn’t already big enough,” Kevin said.
After that we all fell silent for a while as we scrolled through Norton’s Reddit fulminations.
“Oh, great,” Kevin said after a few minutes. “He’s doxxed us. That means—”
“Yes, I know,” the chief said. “Published personal information you’d rather not have out there for the whole world to see. How much information did he share?”
“Only the addresses,” Kevin said. “And a few phone numbers.”
“What do you mean, ‘us’?” I asked.
“Well, he doxxed me,” Kevin said. “Only the address and phone number, but it’s still annoying, and it’s like doxxing you by proxy. And he also got Festus, and Horace—”
“And me.” The chief’s voice had that tight, precise tone that suggested he wanted to cut loose and give someone what for. And was frustrated that the logical target of his wrath was permanently beyond his reach.
“Doxxing’s illegal in Virginia, you know,” Kevin said.
“Only a misdemeanor,” the chief said.
“A misdemeanor for most of us,” Kevin said. “A class six felony for doxxing a law enforcement officer. One to five years.”
“True.” The chief smiled slightly at that thought. “Of course, Mr. Norton’s beyond our reach now.”
“But I’ll definitely be scouring Reddit to see if anyone else pitched in with the doxxing,” Kevin said. “Or re-shared any of the information Norton published.”
“If you see anything that looks actionable, get it to the county attorney,” the chief said. “But I think it’s more urgent to identify some of these people on Reddit—the ones who seem particularly hostile to Mr. Norton.”
“So we can figure out if any of them were in Caerphilly last night,” Kevin said.
“Yes,” the chief replied. “Obviously any one of them would have known he was here for the conference. They’d even have known how to find you.”
“Yeah,” Kevin said. “I’ll work on it, but it’s not going to be easy.”
“And I’d give this Real Scooparino person a high priority,” the chief said.
“Already trying to figure out who he is, even before the conference,” Kevin said. “He or she. One of the worst trolls in the whole community. No luck so far, but I’ll keep trying.”
It occurred to me that Kevin’s research might also be useful if the chief decided to press charges against the doxxers. Or if Festus wanted to file a civil suit of some kind. But obviously, finding Norton’s killer came first.
“Has word about Norton’s demise gone out to the public?” I asked.
“Not officially,” the chief said. “We haven’t yet identified his next of kin, much less notified them. And I’ve given everyone here at the conference a stern warning not to go public with it. No telling if they’ll listen though.”
“Then maybe I should also keep an eye open for anyone online who announces his death,” Kevin said. “Because that might mean they know more than they should.”
“Or just that they know someone at the conference who ignored my warning,” the chief said. “But yes, do keep your eyes open.”
“Meg, can you maybe help with that?” Kevin asked. “Keep reading through the posts and feed me any names of people who seem particularly hostile to Norton?”
“Can do,” I said.
So I started scrolling through the various Reddit discussions Norton was involved in, texting Kevin the names of anyone who seemed particularly combative. Kevin, meanwhile, did the harder work of trying to identify these new suspects.
“It’s not illegal for you to unmask them?” I asked at one point. “That doesn’t count as doxxing?”
“Only if I make them public,” Kevin said. “And giving them to a law enforcement agency for good reason is not making them public.”
“So I’m not aiding and abetting a felony,” I said. “That’s good to know.”
“I’m pretty sure doxxing these clowns would only be a misdemeanor,” Kevin said. “No way any of them would pass whatever psych screening any sane police department would require.”
“Amen to that,” the chief muttered.
He sounded discouraged. Or was I projecting my own discouraged feelings onto him? Figuring out who killed Norton had begun to seem—well, not easy, but manageable. He’d probably begun to think that he was working with a fixed set of suspects—a large set, of course, since it originally included all two hundred or so of the convention attendees. But still a fixed number, and the various dinner parties and after-dinner gatherings seemed to be gradually eliminating quite a few of them. Not, unfortunately, some of the ones I knew and liked and hoped were innocent. And now this discovery, opening the door for any number of plausible suspects that he would need to identify, track down, and interview.
“Well, the case isn’t going to solve itself.” He stood up, stretched, and headed for the door. “I’ll be back later. Lock up if you leave.”
“Will do,” I said.
