Lord of the Wings (33 page)

“Let me guess,” I said. “Josiah Brimfield.”

“You've run into him, too?”

Just then another pair of guests arrived—an eight-year-old little girl in a princess dress, and her younger brother, who made an adorable baby koala bear. Frank took their pictures, separately and together, while I admired the costumes. The children and their mother scampered inside to join the party and Frank and I resumed our conversation.

“I've met Brimfield,” I said. “I was there at the police station when Brimfield stormed in demanding that the chief take his pictures back from Dr. Smoot.”

“Yeah, he threatened to sue me for giving prints to Dr. Smoot for the museum,” Frank said. “He doesn't have a leg to stand on, but he can make my life a misery while he finds that out.”

“So maybe I shouldn't tell him that I took photos of all the photos?” I said. “And shared them with Ms. Ellie at the library? Heck, maybe I shouldn't tell you. Is that a copyright violation?”

Frank chuckled.

“I'd keep it to myself when someone as litigious as Brimfield is around, but you're not in any trouble as far as I'm concerned. Look—first of all, the person who owns a photo isn't the person in it or his heirs—it's the photographer. So the fact that his great-great-uncles are in the photo doesn't prove ownership. We have no information on who took that photo. About the only thing we do know is that it was first published in the
Clarion
in 1919, which is important because, according to copyright law, anything published before 1923 is now in the public domain.”

“So if he tries to sue you, he'll lose.”

“And if he's consulted a lawyer, he already knows that,” Frank said. “I'm guessing he hasn't, or even if he has he just figures he can browbeat me into giving him the photos.”

“But why does he care so much?” I wondered aloud.

“Beats me,” Frank said.

“Not sure if it's relevant,” I said. “But Ms. Ellie says the photo's proof that William Henry Harrison Brimfield didn't die in 1916, as recorded in local history.” I gave him the capsule version of her explanation.

Frank grew thoughtful, and almost failed to notice the entrance of a set of twins dressed as Dr. Seuss's Thing One and Thing Two. Then he jerked to attention and took their photos. When they and their father had moved on to the party proper, he spoke again.

“It could be relevant if there was some hanky-panky with their wills,” he said. “What if, for example, William Brimfield made a will leaving everything to some French barmaid he met on leave in Paris? They might want to hush up the fact that he outlived his brother, who left all his worldly goods to his grieving family.”

“That would make sense if William had actually inherited the family fortune before he was killed,” I said. “Did he?”

“No,” he said. “When I was checking the files to find material for Dr. Smoot's museum, I found a photo of his aged parents looking solemn at the ceremony where they unveiled the war memorial. And besides, the Brimfields lost all their money in the depression anyway, so there wouldn't be much for my hypothetical French barmaid's descendants to lay claim to by now.”

“The Brimfields struck it rich in California,” I pointed out.

“But they seem to have started out fresh with nothing,” Frank said. “I looked it up on the Brimfield Corporation's Web site after he started badgering me. John Adams Brimfield, the old man, went out to California with his two surviving sons and carved an empire out of the wilderness, to hear them tell it. So I don't think it's a money issue. More likely they're hiding something disreputable. What if William, the one with the inconsistent death date, didn't actually die in the war? What if he deserted or got court-martialed or something and they drummed him out of the family?”

“And he just went quietly?”

“If the rest of his family was anything like Josiah, he might have gone off singing ‘glory, hallelujah!'” Frank said. “We may never know.”

“Ms. Ellie's going to do some research on it,” I said. “After the festival is over.”

“Good,” he said. “If she finds any dirt on the Brimfields, I'll do a front page article on it, and send a stack of copies to the Brimfield Corporation. Probably cost me an arm and a leg in legal costs, but it'd be worth it.”

“Talk to Festus,” I said. “He takes a dim view of big corporations beating up small businesses. You never know; he might take it on cheap for the chance to take a whack at this Brimfield Corporation.”

