I watched as Melissa knocked and was admitted to Horace’s lair. I wasn’t sure whether to be pleased that I was sending another potentially useful bit of evidence his way or depressed that the evidence seemed to implicate one of the nicer scientists.
Just then I became conscious of something my subconscious had been trying to get me to notice for a while now. The music had changed. Oh, it was still Christmas music. But someone had added new material to the playlist. It took me a few seconds to realize that the speakers were now playing a lush orchestral version of “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.” I had to chuckle. And then the next number began, and I muttered “Yes!” under my breath. One of my favorites—Wendy and Carnie Wilson’s version of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.” I closed my eyes and listened, appreciating anew the close harmony and the slow, stately arrangement. I needed to find out who had been tinkering with the Inn’s Christmas music playlists. Later. For now, I just needed to listen.
“Meg?”
I waved whoever it was into silence until the last strains of the carol had died out. Then I opened my eyes to find Dad standing in front of me, a slightly worried frown on his face.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I was listening to the carol—it’s one of my favorites, you know. What’s up?”
“Good catch on the bug spray!” He sat in the chair Melissa had just vacated. “Of course it’s unlikely to have anything to do with Frogmore’s death.”
“But not impossible?”
“All of the sprays Ekaterina is using are composed chiefly of essential oils,” Dad said. “Which contain chemicals that are either harmless or actually beneficial to humans but that repel or even kill bugs. Cinnamon oil, tea tree oil, lavender, orange, peppermint—things like that. They’ll mess with a bug’s neural system, but ours works differently.”
“And while I’ve heard a lot of insults aimed at Dr. Frogmore, I don’t recall anyone accusing him of being an invertebrate.”
“Precisely. So good thinking!” Dad beamed at me. “Of course, we’ll have to test the contents of all those bottles to make sure no one doctored them. And we need to do some research on whether any of the sprays’ ingredients have shown toxic properties, either if used to excess or in combination with any other substances Dr. Frogmore has been exposed to. Lanville’s going to start working on that until I have access to my library and the Internet.” Dad looked a little disappointed at not being able to start the quest himself.
“Don’t fret,” I said. “The snow’s almost stopped. The county can start digging out—in fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Randall has gotten them started already.” Of course, it could still be days before the digging reached the Inn, but seeing how his face lit up, I decided not to mention that.
“Really?” Dad glanced at the wall of glass, which still looked pretty solid white. But now you could see the mounds of snow-covered trees and shrubs, not falling flakes. “Fabulous! I’ve got to run. Conference call with Lanville.”
He raced off, although he stopped to say hello to Mrs. Voss, who appeared to be looking for a quiet corner. She headed my way.
“Mind if I take this chair?” She gestured to the chair Dad had just vacated.
“As long as you don’t feel insulted by the fact that I’m going to race off in a minute or so,” I said. “I’m just waiting for someone.”
“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “I have plenty to keep me busy.”
She unfurled her crewelwork owl, and I leaned over to see it.
“Looks as if you’re almost finished,” I said. “Of course, I realize it’s incredibly meticulous work, so I suppose ‘almost finished’ to me could mean you have another year or two ahead of you.”
“Nothing like that.” She laughed, and stretched her neck as if easing out a bit of stiffness. “A few more hours to go. And my husband’s champing at the bit. Can’t wait for me to finish.”
“Wait—I thought your husband hated your owl for not being accurate.”
“Oh, he does. But a few minutes ago—you see, he drew Dr. Czerny in the Secret Santa. He’s been driving me crazy all day, badgering me to help him think of a suitable present. I finally suggested giving Czerny this.” She held up the canvas. “Kills two birds with one stone. George doesn’t have to look at my horribly inaccurate owl—and he gives Dr. Czerny what looks like a thoughtful and appropriate present.”
“Only the inaccuracy will actually drive Dr. Czerny crazy.”
“You know, we’re not sure,” she said. “The inaccuracy might bother him, but I don’t think he’d ever be so rude as to say so. Not to the wife of someone important enough to help him out as he scrambles to rebuild his career. Not that George has any use for him, but Dr. Czerny probably doesn’t realize that. No, if he notices, he’ll probably hang it up anyway and brag about how kind it was of the Vosses to give it to him—a piece of Mrs. Voss’s own handiwork! And if he doesn’t notice, I’m sure someone will be rude enough to point it out sooner or later. Probably at the most inopportune moment. You know, I can’t help feeling sorry for the poor man.”
“Dr. Czerny?” I hoped I didn’t sound too surprised.
