Monday, December 23, 10:30 A.M.
“Careful! You almost knocked the head off one of the wise men!”
“Take it slowly, then. I can’t see where I’m going, and there’s a pointy little glass star that nearly puts my eye out whenever you stop suddenly like that.”
I was standing on the Inn’s front walk, sipping a cup of hot chocolate and watching as several tall, lanky workmen from the Shiffley Construction Company loaded our Christmas tree onto a flatbed truck. After extensive discussions about how long it would take to undecorate the tree Mother had set up in the Madison Cottage and return all the ornaments to our almost completely denuded tree at home, Randall Shiffley had offered to have the tree moved as is.
Moving a fully decorated twenty-foot fir tree is no small project. I wasn’t the only person standing on the sidewalk watching.
“Amazing!” Lachlan Pearce was documenting the whole ordeal on video with his cell phone’s camera. And would probably be sharing it with his friends and family, once the Wi-Fi was back. I rather enjoyed imagining a flock of swimsuit-clad, flip-flop-shod Australians, sitting on a beach somewhere, taking a break from prawns and cricket to watch how the crazy Americans celebrated Christmas.
A little farther down the sidewalk a burgundy-and-gold bus with “New Life Baptist Church Choir” painted along the sides was slowly filling up with departing scientists and their suitcases. Although flights were beginning to take off from Dulles Airport, long-distance shuttles and taxis were still hard to come by, so the Reverend Wilson had offered the use of the bus—and Deacon Petrie, its seasoned driver—to transport anyone determined to make the attempt to get home for Christmas.
The Vosses were among the bus passengers, so I enlisted Mrs. Voss to make sure Reverend Wilson’s kindness didn’t go unrewarded.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ve already started taking up a collection. We’ll tell Mr. Petrie that it’s to cover gas, and if there’s any left over he should use it for that lovely choir. And there will be plenty left over. Meanwhile, this is for you.”
She handed me a long cylindrical package wrapped in what I recognized as one of the papers Mother had brought along for her package-wrapping nook.
“You shouldn’t have,” I said. “Should I open it now or save it for Christmas Day?”
“Open it now if you like,” she said. “Or I can tell you what it is so if you don’t like it you can regift it without having to rewrap it. It’s my crewelwork owl. Remember, George drew Ned Czerny in the Secret Santa, but you can’t expect us to go ahead and give him a present after he tried to shoot your grandfather.”
“That’s wonderful.” I hope she realized I meant it. “I love crewelwork, and your owl’s one of the most impressive examples of it I’ve ever seen.”
“Enjoy it.”
“Am I the only one who thinks it a little odd that Dr. Czerny even signed up for the Secret Santa?” I asked.
“George and I figure he was hoping he’d draw someone important so he could ingratiate himself.” She laughed. “And when we’d exchanged all the other presents, we figured out he’d drawn Jeff Whitmore. There was a bottle of wine wrapped up with poor Jeff’s name on it. He turned it over to your cousin Horace for forensic testing. Didn’t look as if it had been opened, but Jeff didn’t want to take any chances. I’m going to get on board and stake out a good seat. Thanks for everything!”
She gave me a quick hug and trotted over to the bus.
In addition to the bus, there were eight or ten cars either parked in the long loading zone or double-parked beside it, as people who’d driven to the conference prepared to make their trek home. The lobby was crowded with people watching the Weather Channel on the Inn’s TV, listening to various radios, and taking turns using the available satellite phones to call relatives and friends to ask about road conditions along their routes. Ekaterina had set up a huge map of the eastern half of the country behind a sheet of glass, and Sami was kept busy with his dry-erase markers, updating the map as reports came in about conditions along various major routes.
And Ekaterina had waived the usual checkout times so guests wouldn’t have to worry about that when making their decisions about whether to go or stay.
“It’s not as if we expect a great many people to arrive today,” she said, in a philosophical tone. “And if some of the departing guests encounter difficulties and turn back, we will take care of them.”
Although I sensed she wouldn’t be unduly distressed if none of them boomeranged back and she was left with only the fifty or so guests who’d either chosen to stay on or resigned themselves to the fact that travel to their ultimate destinations was impossible. She and the entire Inn staff could use a little relative peace and quiet.
From what I could learn, the roads in Caerphilly were in pretty good shape compared with most places east of the Mississippi. Our governor had declared a state of emergency, and in some parts of Virginia the National Guard was hauling first responders around in Humvees and trucks, and dispatching debris-reduction teams with chainsaws to clear away the thousands of fallen trees that would otherwise interfere with the snowplows. But Caerphilly probably boasted more chainsaws per capita than your typical county, and since a great many of those chainsaws belonged to members of the Shiffley clan, who would turn out in force when Randall gave the word, our recovery was proceeding with lightning speed.
