To my surprise, Dad wasn’t trying to eavesdrop on the chief’s phone call. He stood quietly, his fingers twined in the chain-link fence, his eyes following Josh and Jamie as they practiced. But I could tell his mind was elsewhere.
“Poor Junius,” Dad said. Then he frowned. “Did people really call him Junius?”
“I didn’t,” I said. “I called him Mr. Hagley.”
“But what did his friends call him?”
“I think most people called him Mr. Hagley.”
“What would be the nickname for Junius be? June? Junie? Juno?”
I refrained from saying that none of them sounded very likely. Dad’s expression showed that he’d already figured that out.
“What did your mother call him?” Dad asked finally.
“I don’t think she considered herself his friend.”
“But surely she must have…”
“Pretended to be his friend? Mother?”
“Good point.”
“I think she called him Mr. Hagley, too,” I said, after pondering for a few moments. “Sometimes ‘my dear man,’ when she was really annoyed with him.”
Dad sighed and seemed to abandon his quest to humanize Mr. Hagley.
“Well, that’s beside the point,” he said. “I need you to go out with me to the Van der Lynden’s mansion.”
“It isn’t the Van der Lyndens’ mansion anymore,” I pointed out. “It belongs to Ragnar now.”
“And you and he are such good friends.” Dad beamed at me. “You can help me talk him into it.”
“Talk him into what?” Ragnar was a friend, yes. And increasingly becoming a good friend, which was strange, since about the only thing we had in common was a love of wrought iron. But it was hard not to like Ragnar.
“A reenactment of the crime!” Dad exclaimed.
“You mean the jewel robbery? But that was thirty years ago!”
“Yes, that’s going to make it a challenge,” Dad said. “But I think it will be worth it if we can shed some light on the location of the jewels.”
“Everything will have changed,” I said. “And what’s the point? What could you possibly accomplish by doing that?”
“Everything hasn’t changed,” Dad protested. “Not the floor plan, for example.”
“We don’t know that.” I noticed he was ignoring my question about the point of the reenactment. “I don’t think Ragnar has made any sweeping architectural changes, but who knows what Mrs. Winkleson did to the place while she owned it.”
“We can at least try,” Dad said. “Fred Singer is searching through his archives for any photos that might help us out—he’s already given me a guest list; here, I made you a copy. I need your help figuring out how to cast all the participants.”
He handed me a sheet of paper that contained a long list of names. The cream of Caerphilly society circa 1987, presumably. Almost no one I knew, though a few of the last names were familiar.
“And I have a copy of the floor plan that appeared in the paper,” Dad was saying. “Ms. Ellie at the library is ferreting around in her historical files. So all we have to do is talk Ragnar into letting us do it.”
Knowing Ragnar, I didn’t think much persuasion would be needed. In fact, the reenactment sounded like the sort of lunatic project he’d enjoy just as much as Dad would.
“You never answered my other question—what do you hope to accomplish with your reenactment?”
“We might be able to find out what really happened thirty years ago,” he said. “And locate the rest of the jewels. We have a real unsolved mystery right here on our doorstep—we have to do something.”
I was working on finding a tactful yet firm way to convey how silly I thought this idea was when it occurred to me that if Dad was busy reenacting the thirty-year-old jewel robbery he’d be much less likely to interfere with the chief’s present-day murder investigation. Maybe the reenactment would serve some useful purpose after all, even if not the one Dad intended.
“So you want me to go out there with you to talk Ragnar into doing this?” I asked.
“And then we can start planning all of it!” Dad threw his arms out in an expansive gesture. “We could go right now.”
“And miss your grandsons’ game?”
“After the game, then. Ragnar’s a night owl—he won’t mind.”
“After the game, I’m going over to help Mother with a project for Robyn, and by the time we finish with that it could be bedtime,” I said.
“But—”
“I’ll check with Ragnar tonight,” I said. “And see what time will work for him.”
“Let’s try for tomorrow morning.”
