Owls Well That Ends Well (8 page)

“Lordy,” the chief said, shaking his head. “I wish I thought you were kidding. Frankie, you go find your Grandma and tell her she’ll have to find you some lunch. Grandpa has to work.”

Darth Vader nodded and scampered off.

“So where is this alleged murder?” the chief said.

I pointed to the trunk. He walked over, used his handkerchief to lift the lid, and peered in.

“That poor rascal!” he exclaimed.

“I see you know Gordon,” I said.

“Well, of course,” he said. “He’s had that eyesore of a shop on Main Street nearly fifteen years. I’m not surprised, really. Lord knows, no one deserves to be murdered, but if anyone could provoke Saint Peter himself into forgetting that fact, it would be Gordon.”

With that, he pulled out his cell phone. Calling the station for reinforcements, I hoped.

Michael returned.

“Your Dad’s got the barn under control,” he said.

“Great,” I said. “Now all we have to worry about is them,” I said, pointing to the crowd. The line snaking away from the checkout table was becoming obscured by the increasing numbers of people showing up to gawk, and they’d begun shoving the ropes inward, a few inches at a time. “If Chief Burke doesn’t get some officers here pretty soon for crowd control …”

“Don’t worry,” Michael said. “Also under control.” Just then the crowd parted, and Mother appeared, took up a position just inside the rope, and began issuing orders. Within two minutes, she had the ropes back to their original position and the crowd arranging itself in several rows, by height, so everyone would have the best possible view. Which might not be optimal in the chief’s eyes, but I thought it was an improvement over being trampled by curious onlookers while guarding the trunk.

But while the gawkers were happier, the shoppers had grown surly.

“Maybe I should start writing up people’s sales tickets while they’re waiting,” I said. I rummaged through the stuff on the checkout table for one of the little pads of sales receipts. “That’s what really takes time, and if they see things are moving—”

“I’ll do it,” Michael said, plucking the receipt pad from my hand. “I’ll round up some of our elusive volunteers to help. You stay here and help Chief Burke.”

He flagged Mrs. Fenniman and the cousin dressed as a white rabbit, and the three of them began working their way down the line. As soon as they started, I could see a decrease in the number of frowns and annoyed glances at wristwatches.

And not only was morale improving, but I figured that once people had their sales slips all neatly written up, they’d be less likely to change their minds and leave us stuck with the junk they’d picked up. The man carrying Mrs. Sprocket’s near life-sized reproduction of the Venus de Milo, for example. I really wanted to see that leave.

First things first. Murder trumped our yard sale, no question. I turned back to the chief. He had pulled off his wig and sunglasses and was struggling out of his leather jacket with one hand while holding his cell phone in the other. I went over to help him out. That doing so allowed me to eavesdrop was, of course, purely incidental.

From the frown that crossed his face when he saw me, I deduced that he’d neither forgiven nor forgotten my so-called meddling in the last murder case we had in Caerphilly.

“Yes, I know I gave Clyde the day off for his cousin’s wedding,” he was saying into the phone. “But we’ve got a situation here. You tell him to head on over here as soon as they’re safely hitched. And—hold on,” he said, with a look of alarm. “I’ll have to call you back.”

I followed the chief’s gaze and saw a short, plump African-American woman swathed in white robes and wearing a Cleopatra-style headdress. She held Darth Vader’s hand and frowned at the chief.

“I declare,” she said. “If you’re too triflin’ to buy your grandson a measly hamburger …”

“Minerva,” the chief said, in a stage whisper. “We have a serious crime going on here.”

“Dad, it’s probably time for Eric’s lunch,” I said. “Why don’t you take the chief’s grandson along and feed them both?”

Dad looked crestfallen. He wanted to stay at the crime scene.

“We’ll make points with the chief,” I whispered to him. “And with Mother; she won’t want Eric to see this. Come back when you’ve found someone reliable to watch them both.”

Dad’s expression lightened.

“Come along, Frankie,” he said, offering Darth Vader his left wing. “Do you like hamburgers or hot dogs?”

“Yes,” Darth Vader said.

Minerva Burke nodded approvingly and returned to whatever table interested her. Chief Burke looked relieved.

“Thank you kindly,” he said. “Of course, she’ll want to take Frankie home when she learns we have to shut the shopping down for the time being.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” I said, with a sigh.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” the chief shouted. “Ladies and gentlemen!”

I hadn’t realized before how loud the yard sale was. And it wasn’t a single, identifiable noise, but the general hum of several hundred people bargaining, conversing, and trading rumors about the murder with their friends and neighbors, mixed in with the louder, more sporadic noises of children playing, parents calling or scolding, radios pumping out tunes or talk shows, grills sizzling, and the occasional honking of my brother’s Harpo horn. About a third of the people in the yard seemed intent on ignoring the murder and continuing to shop. Another third clustered around the edge of the roped-off area, arranged in height order, frankly staring at the crime scene. The rest dashed back and forth, trying to do both at once and annoying everyone.

The chief tried several times to make himself heard, with no success. Shoppers and rubberneckers alike ignored him.

“Allow me,” Michael said. He stepped up onto the cashier’s table and drew himself up to his full height.

“Attention, shoppers!” he proclaimed, and his resonant stage actor’s voice cut through the general noise and silenced it as a hawk’s cry would cut off the normal cheerful chatter around a bird feeder.

“Attention shoppers!” he repeated. “Due to an unfortunate occurrence, we regret that we have to suspend the yard sale temporarily, by order of the Caerphilly Police Department. If you’ll all please take the items you now have and form an orderly line leading to the checkout area and stand by for instructions from our chief of police …”

Murmurs of mingled outrage and curiosity ran through the part of the crowd still shopping, while the ones gathered around the murder scene pretended to think the announcement didn’t apply to them.