“So there’s no need for us to trouble the National Guard,” Randall had said with more than a touch of pride when he dropped by early in the morning to run the chief back to town. “In fact, we’ll probably be reaching out tomorrow to see what we can do for less fortunate neighboring counties.”
I could tell the idea of playing Good Samaritan to neighboring counties really psyched him. I wondered if he was actually going to follow through with his idea of sending a couple of Shiffley cousins with chainsaws on the New Life Baptist bus, in case it ran into difficulties with downed trees in one of the less fortunate counties that lay along the route from Caerphilly to Dulles Airport.
I was distracted from that thought by the arrival of another vehicle—still a sufficiently rare occurrence that nearly everyone in the loading zone stopped to see what it was and a few people from the hotel came running outside to join in the gawking.
This time it was Chief Burke in his police cruiser. He parked as close as he could to the front door, and the cruiser had barely come to a stop before someone jumped out of the passenger seat and sprinted for the hotel. His grandson Adam.
“Hi, Ms. Langslow,” he called in passing before disappearing into the Inn. No doubt he already knew where to find Josh and Jamie.
The chief followed at a more leisurely pace.
“The boys will be glad to see Adam,” I said. “They’ve been dying to show off their tunnel system.”
“And Adam convinced me that his life would be incomplete unless he saw it.” The chief smiled as he glanced at the door through which his grandson had disappeared. “Any chance I can leave him with you for a while? No school today, of course, and Minerva’s got a busy rehearsal schedule with the choir.”
“The boys would never forgive me if I said no,” I said. “They’ll be looking for Adam’s help on their new project.”
“Do I even want to ask?”
“They were inconsolable about going home and leaving their tunnels behind until Michael pointed out that we have just as many feet of snow at home—snow in which they can build a whole new system of tunnels.”
“Adam will be delighted,” the chief said. “And I suspect Ms. Ekaterina will be pleased that I’m taking both prisoners back with me. Both prisoners and Dr. Frogmore’s body. Ah, here they come.”
The chief had evidently been the lead car in a small caravan. Vern Shiffley was parking his cruiser near the chief’s, and a hearse from Morton’s, the local funeral home, continued past the front door, heading around to the loading dock on the far side of the hotel.
“Your dad’s going to get started on the autopsy as soon as he gets our victim to the hospital.” The chief wore a look of profound satisfaction. “And we have defense attorneys on their way to the jail to meet our two prisoners. Did Horace take off yet?”
“Half an hour ago,” I said. “With his entire trunk and most of the backseat taken up with the evidence bags.”
“Evidence bags.” The chief shook his head. “They’re going to laugh at those fancy gold-trimmed bags down at the Crime Lab.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But Ekaterina also packed several matching bags full of pastries and desserts for Horace to take with him. If they give him too much grief over the silly bags, they’ll soon regret it.”
“I wonder if it’s too late to swap places with Horace,” the chief said. “He did very well under difficult conditions this weekend—maybe I should take the evidence down to Richmond and let him interrogate the suspects.”
“Somehow I think he’ll be happier hanging out with his forensic buddies right now,” I said. “He seemed to enjoy being the on-site point person, but I bet he’s got a new appreciation for how hard it is. Here’s hoping the interrogations go well.”
“I’m optimistic,” the chief said. “Given the extent of the video evidence against Mr. Ackley, I think his attorney’s only option will be to go for an insanity plea. And frankly, if you ask me, the loony bin’s the place for him, as long as they can find a way to keep him there a good long time. And as for Dr. Czerny … I must remember to thank your grandfather for his quick-wittedness in turning on his phone’s dictation app. Although even without that, things would be looking a little bleak for him. Dr. Frogmore might not be very popular in ornithological circles, but he was a bigwig at Buckthorn College. We’re getting excellent cooperation not only from the college administration but also from both the Buckthorn County sheriff’s department and the Oregon State Police. Apparently Dr. Czerny made no provision for the possibility that he might come under suspicion. If you’re doing an Internet search on ways to poison someone there are elementary precautions you should take.”
“Like using a computer that can’t easily be traced back to you,” I said. “I always research my poisons at the library.”
“So Ms. Ellie was telling me.” He had a good poker face. “There’s also not bookmarking your research sites on your home computer.”
“Yikes! How clueless is he?”
“And we may already have determined where he got the nitro. Another professor in the Buckthorn biology department kicked up a fuss last month when the spray he kept around for his occasional angina attacks went missing.”