And as soon as I was all alone in the office, I felt restless. What good was I doing here? It had been a while since I’d found any new names for Kevin to research. All I was seeing were the same all-too-familiar screen names saying the same things over and over again. I knew which few would make thoughtful, courteous, non-judgmental comments and which ones were just full of sound and fury and signifying even less than nothing. The online equivalent of mob justice—like that scene from the movies where the angry, torch-waving villagers threaten to burn down Dracula’s castle. Only it wasn’t Dracula the online mob was after. It was Ezekiel. And Amber. Madelaine’s mother. The Keepers’ high-school friend.
Just then my phone buzzed. I picked it up and saw a text from Rob.
“You wouldn’t happen to be back at the house, would you?”
Back at the house. Suddenly that was where I wanted to be. Back home. For the moment, the fascination of the conference faded and the luxurious but somewhat impersonal surroundings of the Inn had lost their charm. I wanted to be home, where I could kick my shoes off, put my feet up, and declare myself in for the evening. Home with my family around me, or at least expected soon. Home, where I could enjoy Mother’s beautiful Christmas decorations. Home, where the only crime I was apt to witness was the squirrels stealing seed from Delaney’s beloved chickadees.
“No, not at the house,” I texted back. “But I can be pretty soon. Why?”
“Delaney left behind a bunch of things she might need,” he texted back. “Can you—”
“Left behind? She’s not at the house? Where is she? Is—”
“She’s with me and she’s fine,” he texted back. “Baby not arriving. We’re running an errand and then coming to the hotel for the dinner and the concert. But we left some stuff behind. Can you—”
“Text me the list,” I replied. “I’m on my way.”
So it wasn’t just Delaney who was being secretive. But whatever she and Rob were up to, they were together, and she’d be fine. I advised Kevin that I was running some errands, shoved my laptop into my tote, and headed for the coat check.
The snow was steadily falling, but the roads weren’t yet bad, thanks to the diligent work of Beau and Osgood Shiffley, who drove the county’s two snowplows. For the final stretch of road that led to the house, I even followed Beau, who had a set of ten-point antlers festooned with twinkling holiday lights mounted atop his snowplow’s cab. I didn’t spot Osgood’s snowplow with its life-sized Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, but I knew he was also hard at work somewhere. Comforting.
As I hurried up the front walk, I glanced through one of the living room windows. Rose Noire and her solstice celebration crew were gathered around the fireplace, sipping cups of tea and nibbling gingerbread persons. It was so blasted heartwarming and normal that I paused on the porch for a moment to blink back tears.
Then I pulled out my key, unlocked the door, and hurried inside—only to find myself surrounded by a flock of chickadees. They swooped and fluttered around my head as if joyfully welcoming me. What the—?
Not real chickadees, I realized, after a few seconds. Very realistic model chickadees, but they were soaring rather than flapping their wings. And real chickadees would be serenading me with “chickadee-dee-dee,” not a tinkling music box version of “The Carol of the Birds.” It was an elaborate mobile.
“Meg!” Rose Noire hurried to help me with my coat. “Do you like it? We waited until Rob and Delaney left to put it up, so we could surprise them. Do you think Delaney will like it?”
“She’ll love it,” I said, as I disentangled one low-flying chickadee from my hair. “Could you maybe hang it a foot or so higher, so it won’t poke taller folks like Rob or Michael in the eye?”
“Oh! I never thought of that! I’ll fix it right away.” She started to dart away, then turned back. “You’re here to pick up those things for Delaney, aren’t you?”
“I am,” I said. “And where is Delaney, anyway? And Rob? I can’t believe he took her out in this weather.”
“They wouldn’t tell me.” Rose Noire wore a look of mingled worry and disapproval. “He got a phone call, and then they rushed out and wouldn’t tell me where they were going.”
“They’re probably working on some kind of Christmas surprise,” I said, in my most reassuring tone.
“Finding out if they’re having a boy or a girl is enough of a surprise if you ask me,” Rose Noire said. “Don’t run off. I’ll go and get the ladder and you can help me adjust the chickadees.”