“Yes. Whoever killed Dr. Frogmore might as well have put Dr. Czerny out of his misery at the same time. It would have been the humane thing to do. You know, I wonder if the police have thought of that.”
“Euthanizing Dr. Czerny? Probably not legal.”
“Alas, no.” She paused and I looked away—strange how it bothered me to see her needle inserted in the embroidered owl’s left eye. “What I mean is—they’re busy figuring out who disliked Dr. Frogmore. And yes, that’s a long list. But I wonder if they’ve given any thought to who has it in for Dr. Czerny. Because if you wanted to hurt Dr. Czerny, I can’t think of a better way than to take away his lifeline. Maybe you’ll think it’s a silly idea.”
I turned the idea around in my mind. It wasn’t a bad idea at all. And Mrs. Voss knew the people involved rather better than I did. Did she have something here?
“Nothing silly about it,” I said. “I’ll mention it to Horace. He might want to talk to you about it.”
“He’s welcome to, as long as he doesn’t make me put down my needle on the home stretch.”
“I’ll warn him. And there he is now—I should run; I want to catch him.”
Melissa was leaving the Command Post, looking a lot less worried than when she’d gone in. And Horace followed her out and strolled over to where Sami was standing behind the reception desk.
“It’s all Melissa’s doing,” Sami was saying as I drew near enough to hear what they were saying.
“Really?”
“What’s all Melissa’s doing?” I tried not to sound suspicious.
“The new music,” Sami said. “Maybe our pretty limited Christmas playlist doesn’t bother the guests.”
“Yes, it does,” Horace and I said in unison.
“Melissa brought in a flash drive with a whole bunch of new Christmas music and figured out how to load it into the system. I like carols as much as the next guy, but if I had to listen one more time to Mannheim Steamroller doing ‘Deck the Halls’—”
“I kind of like that one,” Horace said.
“So did I three weeks ago,” Sami countered.
“Ah,” Horace said. “Anyway, I have good news. I think.” He didn’t actually sound like someone delivering good news. “Judge Jane finally signed the search warrant.” He opened up his notebook. “For Lindquist, Green, Craine, McKendrick, Czerny, Smith, Belasco, Whitmore, and Blake.”
“Oh, you’re doing Grandfather?” I said. “Dad will be overcome with jealousy.”
“Well, the judge said it was also okay to search anyone else who actually volunteered for it, so we can search your dad if he really wants us to,” Horace said. “But he got so little sleep that maybe he’ll be just as happy to skip it this time, and I can’t imagine that anyone else would really want me poking through all their stuff.”
“You never know,” I said. “Some people might want to be searched so they can prove their innocence.”
“Searching won’t do that,” Horace grumbled. “If we do find something, that will be useful, but not finding anything could just mean that they were smart enough to figure out how to get rid of anything incriminating while we were twiddling our thumbs waiting for the search warrant. Anyway—you seen Ekaterina? I need her to open up the rooms for me.”
“I’ll page her.” Sami picked up his walkie-talkie and took a few steps away, no doubt to avoid interrupting Horace.
“By the way,” I said. “Mrs. Voss—the lady over there embroidering—wonders if you’ve considered that whoever killed Frogmore might have had it in for Dr. Czerny.”
“And administered the poison to Frogmore by mistake?”
“And killed Frogmore because without him Czerny probably has no career. Czerny said as much to me, but I just assumed he was panicking. If Mrs. Voss, who seems like a very sensible woman, says the same thing…”
“Duly noted.” He pulled out his notebook and scribbled in it. “Not that we need more complications, mind you.”
“Incidentally, why is Dad so short on sleep?” I asked. “I could have sworn I sent him back to the cottage before midnight.”
“He borrowed your grandfather’s satellite phone and spent a couple of hours talking to that doctor in Oregon.”
“Dr. Lanville?”
“That’s the one. Apparently Lanville’s an insomniac, so he loved having someone to talk to in the middle of the night. Not sure if he’s a mystery buff like your dad or if he’s just taking it really personally that someone knocked off one of his patients, but he’s fired up do any legwork your dad wants to suggest.”
“So when do you start? The search, I mean.” I came close to asking “when do we start?” but changed it at the last minute. Horace wasn’t as touchy as the chief would be about my kibitzing on his investigation, but even he had his limits.
“Soon, I hope.”
“You hope? If you have the search warrants, what are you waiting for?”
“This.” A broad smile lit Horace’s face and he strode toward the front door, where two well-bundled, snow-covered figures were just coming through, giving the impression that two yetis had stumbled into the Inn. “Chief’s here!” he called back over his shoulder. “Randall brought him on the snowmobile.”