“It might not even be the murder weapon,” I muttered, as I took out my phone and emailed my photos of the wretched gun to the chief. “It’s not like there’s a shortage of guns in Virginia.”
But I was still kicking myself when I arrived at the station. The sight of Kayla decorating the departmental holiday tree cheered me, but only a little.
“I brought the bullets.” I set my tote down on the desk and fished in it for the cartridge box.
“Oooh, goodie! I can put them on the tree right now.”
“On the tree?” I clutched the box protectively. “I thought the chief wanted them for evidence.”
“Are we talking about the silver bullets?”
“No, we’re talking about the very utilitarian brass cartridges that might have some connection to the murder weapon.” I put the case down on the front desk. “What’s this about silver bullets? Are we having a werewolf-themed Christmas tree? Wolfsbane and the mistletoe?”
“We’re doing this little tree all in blue and silver.” Kayla pointed to a tiny living tree in a sparkly silver pot on the desk. It was festooned with blue lights and silver-colored ornaments with a crime and detection theme—tiny guns, knives, handcuffs, magnifying glasses, and sheriff’s badges. “Mom said she thought she could find someone who could spray paint some cartridges silver for us.”
“That would be a nice addition,” I said. “Be sure and get Fred to take a picture of it for the Clarion’s article on themed Christmas trees.”
“That’s the plan,” Kayla said. “Meanwhile I should fill out the paperwork on this box of cartridges. It’ll only take a minute.”
The chief walked out, holding a sheet of paper. And his notebook, of course. I sometimes wondered how the police ever found time to patrol, given all the paperwork their jobs seemed to involve.
“Kayla, we need to put out an update to the BOLO for Mr. Gormley,” he began. “Sorry—finish what you’re doing first.” He set down his sheet of paper on her desk.
I tried to look blasé, as if I wasn’t excited by the news that he’d put out a BOLO for Mort Gormley. A suspect who wasn’t Haver.
The chief strolled over to me.
“Meg, thanks for the pictures of the pistol. Did you happen to glean any information from Mrs. Frost while chauffeuring her to the Inn?”
“She’s a fountain of information,” I said. “Almost none of it useful. Willimer was both her son-in-law and her first cousin once removed. His wife—which would be her daughter—was named Becky, his mother’s name was Deedee, and they attended the First Baptist Church. But I’m not sure any of that is useful. After all, there are dozens if not hundreds of First Baptist Churches in Virginia, and I never did get her to reveal the name of the town they lived in.”
“Bear Paw Junction.” The chief had been making notes as I spoke. “I did get that much. It’s supposed to be in Virginia, although I haven’t yet found it on the map.”
“Judging by the old lady’s accent, I’d be looking in the far southwest tip of the state,” I said. “The bit that could just as easily have ended up part of Kentucky or Tennessee.”
“I wouldn’t know about the accent.” Although the chief had been in Caerphilly longer than I had, he was a Marylander by birth. I suspected he could place any native of Baltimore, city or county, within a few miles or even blocks of his birthplace, but he tended to rely on his deputies and other locals for the subtleties of Virginia history and culture. “But Aida Butler told me she thinks she’s gone through this Bear Paw Junction place on her way to visiting relatives down in Knoxville, Tennessee.”
“Passed through it?” I echoed. “It’s on the Interstate?”
“No, and neither was she. She was taking her great-aunt Venetia, who doesn’t ever want to go over thirty-five miles an hour. You pass through some pretty strange little places when Venetia’s riding shotgun.”
I nodded. I’d been stuck with taking Venetia home from a couple of meetings in Richmond of the Ladies Interfaith Social Services Council, so I could imagine what Aida had gone through hauling her all the way to Knoxville.
“Anyway, a fair piece away from Caerphilly, and not much bigger than a mosquito bite, according to Aida. She only remembered the name because it sent Venetia into such a panic that she saw bears behind every bush for the next hundred miles. I’ve sent inquiries to a couple of the sheriffs down that way. As soon as we locate the blasted town, we can start figuring out why our victim and Mrs. Frost left it and came here to enrich our lives.”
“And whether there’s anyone down there who might dislike Mr. Willimer enough to pay him a visit last night?” I suggested.
“That too,” the chief agreed. “So, he’s her son-in-law rather than her son. I didn’t get that much. Of course, come to think of it, she never referred to him as anything but Johnny. I assumed the son part. I don’t suppose she mentioned anyone who might have had it in for him? Anyone he’d quarreled with?”