She dashed off, so I didn’t get a chance to suggest that maybe Rob had received a hot tip on a newly available house. Probably just as well. I’d noticed that even mentioning the possibility that Rob and Delaney might be moving upset Rose Noire. I wished they’d wait until the holidays were over before bringing it up again.
But there was nothing I could do about that, so I focused on collecting the things Delaney was asking for. Her favorite water bottle. Some dry socks. Her lip balm. All the small, practical things she’d normally never have forgotten. Rose Noire had already collected most of them in a red-and-green Christmas tote that sat in the hall, at the foot of the slender Christmas tree that filled one corner—right beside Delaney’s go bag, the one that had been packed for weeks now with everything she wanted to take with her to the hospital when the new arrival began arriving. How had they ever forgotten that?
I ducked into the living room to exchange assorted holiday greetings with the solstice crowd. Then I carried Delaney’s things out to the Twinmobile and came back to gather a few things of my own. Snow gear, for example, not just for me but also for Michael, Cordelia, and the boys.
As I was in the front hall, realizing that I’d probably need to make a second trip to carry everything, Rose Noire reappeared—followed by Kevin, who was carrying the household stepladder.
“Just see if you can lift it up about a foot,” she said. She did something with her phone and the chickadees overhead glided to a halt.
“Right.” His mind was obviously still on the case—he didn’t even bat an eye at the birds’ sudden appearance. “Meg, are you going back to the hotel soon?”
“As soon as I load the car,” I said. “You want a ride?”
“Please.”
So I steadied the ladder while he raised the mobile, and then he took the greater half of the snow gear I’d collected and hauled it to the car for me.
“Got to prep for my panel,” he said, as I eased the Twinmobile onto the slightly icy road. “Will it bother you if I practice a couple of things out loud?”
“Go for it,” I said. So I turned the volume down on my usual seasonal soundtrack of carols and focused on giving him what I hoped was useful feedback on whether he was making his topic intelligible to his largely non-technical audience.
And the panel went over well. I suspected some of his comments were even more pointed than usual, thanks to how we’d spent the past few hours. He hit particularly hard at the damage that even well-meaning people could cause by sharing unsubstantiated rumors—or genuine information that the police wanted to keep confidential.
“For example,” he said, “I know Chief Burke warned all of you not to say anything to anyone outside this conference about Godfrey Norton’s death. And that’s not because he’s worried about the effect on Caerphilly’s tourist trade. After all, what we lose in regular tourism we would more than make up for with true-crime fans like me.”
The crowd laughed at this, and a few people called out “and me!” from various parts of the audience.
“It’s because the chief is having trouble notifying Norton’s next of kin,” Kevin went on. “In fact, we have no idea who his next of kin is.”
“Either Sauron or Voldemort,” someone called out.
“No, Darth Vader,” came another voice.
“We’ll see what we can do with those suggestions,” Kevin said, deadpan. “And if anyone else has information that could help the chief find Norton’s family, please see him after this panel. And everyone else please continue respecting the chief’s request.”
“You think Norton would have respected the chief’s request?” someone called out. “If it was someone else who got killed here?”
“No,” Kevin said. “He’d have been posting to that website of his five minutes after he heard the news. We can do better. There’s a lot we need to fix about this true-crime community of ours, and doing a better job of respecting the feelings and privacy of victims and their families is high on the list. So let’s not treat Norton the way we think he deserved. Let’s treat him the way we wish he had treated others.”
The audience greeted this statement with applause and scattered cheers. I wondered if the chief had put Kevin up to making this statement. Or was it just a coincidence that the chief was seated along the side of the room, near the front, where he could easily scan the faces of the audience to see if any of them were showing signs of guilt?
Definitely not a coincidence that Amber was sitting front and center, where she could give Kevin encouraging smiles and a thumbs-up from time to time. She was definitely growing on me.
Kevin’s presentation was the last one of the day, so it was all the more impressive that the Hamilton Room was still packed by its end. And he earned the loud applause that followed, having done a great job of explaining any number of highly technical topics.
I texted Michael to remind him that the banquet was about to start and ask if he would be back for it.
“Getting close!” he texted back. “But we might be a little late—don’t wait for us.”
I didn’t need to be told twice.
“I’ll try to save you a few scraps of food,” I replied.
And then I headed for the Madison Ballroom.