“Hard to prove Czerny took it.”
“We’re tracing the batch number. We should be able to prove it was unlikely that anyone else did.”
“So the bad guys won’t get away with it.”
“Let’s not jinx it,” he said. “Strange things can happen in a court of law. But I’m reasonably certain that we’ll be able to give the county attorney a pretty solid case. Where’s your grandfather taking that owl, anyway?”
Grandfather had appeared on the sidewalk, followed by a bellhop pushing a cart that held Percival’s cage.
“Back to the raptor rehab unit at the zoo,” I said. “You don’t need the owl for evidence or anything, do you?”
“No, your testimony and Dr. Blake’s should be sufficient.”
“That’s good,” I said. “He’d make a rotten witness. Just imagine it—the prosecutor asks him, ‘Do you know Dr. Edward Czerny?’ and Perce would just say, ‘Who?’”
“I don’t know,” the chief said. “He’d be better than some witnesses we’ve seen. At least he’d give a hoot.”
The chief and I both laughed. Grandfather looked cross.
“Hmph. Suddenly everyone I talk to seems to be making bad owl puns.”
“See you later,” the chief said.
Another Shiffley Construction Company truck—this one a panel truck—pulled up to the curb. Grandfather watched as two of Randall’s workmen loaded Percival into the back.
“Have you got the black widow spider?” I asked.
He reached into his coat pocket, took out the jar with the perforated lid, and held it up for a few seconds before stuffing it back into his coat pocket and climbing into the truck’s cab.
“See you back at the house,” he said.
The chief and I waved as the truck pulled out.
“Well,” the chief said. “Those prisoners aren’t going to transport themselves.”
“I bet they could if you let them,” I said. “But probably not to any destination you’d want them going to.”
He laughed and headed inside the Inn. On his way he passed Dr. Craine, who was dragging her suitcase behind her.
“Meg! There you are!” she said. “Your grandfather said you could give me a ride.”
“Er.… okay,” I said. “Where to?” Not, I hoped, someplace too far out of my way.
“Your house, actually.” She frowned. “Did he not tell you he invited me to stay with you for a couple of days?”
I burst out laughing.
“Not in so many words,” I said. “He told me he’d invited half a dozen people who couldn’t get home and didn’t want to spend the holiday in a hotel. I’m relieved to see that at least one of them is someone I’d have gladly invited myself if I’d known she was stranded.”
“That’s a relief,” she said. “I might be able to get home today if I really work at it, but I could end up stranded halfway, and even if I succeeded I’d only be arriving to an empty house—my son’s spending Christmas with his wife’s family and I lost my husband a few years ago. So I figure I’ll stand back and leave the plane seats to people who really want them. Actually, I suspect Monty’s eager to have me stay so he can talk me into serving as Melissa’s external advisor. Once I get settled in, I’ll tell him that I already told her I’d do it.”
“Better yet, wait a few days,” I said. “He doesn’t often have to butter up people to get favors. He could use the practice. And it might be amusing to watch.”
“Okay.” She chuckled at the prospect.
“Do you need help with your luggage?” I asked. “I could send the boys.”
“This is all I’ve got.” She gestured to the modest suitcase she’d rolled out behind her. Not quite a carry-on, but not much larger. I nodded approvingly.
I led her over to the Twinmobile, shoved her suitcase in the back, and assigned her the shotgun seat.
“My goodness, look at that.” She pointed to the loading area. Melissa McKendrick had pulled up in front of the hotel in a battered old Honda Fit. Two bellhops were loading the car’s trunk and backseat with luggage. She’d only had a backpack when we’d searched. Where had all that luggage come from?
Then I saw it. Ekaterina was supervising as Sami and one of the bellhops half escorted and half carried Mrs. Ackley down the Inn’s front walk.
“I’ll go see what’s up,” I said.
“You are, of course, welcome to stay on, Mrs. Ackley,” Ekaterina was saying as I came within earshot. “But of course we understand why you might prefer to leave.”
Sami and the bellhop succeeded in levering Mrs. Ackley into the Fit’s front seat. She was, for once, silent. I hoped for Melissa’s sake she stayed that way.
Everyone stared, and a few of us waved as the Fit drove off.
“Thank goodness,” Ekaterina said. “You must help me think of something I can do to thank that young woman. I have been trying for two hours to get a cab for Mrs. Ackley.”
“Is she leaving town?” I liked to think if I were ever arrested for murder in some other state, Michael would at least stay around long enough to make sure I had a good defense attorney.