“Late morning, maybe. He’s a night owl, remember? And besides, it will take Fred and Ms. Ellie a little time to dig up those photos. If Ragnar’s at all reluctant, I bet the photos will convince him. And you might want to check the county archives. If Mrs. Winkleson or Ragnar were doing any remodeling, they’d have to file building permits, wouldn’t they? With architectural drawings. That could be useful.”
“An excellent idea!” Dad beamed at me. “See, I knew you were the right person to ask about this. So sometime tomorrow—for sure?”
“If it’s okay with Ragnar. I’ll talk to him. And we might need to postpone if I haven’t finished all the other things Mother has me doing for Robyn.”
Actually, Mother hadn’t delegated anything to me lately, but I was sure she’d be happy to if I decided I wanted a good excuse to weasel out of helping Dad with his reenactment project. But Dad looked so disappointed that I relented a little.
“I’ll go and see if I can clear it with Mother—the fact that I might need to postpone a few of her projects,” I said.
“Excellent!” His face brightened.
“You stay here and watch the practice,” I said. Dad nodded and stayed intertwined with the fence. I strolled over to where Mother and Cordelia were sitting.
“Good news,” Mother said as soon as I was in earshot. “I have a very nice green glass biscuit jar on its way. Horace was so helpful about getting me close-ups of the glass bits without anything … unsuitable in the frame.”
I made a mental note to apologize to Horace for any stress I’d caused him by sending Mother his way.
“I found it online, at an antique store’s website—in mint condition,” she continued. “I’m having it shipped directly to dear Maudie at the funeral home.”
I wondered if the “dear Maudie” bit meant the funeral home owner had done Mother some service lately, or only that Mother was planning to ask her for a favor and was mentally buttering her up beforehand.
“Awesome,” I said. “Any chance you could do a couple more things?”
Mother cocked her head like a bird, to indicate that she was listening with eager anticipation.
“First, can you come over with me to Robyn’s for a couple of hours after the game?” I asked. “I talked her into starting to declutter her house. I figure I can do the hands-on sorting and organizing while you keep her spirits up and reassure her that it’s already looking better.”
“Of course, dear. Long overdue.”
“I can help for a few hours if you like,” my grandmother Cordelia said. “I’m no slouch at organizing.”
“Excellent.” I felt relieved. With Mother and Cordelia involved—two of the most organized people I knew—Robyn’s clutter didn’t stand a chance. “Second, can you convince Dad that I’m doing several million things for you, and can’t quite spend the whole day on his latest pet project?” I explained about Dad’s reenactment plan.
“Life’s never dull with James around,” Cordelia said.
“Of course, dear,” Mother said.
“Third and last request—can you help me find a Dame?” Seeing that Mother looked puzzled, I handed her the list and elaborated. “Fred Singer gave Dad the guest list from Mrs. Van der Lynden’s party—which was actually organized by the Dames of Caerphilly. My social circles don’t usually intersect with the Dames. Can you help me figure out which of the guests are still alive? And also, since my impression is that the Dames membership list consisted mainly of Pruitts and their toadies, whether any of the surviving guests might be willing to talk to someone who’s a member of the new regime?”
“Of course, dear,” Mother purred. She took out her elegant reading glasses to study the list.
“And this is going to help you with your mission of contacting the next of kin … how?” Cordelia had a twinkle in her eye. “Because of course I know you wouldn’t be trying to horn in on Chief Burke’s investigation.”
“It won’t help a bit with contacting the next of kin,” I said. “But it will help me keep Dad from driving the chief crazy. If I give him a real, live party guest to play with, I bet he can spend hours interrogating him or her about things like what was on the menu and what the weather was like. Keep him out of the chief’s hair.”
“Yes, your father can be very … enthusiastic when he’s interested in something, can’t he?”
Cordelia merely rolled her eyes.
Mother sighed and held up the copy of the party guest list. “Time has not been kind to Mrs. Van der Lynden’s friends.”
“You don’t recognize any of the names?”
