When we returned to the crypt we could hear Horace and Dad having a lively discussion about the red ring we’d found.
“The easiest way to tell if it’s a real ruby is to see if you can scratch it,” Dad was saying. “The only thing harder than a ruby is a diamond, so if you can scratch it with one of your tools we’ll know it’s a fake.”
“Yes, I know.” Horace sounded slightly annoyed.
“Or if you don’t have any suitable tools, we could just drag it across one of the marble panels,” Dad went on. “If any of the color comes off we’ll know the stone is a fake.”
“Right now the marble panels are part of my crime scene,” Horace said. “I want them left the way they are. And besides, before I start trying to figure out whether it’s a real ruby or not, I need to check it for fingerprints and DNA.”
The chief stepped to the columbarium door. I stood behind him and peered over his shoulder. Dad was crouched by Mr. Hagley’s body. Horace appeared to be inspecting the soles of Mr. Hagley’s shoes. Dad’s eyes were fixed, magpie-like, on the ring.
“Dr. Langslow,” the chief said. “Any preliminary observations?”
“I’d estimate death occurred no more than an hour ago,” Dad said. “Blunt force wound to the right posterior portion of the skull, near the lambdoid suture—that’s the line of demarcation between the parietal and occipital bones.” Luckily for those of us who hadn’t taken Anatomy 101, he was pointing to the equivalent spot on his own head—the upper back right side.
“Could it have been done by that crowbar?” the chief asked.
“Definitely the right shape for it,” Dad said.
“And there’s blood and other biological material on the crowbar,” Horace said. “So I’d say that’s a yes. Another interesting note—it appears the killer struck Mr. Hagley before he began prying the front panels off the niches—there’s also biological material on the edges of several of the niches or panels.”
Biological material. If he was just talking about blood, he’d have said blood. I decided not to think too much about what else he might mean. I pulled out my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe and added an item to my to-do list—organizing a committee of strong-stomached parishioners to give the crime scene a thorough cleaning once the chief took away the yellow tape. And then I remembered something else.
“Dad,” I said. “I don’t want to wake her now—but any chance you could ask Mother to make sure there’s someone reliable assigned to help Robyn in the morning.”
“Of course,” Dad said. “Help her how?”
“By preventing her from dashing down here, getting in the chief’s way and putting herself and the baby at risk,” I said. “I’m not suggesting she needs a keeper—”
“But she probably does,” the chief said. “Good idea.”
“Will do,” Dad said. “Getting back to my findings—he was probably struck from behind—and with considerable force.”
I left them to it. I made my way to the parking lot, which was filling up with vehicles. Dad’s car, an ambulance, and four police cars. Evidently the ambulance was just here to transport Mr. Hagley when Dad finished with him—the two EMTs were leaning against its side, and waved when they saw me. Horace and the chief had come in two of the police cars. I suspected the occupants of the other two accounted for the rustling or crashing noises coming from the woods around the church.
I unlocked the elderly church van, started it after three attempts, and paused long enough to add ignition to the already long list of items that needed servicing. I texted Michael, “On my way finally. Don’t wait up.” Then I headed for home.
Instead of parking in my usual spot, I took the driveway that led to the barn. The door was unlocked, of course. I’d given up expecting the boys, or even Michael, to remember that my valuable blacksmith’s equipment lived in the barn. But all my gear was safe inside what the boys called “Mom’s jail”—a section at one end of the barn enclosed in heavy steel bars. Out of force of habit, I tested to make sure the jail door was safely locked. And looked longingly at the anvil I hadn’t touched since I’d begun filling in for Robyn.
Then I set Nimitz’s cage down on top of a couple of hay bales just outside the jail. I heard his feathers rustle slightly, and then he presumably went back to sleep.
“I should go straight to bed,” I said to myself. “It must be nearly one o’clock.”
In fact, it was a quarter past one. But however tired I was, I was more curious. Curious and maybe a little spooked. Someone had crept into Robyn’s office, taken the columbarium key, and gone out there either to murder or be murdered, all while I was downstairs struggling with the stopped-up toilet. What if the toilet had been easier to fix? Or what if I’d given up after a slight struggle and gone upstairs to collect Nimitz earlier?
I checked to make sure I’d locked the barn door behind myself, then strolled over to my office—the former tack room, at the other end of the barn from my blacksmithing setup—unlocked the door, and turned on my laptop.
I wanted to know more about the people whose ashes the murderer had disturbed. While my laptop booted, I took out my notebook and wrote down the names, and what I remembered of the birth and death dates. Then I opened a search engine and typed in Van der Lynden jewel robbery.