“I'll do that,” Frank said. “Well, one good thing about Brimfield showing up this week—the festival seems to be driving him bonkers. You should have seen him freak out when he found someone had tucked a fake finger into one of his overcoat pockets.”

We both chuckled at that. And then, since a flock of small Ewoks, Stormtroopers, and other
Star Wars
characters had arrived, I left Frank to the task of capturing their cuteness for posterity.

In due course, Grammy's crew announced that they were ready for the great Halloween candy hunt, and we herded the children outside and turned them loose. Astonishing that it only took them fifteen minutes to find the candy that had taken the adults nearly two hours to hide.

Meanwhile, Luigi's son had arrived with the kids' pizzas and the party ended with a delightfully noisy and enthusiastic meal. Pizza was a good choice, I realized, because most of the kids liked it enough that they would actually put down their candy and eat a slice or two. And then all the parents began the chore of dragging their kids away from their friends so they could get home and refresh their costumes before nightfall.

Michael watched while his mother and the boys decked out Groucho in the black cape and fake fangs that made up his vampire costume while I attached the horse (and llama) trailer to the back of the Twinmobile and fetched the boys' empty goody bags.

“Not quite sunset yet,” he pointed out.

“It probably will be by the time we get to town and hitch Groucho up,” I said. “And besides, we're going to stop at Mom and Dad's.

So the five of us set off. Michael's mother drove the Twinmobile, and I followed in my own car, in case anything really dire happened and I had to split the party.

Mother and Dad and Grandfather made a big fuss over the boys' costumes, even though they'd already seen them at the party. Dad had been waiting until our arrival to head out to his medical tent, relocated from the town square to across the street from the Haunted House. Mother and Grandfather were going to stay in and hand out candy to any trick-or-treaters who made it this far out of town.

“Actually, I expect I'll handle the brats for the rest of the night,” Grandfather said when he was sure Mother wasn't near enough to hear. “Your mother's had a rough day.”

“Don't scare them too badly,” I warned him. “Dad, how's Dr. Smoot?”

“He hasn't regained consciousness yet,” Dad said. “But all his vital signs are good. I think it's only a matter of time.”

We finally left Mother and Dad's and drove to the college parking lot, where Randall's cousin had left the llama cart. I led Groucho out of the trailer and hitched him up. Then I handed each of the boys their enormous black-and-orange canvas treat bags and turned them loose. They made a beeline for the nearest houses, with Michael's cart trotting on behind them. Grammy and I brought up the rear.

“What's that,” she said, pointing to the paper I'd pulled out of my tote.

“A map of Caerphilly,” I said.

“I should have thought you'd know your way around town fairly well by now.” Was there a note of disapproval in her voice?

“I do,” I said. “I'm going to use it to keep track of where we've already been. Last time we figured out about halfway down one street that we'd already been to all the houses on it. Hard to tell whether the boys circled around deliberately, because it was a particularly generous street, or whether it was accidental, but we're not having that again. If they say ‘but we haven't been this way yet!' I can tell if they're lying.”

“Good thinking,” she said.

The boys were scampering up the walkway of the first house, and Grammy and I scrambled to catch up.

This part of the day was delightful—like having our town back again. Almost the only people we met were other parties of trick-or-treaters. The boys recognized some of them, or thought they did, and called greetings to their friends, while Michael, Grammy, and I trailed after them. And the boys had the whole routine down pat. They knew not to go up to the occasional darkened house. They smiled proudly when their costumes were praised, gave Uncle Rob's employees due credit, and so ostentatiously took only one piece of candy that at least half of the householders urged them to take more. And they paused at the end of every block to plot their next course.

“We should go that way.” Josh pointed to the right at one such intersection.

“But there are lots of houses down that way.” Michael's mother indicated the street ahead of us, which was dense with townhouses.

“Yeah, but they're all those stuck-together houses that never answer the doorbell on Halloween,” Josh said.

“Or they close the door and make you wait while they find something and then all they give you is raisins,” Jamie said. “That way's better.”

They scurried off in the direction they preferred, and Michael steered his cart after them.