“I recognize all the names, dear,” Mother said. “From my work on the town history project. But only two of them are still alive, and I’m not very optimistic about getting either of them to talk to your father. One is Mrs. Belinda Pruitt—and you know how the Pruitts feel about anyone who’s friendly with the Shiffley clan.”
“She’s a dead end, then,” I said. “And the other?”
“Poor dear Mr. Jackson at the nursing home.”
“The one who’s still fighting the Civil War?”
“Actually, these days he’s under the illusion that he was wounded at the Battle of Chancellorsville and is recuperating in a Confederate field hospital,” Mother said. “I rather doubt he’d be interested in returning to the 1980s.”
“Let’s not tell Dad yet,” I said. “He’ll be happier if he thinks we’re still combing the town for party guests.”
“Of course.” Mother tucked the list back in her purse. “By the way, dear, I was thinking of something. In dear Dr. Womble’s day, we had people called Key Holders. It was an official volunteer post. Perhaps it’s time to bring that back.”
“What did they do?” I asked.
“More or less what you and the other volunteers have been doing since Robyn’s been out,” Mother said. “Making sure everything is shipshape and locked up at the end of the day. Because while Dr. Womble is a lovely person, very erudite and wonderfully spiritual, the mundane, practical aspects of running a church were simply beyond him.”
“I can see that.” Dr. Womble was famous throughout the diocese for having broken both legs by falling down the stairs while walking around with his nose in a book. Nobody in the parish was surprised, actually, but the bishop, hearing about it, had noticed that Dr. Womble was overdue for retirement. Probably a good thing the bishop had made himself scarce in Caerphilly for the next year or so, until the Trinity congregation had figured out that Robyn was a wholly worthy successor, and that Dr. Womble was, to his surprise, enjoying retirement.
“And the duties of the Key Holders were rather more onerous in those days, because one of the main responsibilities was to make sure Dr. Womble hadn’t wandered off to some out-of-the-way part of the building and picked up a book,” Mother went on. “Because, of course, given his wonderful powers of concentration, once he’d lost himself in a book you couldn’t expect him to answer you.”
Actually, once he’d lost himself in a book, Dr. Womble probably wouldn’t have paid much attention to a five-alarm fire or a major earthquake. So while I wasn’t sure “wonderful powers of concentration” was the term I’d use, I had to agree that being a Key Holder was apt to have been even harder in his day.
“Sounds like a useful system,” I said. “Why did we do away with it?”
“Perhaps Robyn thought it was something we’d implemented as a way of coping with Dr. Womble’s charming eccentricities,” Mother said. “Something that shouldn’t be necessary with an energetic young rector at the helm.”
More likely Robyn, faced with a congregation who were not entirely thrilled at having her replace their beloved rector, had set out to prove to the doubters what a dynamo she was. As someone who had trouble learning to delegate, I could totally understand her motivation. But …
“Maybe it’s time to reintroduce the Key Holder system, then,” I said. “Because even if we were okay with Robyn continuing to run herself ragged, she has other responsibilities now, ones that are just as important as the parish.”
“Precisely,” Mother said. “And everyone I’ve talked to is in favor of the idea, so if you like you can start calling yourself a Key Holder. I’ve put it on the agenda for the next vestry meeting. Along with the special election to replace poor dear Mr. Hagley.”
I found myself wondering if hearing Mother refer to him as “poor dear Mr. Hagley” could possibly cause Hagley to roll over in—well, not his grave, since he was still down at the funeral home. To roll over in whatever Morton’s kept their clients in until the police gave the go-ahead for the cremation and funeral.
I could always ask Maudie.
But later. The Eagles took the field, the first Flying Fox batter stepped up to the plate, and we all put aside other worries to enjoy the game.
At least most of us did. During the bottom of the fifth inning, the chief stepped away from the bleachers to take another phone call, and then after a quick word with his wife, strode rapidly over to his car and drove away.
I probably wasn’t the only grown-up who had trouble concentrating after that. Was there a break in the case? Or some new and possibly unrelated crime?