“You just need to know what to do about Mom?” Hagley asked. “That’s easy. Whatever the old man wanted is fine with me.”
“I’m also supposed to convey Trinity’s regret about what happened, and our condolences to you,” I went on.
“Consider them conveyed.” He took an impatient gulp of coffee.
“Because you have a long drive ahead of you and you’re wondering how soon you can get rid of me and hit the road,” I said. “No problem; I’ll skip the rest of the conveying.”
“Ha!” He looked surprised and genuinely amused. “Yeah, that’s pretty much the size of it. And I know your chief of police is just trying to catch whoever killed Dad, but I don’t know any other way to explain that I have no idea who could have done it. He should be asking people here in town. I mean, yeah, Dad drove everyone crazy, and I’m sure a lot of people had to fight the urge to smack him occasionally, but you don’t murder someone just because he’s an old fussbudget.”
“Then you see the chief’s problem,” I said. “Because so far no one in town can figure out why anyone would have done this. I just wanted to say that if you have questions of your own about what happened to your father, I was the one who found him. So if there’s anything you want to know about that, just ask. Not necessarily tonight—I’m sure you want to get home. But whenever. Here’s my number.”
I handed him one of my business cards—one of the blacksmithing cards, not the much more bureaucratic-looking ones I had for my job as Randall’s assistant. He barely glanced at it—but he was staring at me.
“You found him,” he echoed. “Do you have any idea what he was doing out there?”
“Not really,” I said. “One theory is that he wanted to reclaim your mother’s ashes.”
“With a crowbar?” He looked incredulous. “I mean, isn’t there a process for that?”
“A process that Reverend Robyn explained to him more than once.”
“But of course he couldn’t be bothered.” Hagley closed his eyes and shook his head. “He just barks and expects everyone to carry out his orders. And why would he want to move Mom’s ashes, for goodness’ sake? He’s always been so … involved with the church. Pretty damned close to obsessed, if you ask me.”
“It’s also possible that he went out there for the same reason I was out there when I found him,” I said. “He could have seen a light, gone out to investigate, and surprised a vandal. He’d been there earlier at a vestry meeting, and I thought he’d gone home like everybody else, but maybe he stayed behind to police the grounds or something.” I didn’t actually think this was too likely, but I suspected Hagley might find it more comforting to think of his father as the self-appointed guardian of the church instead of a grave robber.
And I was right. His face lit up at the thought.
“That would be just like him,” he exclaimed. “He could be such an old busybody, and it would never occur to him that he was putting himself in danger. No common sense.”
But the tone of his voice was a little warmer—almost affectionate.
“Look—I may take you up on your offer to talk,” he went on. “Some other time. Right now I still haven’t taken it all in, and I have no idea what to ask. I don’t know when I’ll be back here—my aunt’s going to help me plan the funeral and all, but we can’t schedule it until the police release the body and the crypt, and your chief would like me to leave the house as is till he has time to search it for any possible clues—no idea what he’s hoping to find, but he’s welcome to try. Nothing for me to do here except hang around feeling useless, so I might as well go back home. But call me if there’s anything you need to know.”
He handed me his business card. Charles H. Hagley, Esquire, and an office on Broad Street in Richmond.
“You’re a lawyer,” I said.
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who hates lawyers.” His voice was more than a little defensive.
“I’m fine with lawyers,” I said. “I have several dozen in my family. And I find them very useful indeed. What kind of law do you practice?”
“Mostly personal injury,” he said. “If you lived in Richmond and watched a lot of late-night television, you’d recognize my face from the annoying commercials. ‘Injured? Don’t haggle over the settlement! Let Chuck Hagley do it for you!’” He delivered his lines in the stagy, overdramatic manner of an anxious amateur—something I had indeed seen on far too many late-night commercials.
A thought hit me—he was a lawyer from Richmond.
“Ever heard of a Richmond firm called Wellington Blodgett?” I asked.
“Out of my league.”
“What’s their specialty?”
“Rich people,” he said. “Wills, trusts, estate planning.”
“Do they do any criminal work?”
“Not on your life.” Hagley seemed to find that amusing. “Although if any of their exalted clients were so unfortunate as to be mistaken for a common criminal, I’m sure they’d know how to arrange for a suitably high-powered defense attorney. Why do you ask?”
“I heard their name somewhere and it sounded vaguely familiar,” I said. “I figured if you were from Richmond you might know. But that’s not a firm I’d ever have dealt with, so I must be confusing them with someone else.”
“They all sound alike, the snooty-sounding names of the really elite firms,” he said. “Well, I’m going to hit the road.”
We shook hands, and I followed him out into the reception area. He thanked Maudie and took off.
“He seems in a much better humor than when he arrived,” Maudie said, as we watched Mr. Hagley stride across the parking lot. “Good work.”
“I think he was just tired of being asked if he knew anyone who’d want to knock off his dad,” I said. “Time for me to hit the road myself.”
Although after I got into the Twinmobile I sat for a few minutes, pondering. If Wellington Blodgett was a snooty firm catering to the wealthy and influential, how did they end up as the point of contact for Archie van der Lynden—an ex-felon whose family had supposedly lost all its money?
I made a mental note to ask one of those many family lawyers when I got a chance. Then I started the car and headed for home.
Out of habit, I took the route that went past Trinity. Which was, fortunately, not my responsibility tonight. Someone else was the Key Holder and had probably already locked up and gone home. So I was just going to drive past—no stopping to sure make everything was locked up properly—even though some of my fellow Key Holders were careless. Not my problem. I had a rendezvous with my pillow.
But when the church came into sight, I couldn’t help glancing over at it.
Why was there still a light on in the building? A light that flickered, darker then brighter, and moved from one window to another.
Someone was moving through the church with a flashlight. Unless Trinity was experiencing a power outage, why would anyone be walking around inside with a flashlight? I could think of no reason.
No legitimate reason, anyway.
I pulled into the parking lot. No cars—not even the van, which was still in the shop. Even more suspicious. Anyone with a good reason to be there would just park near the front door.
I came to a stop in the middle of the parking lot, with my car parallel to the building in a place where I could keep my eye on both the front door and the side exit. Then I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 911.
“Meg, what’s wrong now?” Debbie Ann asked.
“I think there’s an intruder at Trinity.” I leaned to the right a bit to get a better view. “Someone’s moving around inside with a flashlight, and—”
Two popping noises startled me, and the window to my left exploded into several million tiny little beads of safety glass. I threw myself sideways and ducked under the dashboard.
“Meg! What was that?”
“Someone’s shooting at me.”