Up popped a four-month-old article from the Caerphilly Clarion—part of its recurring “This week in local history” series. “Thirtieth anniversary of infamous local jewel heist!” read the headline. According to the article, on December 31, 1987, Mrs. Beatrice van der Lynden, widow of the late Archibald van der Lynden Sr., had graciously agreed to host the Dames of Caerphilly’s annual New Year’s Eve masked ball.
“It would be the Dames.” The Dames of Caerphilly, while ostensibly a local historical society, had actually been merely a snooty social club dominated by the Pruitts, the family who had run Caerphilly like a personal fiefdom from the late 1800s until a few years ago. I had no idea if the Dames had formally disbanded or if they’d merely lapsed into oblivion after the disgrace and departure of most of the Pruitts, but certainly no one had heard from them in years.
The article went on to report that shortly before midnight shots rang out in an upper floor of the palatial Van der Lynden mansion. Several of the guests attempted to apprehend the jewel thieves. One of the would-be rescuers was killed along with one of the three intruders. The other two robbers were apprehended two days later, but Mrs. Van der Lynden’s jewelry collection, valued at an estimated ten million dollars, was never found.
“Mrs. Van der Lynden never recovered from the trauma of this terrifying night,” I read aloud. “And died of a broken heart shortly thereafter.”
From what I’d remembered reading on her plaque, she’d died sometime in 1993. I wasn’t sure five or six years qualified as shortly thereafter. Or that you could blame the death on a broken heart after so long. And was a broken heart really the reaction someone had to losing ten million in jewelry? Fred Singer, the owner, editor, and chief bottle-washer of the Clarion, did tend to get slightly melodramatic in writing these little historical vignettes.
I opened my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe, as I called the small three-ring binder that held my to-do lists, and made a note to talk to Fred tomorrow. In addition to being melodramatic, Fred tended to leave out anything that reflected badly on Caerphilly or its inhabitants—anything that might inspire anyone to sue him. A New Year’s ball that ends in a pitched gun battle between a gang of jewel thieves and some of the invited guests? Surely there was more to the story.
I scrolled down to look at the pictures that had accompanied the article. The first few I could easily have mistaken for ’80s photos of the cast of Dynasty—the men looking elegant in black-and-white tuxedos while the women were resplendent in long gowns, big hair, and enough sequins, lamé, and real gems that the onlookers had probably needed sunglasses. I didn’t recognize anyone, but I deduced there were a lot of Pruitts in the crowd, judging from the number of short, stocky revelers whose heads appeared stuck directly onto their bodies without benefit of an intervening neck. And they all had masks, trimmed with feathers and rhinestones and for the most part carried on sticks rather than worn. Easier to manage with all that hair. Evidently a masked ball was very different from a costume ball. A good thing no one had invited me—I’d probably have showed up in some version of my Xena costume, and Mrs. Van der Lynden didn’t look like the kind of hostess who’d appreciate it the way Michael and the boys did.
A third photo showed a mansion—the stately mansion of the Van der Lyndens, according to the caption. It looked curiously familiar. I studied it for a few moments.
“Of course! It’s Ragnarsheim!”
Ragnarsheim was the home of Ragnar Ragnarsen, a drummer who, after surviving two decades in a series of heavy metal bands, had settled down to semi-retirement in Caerphilly. He’d bought a huge house on a large estate and had been busy ever since turning the whole place into his vision of a Goth paradise. I was pretty familiar with the house because a large part of his vision involved miles of intricate ornamental ironwork wrought by me.
How strange to see Ragnarsheim without a single bit of wrought iron festooning it. No gargoyles on the roof. No statues of dragons flanking the front door. No flaming torches, or—
I suddenly found myself yawning massively.
I glanced down at my list. I could type in the next name. But I felt another huge yawn coming on.
“Enough.” I printed the article and stuffed it in my tote. Then I turned off my laptop and closed the cover. “Seven A.M. will be here before you know it.”
I turned off the lights and took the path from the barn to the back door.
The kitchen was spotless. A quick check in the refrigerator showed the boys’ school lunches already packed. In the front hall, their school backpacks and their baseball bags were lined up in a neat row.
I wondered for a few moments if Matt, Robyn’s husband, would turn out to be anywhere near as good a partner in parenting as Michael.
Then I tiptoed upstairs, where everyone was asleep. I delivered stealth goodnight kisses to the sleeping boys—who had recently decided they were too old for such nonsense—and to Michael. Then I crawled into bed and fell asleep almost immediately.