“Taking a room in one of the bed-and-breakfasts. Because there are too many unhappy memories here.” Ekaterina sniffed slightly. “I suppose if I were married to a homicidal maniac, I would also be in a hurry to put a distance between myself and all the people he tried to kill. Aha! The bus prepares to leave.”
The last few stragglers were climbing on board. I spotted Whitmore, Belasco, and Smith—the three lost lambs—in the queue. Two teenage Shiffleys were already on board, their chainsaws safely stowed in the luggage compartment. And Nils Lindquist was standing by the door, looking impatiently back at the hotel.
“Just one more minute,” I heard him say. “He can’t have gone far.”
Ben Green came running out of the hotel, dragging his suitcase, followed by Sami, Chantal, and Serafina, all of whom appeared to be carrying items the absent-minded scientist had left behind.
“Oh, dear,” Green said, when they caught up with him. “It’s going to take some doing to fit all that in my suitcase.”
“And we don’t have time right now,” Lindquist said. “Let me have that stuff. We’ll deal with it when we get to the airport.”
With his arms full of his friend’s nearly forgotten items, Lindquist half coaxed, half shoved Green toward the bus. But Green resisted all his efforts until Rose Noire came running out of the hotel carrying something wrapped in blue and lavender. She handed it to Green, and he beamed as if she’d given him the moon.
“I’ll be in touch,” he shouted over his shoulder as Lindquist dragged him onto the bus.
No sooner had the door closed behind them than Deacon Petrie started the motor. We all lined the sidewalk to wave good-bye. Ben Green opened one of the windows and stuck half his body out, waving wildly.
Another window opened, and Lindquist’s head popped out.
“Hey, Meg,” he shouted. “Tell your grandfather it was a great conference. Is he really having it next year?”
“Yes,” I shouted back.
“Great! Owl be back!”
A mixture of groans and laughter greeted this remark, along with a few calls for him to shut the window to keep the freezing air out. He popped back inside, pulled the window shut, and the bus began lumbering down the driveway.
As I waved at the departing bus, I felt a sudden surge of happiness. They were going home. Everyone was going home.
We were going home.
At the end of any trip, even the most enjoyable, I always looked forward to being home again. Sleeping in our own bed, sitting down to breakfast at our own table, relaxing in the evening in front of our own fireplace. Even the daily chores of taking care of our ever-growing menagerie—the llamas, ducks, chickens, sheep, cows, and dogs—took on a rosy hue when I’d been away from them for a while.
But it wasn’t just home I was looking forward to—it was Christmas at home. We could have hung our stockings from the elegant fireplace of the Madison Cottage, but I preferred seeing them back on our own familiar hearth. Even with Melissa’s improvements, the canned music at the Inn couldn’t hold a candle to carols played on our own piano and sung by friends and family. Soon I’d be cooking the enormous turkey Michael had brought home from a local free-range poultry farm, and I could probably dragoon a few of the visiting relatives and ornithologists into helping out with the rest of the dinner. With luck, there would be enough snow on the roof to discourage Dad from his usual Christmas Eve ritual of climbing up on it to stomp around in heavy boots while shaking an armload of sleigh bells. The boys would make their usual mad dash downstairs on Christmas morning, and we’d have the usual hot chocolate and hot spiced cider while—
“Mom?”
I turned to find Josh, Jamie, and Adam all dragging suitcases. My twins had their own; Adam was bringing mine.
“Can we go now?” Jamie asked.
“We have a lot of work to do,” Josh added.
They hurried over to the Twinmobile and began loading their suitcases.
Michael was following them, dragging his own suitcase.
“Why don’t you take Vera and the boys over to the house?” he added, as he shoved it into the luggage compartment, where it only just fit.
“But we have—”
“At least another carload of stuff to pack and bring,” he said. “Let me handle it. After running your grandfather’s whole conference and foiling two killers, I think you deserve a break.”
“And there’s also all of Grandfather’s stuff. It’ll take you forever.”
“Ekaterina’s got a crew helping me pack,” he said.
“Come on, Mom.” The boys had scrambled into the Twinmobile.
“If you’re sure.” I decided not to argue with him. I was ready—well, not quite ready for a nap, but definitely ready to be home. So I got into the Twinmobile and started the engine, accompanied by enthusiastic cheers from the boys.
I set off, but stopped after a few feet and rolled the window down.
“If you need me to come back and help later—”
“Don’t worry.” He dropped to one knee and began singing “Owl Be Home for Christmas.” At least a dozen of the assembled ornithologists joined in, and they serenaded us till we were out of sight.