I shook my head.
“How are Dagmar and her dogs getting along?” I asked.
“Meg,” Kayla said. “I’ve finished logging in your box of cartridges. Can you sign this?”
As I was doing so, the front door opened and a middle-aged woman walked in. She was wearing a long, elegant cream-colored down coat and a crocheted hat, glove, and scarf set in off-white with sparkly threads. I decided it was unfair that some people could actually manage to look chic while still dressing appropriately for the weather. Seeing that Kayla was busy with me, the lady nodded and stood politely back, yet near enough to make it obvious that she wasn’t just ducking in out of the cold.
“We’ll let you know if we have any other questions,” the chief said.
“Roger.” I stepped aside to let the new arrival take my place at the desk. She nodded pleasantly at me, as if to say thanks. She looked vaguely familiar, and I racked my brain to remember where I knew her from.
“I’m Doris Hammerschmidt,” the lady said. “The new owner of the Bluebird House Bed and Breakfast.”
Of course. I’d seen her at some of the Christmas in Caerphilly merchant meetings. And I was pretty sure she’d attended a couple of Mother’s Garden Society festivities.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Hammerschmidt?” Kayla asked.
“I’d like to report … an intruder?” She sounded as if she wasn’t sure of the term.
“A burglar?” The chief stepped forward and took over.
“No, I don’t think you could call him a burglar,” Mrs. Hammerschmidt said. “A trespasser—that might be the right term. Yes. A trespasser.”
She smiled triumphantly, as if by defining her problem she had more than halfway solved it.
“Did this happen last night?” the chief asked.
“No,” she said. “Well, it started last night—technically very early this morning. But it’s still going on.”
The chief blinked.
“The intruder’s still there?”
“Yes. He’s been there all morning. It was bad enough when he was fast asleep—well, passed out—on my sofa and snoring like a freight train. But then he woke up and began yelling for breakfast as if he were in some kind of tacky diner. I want him gone.”
“Kayla, have Debbie Ann see who’s available to go over to Mrs. Hammerschmidt’s,” the chief said. “How did this person get into your bed-and-breakfast in the first place?”
“Two of my guests brought him in,” she said. “They found him by the side of the road—his car had broken down—and they brought him back to the bed-and-breakfast so he could—I don’t know. Call his friends or family to pick him up, I suppose. Or call a taxi. They left him in my hands. I showed him into the living room and pointed out the phone, and then I had to leave for a moment to get some hot chocolate for a guest who was suffering from insomnia, and when I came back he had passed out on my Hepplewhite couch.”
“I see,” the chief said, although his expression suggested he wasn’t entirely sure he did.
“I tried to wake him, but with no success,” Mrs. Hammerschmidt went on. “I assumed he was worn out from his ordeal and … well, I thought there was a possibility that he might be a little bit the worse for drink. So I covered him up with an afghan and went to bed.”
“That was very kind of you,” the chief said. “Although you could have called us to deal with the situation. In fact, you probably should, if something like this ever happens again.”
“I will if—but I can’t imagine this ever happening again,” Mrs. Hammerschmidt said, drawing herself up to her full height and glaring indignantly at him. “Not in my bed-and-breakfast. I can’t imagine how it happened this time.”
“So he went to sleep on your couch,” the chief said. “And he’s still there.”
“Not only is he still there, he woke up at some point in the middle of the night and forced the lock on my liquor cabinet.” Mrs. Hammerschmidt quivered with indignation. “He finished off half a bottle of gin and spilled most of a bottle of amontillado on the couch. And then this morning he became unwell.”
“Unwell?” the chief repeated. “We can send an ambulance if you think he needs medical assistance.”
“He doesn’t need medical assistance,” Mrs. Hammerschmidt said. “He needs assisting out of my kitchen, where he’s eating the breakfast intended for my guests. Becoming unwell all over my antique Aubusson carpet seems to have given him an appetite.”
“Did you tell him to leave?”
“Several times.”
“And what did he say?”
“That he likes his eggs over easy, and wants real cream for his coffee.”
A thought had been growing in my mind.
“Chief,” I said. “May I ask Mrs. Hammerschmidt something?”
“Please do,” he said. “And Kayla, see if Debbie Ann’s found someone who can take the call ASAP.”
I reached over to where Kayla had a couple of the pictures of Malcolm Haver the chief had been using to brief his officers. I picked up the top picture and held it out for Mrs. Hammerschmidt’s inspection.
“Is this your intruder?”