“Mostly groups of students or young working people in the townhouses,” I explained to Grammy. “They tend to be more interested in partying on Halloween than giving out candy.”

She nodded and hurried on after the boys. I paused long enough to make a note of our route on my map.

And then just as I was turning the corner, I realized—we were just leaving Pruitt Street. The darkened house the boys had just passed by was Lydia's house.

Why was there a car in her driveway?

 

Chapter 25

I put a thick stand of bushes between me and Lydia's house. Then I pulled out my cell phone and called Randall.

“What kind of car does Lydia drive?”

“Little silver compact,” he said. “Honda, I think, or maybe a Toyota. Why?”

The car in Lydia's driveway was a silver Honda Civic.

“We've been trick-or-treating in her neighborhood,” I said. “And I noticed that there's a car in her driveway.”

“Wasn't her car supposed to be down at the Richmond airport?” he asked.

“No idea,” I said. “Would they have impounded it or just left it there and kept an eye on it?”

“Not sure they'd have any grounds to impound, would they?”

We both fell silent for a few moments. I didn't know the answer. Neither did Randall, apparently.

“Did you check to see if she's there?” he asked.

I glanced at the house.

“The lights are out, so if she's there she may not want anyone to know it,” I said. “And I'm not all that keen to knock on the door of a murder suspect. I'm hanging up and calling 911.”

“I'll be over with the key,” he said, just before I cut the connection.

“Nine-one-one, what's your emergency.” Debbie Ann was more businesslike than usual. Probably due to the number of out-of-towners who might be calling these days.

“There's a car in Lydia Van Meter's driveway,” I said. “At 1510 Pruitt Avenue. A silver Honda Civic. Matches what Randall can remember about her car. Which I know was found out at the Richmond airport, but I didn't know whether it was impounded or whether maybe she could have come back and claimed it.”

“Dispatching a deputy. Can you see the license plate?”

“Not from where I'm standing,” I said. “Too dark. Do you want me to stroll closer so I can see it?”

A pause.

“Let me ask the chief.”

As I waited, peering through the shrubbery at the car, I began to hear voices coming from down the block, where Michael and Grammy and the kids had gone.

“Meg! Where are you?” Michael was calling.

“Mommy?”

“Blast,” I muttered. I didn't really want to draw attention to where I was crouching in the shrubbery. But neither did I want Michael and the boys circling back to a house where the police might be about to confront a murderer.

I ran a few yards down the street.

“Coming! Just a minute!” I shouted, waving my arms.

Then I ran back to my position in the bushes. As I did, I heard the noise of a car engine starting.

“It's moving,” I said into the phone.

The car had been nose out, as if its driver had anticipated the need for a fast getaway. It darted out into the street, turned left and disappeared into the night.

“It pulled out before I could get the license,” I said. “Heading north on Pruitt Avenue.”

I could hear Debbie Ann relaying this over the police radio.

“Randall's on his way with the key to the house,” I said. “I'm trick-or-treating with the boys—I should get back before they start to worry.”

“That's fine,” Debbie Ann said. “You call us if you see anything else suspicious.”

I didn't for the rest of the trick-or-treating, but my fleeting encounter with a car that might or might not belong to a murderer cast a slight pall over my enjoyment. The boys probably wondered why I was following them up to every doorstep and studying the people who opened the doors, instead of waiting at the foot of the driveway as I had earlier in the evening.

I was relieved when the boys finally agreed that yes, they had hit all of the really good houses, and it was time to go home. Of course, no six-year-old would ever admit that he has more than enough candy, but I could tell by their tired yet satisfied expressions that they were not unhappy with their haul.

And thanks to my useful little map, I'd managed to steer our party in a giant circle, so we ended up only a few blocks from where we'd parked the llama trailer. Grammy and I helped Michael into the car while the boys scrambled to sit in the far back of the Twinmobile. Then I unhitched Groucho, led him into the llama trailer, and pulled the llama cart into the parking space where Randall would be picking it up later.