People began to comply. At least the ones still shopping. They didn’t go happily, and they weren’t quick about it, and I suspect no power on Earth could have kept them from picking up a few more items as they passed various tables, like horses snatching a mouthful of grass every time their riders dropped the reins. But they began gradually ambling toward the checkout line. I overheard the chief making another phone call and ordering someone to stop by the station on his way here to pick up the departmental bullhorn.

Mother, still keeping the onlookers in order, took a moment to draft Rob to take her place in the checkout line. I noticed, with alarm, that she handed him the orange and purple lamp shade I’d found so hideous. I hoped she was only holding it for someone else. Or maybe she liked the shape and was planning to strip off all the ghastly trappings and recover the frame with a nice unobtrusive beige. Surely the lamp shade couldn’t possibly be part of her decorating plans for Michael and me.

I’d worry about that later. The first two of the chief’s officers had arrived. Given the speed of their arrival and the fact that they wore civvies with what appeared to be folded Nixon masks shoved in their pockets, I suspected they’d been here all along as customers. Burke assigned them to search the barn. I hoped the chief would assign the next arrivals to crowd control. Even Mother could only do so much.

“Meg, your cousin Horace has found something,” Dad said, appearing at my elbow.

“And just what has he found?” Chief Burke said, stepping between me and Horace.

Cousin Horace stepped forward, holding a charred object at the end of a set of barbecue tongs.

“We found this in one of our grills,” he said. “And there are some stains on the cover that might be blood spatter.”

“And just why are you so familiar with blood spatter?” Chief Burke asked, frowning at Horace. “Been watching
CSI
too often?”

“Cousin Horace’s a crime scene technician with the sheriff’s department at home,” I said.

“Ah,” the chief said, nodding with approval. I blinked in surprise at his ready acceptance of Horace’s credentials, and then realized that among so many costumed revelers, Horace’s habitual gorilla suit looked perfectly normal. The chief had already focused on the object Horace was holding.

A book. The side toward me was so badly charred that I could only just make out the faint suggestion of pages, but Chief Burke found his side more interesting. I edged closer to look over his shoulder and found that the book’s front cover was only slightly scorched and perfectly recognizable, its faded red cloth binding stamped in gold and black with a chessboard motif and the book’s author and title.

The Uttermost Farthing,
by R. Austin Freeman.

Chapter 9

“Damn,” I muttered. A little too loudly.

“What is it?” the chief said, looking back at me.

“This is turning into a zoo,” I said, waving at the crowd of rubberneckers and interrupted shoppers, pretending that they rather than the book had inspired my exclamation. “I don’t suppose you’d let us collect their money so they could all haul their stuff away.”

The chief lowered his head and peered disapprovingly over his glasses.

“And you’re positive none of their stuff is evidence?” he said.

“It was just a thought,” I said. “How about if I get my volunteers to go down the line and box up everyone’s stuff—we’ll have the carbons of the sales slips for an inventory. And then we can store everything until your officers are finished with it, and you could question people and get them out from underfoot.”

He looked at me suspiciously, then nodded.

“That should work,” he said, sounding faintly surprised that I’d come up with a good idea. “Get Sammy to help you,” he added, as a tall, gangling young redheaded officer strode up, still trying to button one of his uniform cuffs.

Help me or make sure I didn’t pull anything?

I added Sammy and the cousin dressed as a ballerina to the checkout line detail. Michael and Sammy did the heavy work of boxing up the items while Mrs. Fenniman, the ballerina, and the white rabbit continued writing up sales slips.

I tried to recruit Horace, but the chief had already deputized him to help with the crime scene examination, since Caerphilly only had one part-time evidence technician. Dad, who devoured mysteries and loved the idea of being involved in a real-life crime, kept dashing around, trying to be everywhere at once. I hoped he’d found someone reliable to watch Eric and Frankie. I couldn’t tell if he was seething with jealousy that Horace was participating in the investigation or vibrating with eagerness at the thought of interrogating Horace later. He’d badger me with questions, too, I thought, with a sigh. Dad had convinced himself and almost everyone we knew that I was a brilliant amateur sleuth. Unfortunately, Chief Burke was one of the few holdouts. The more I could keep Dad out from underfoot, the happier the chief would be.

For that matter, I planned to be as helpful as possible to the chief when I couldn’t stay out of his way entirely. I raced to clear one of our two checkout tables when he asked for some place to serve as a collection point for the evidence they found—so far, only the half-burnt book.

“You go on down to the barn and get started,” the chief told Horace—who had shed his beloved gorilla suit, apparently in the interest of looking more professional.

“And be careful,” I said.

The chief raised an eyebrow at me.

“Tell all your officers to be careful in there,” I said. “The barn’s old, and run down, and we’re not sure it’s structurally sound. No one was supposed to go in there.”

“Ah,” the chief said. “That’s the reason for the KEEP OUT signs. Makes sense. Knowing those Sprockets, it’s a mercy the whole thing didn’t fall down years ago.”

“If Gordon had paid any attention to the signs, maybe he’d be alive today,” I said. “Of course, a whole lot of other people ignored them as well.”

“Such as?” the chief said, taking out a small notebook.

“I don’t know all their names,” I said. “Barrymore Sprocket probably knows more than I do—he went in and tried to chase Gordon out, with no success.”

“We’ll talk to him,” the chief said, scribbling notes. “Right now, just tell me who you saw.”

“The Hummel lady, for one,” I said, pointing to her. “I don’t know her name, but that’s her, over there in the flowered dress.”

The chief nodded, and scribbled in his notebook. Why couldn’t he satisfy my curiosity by exclaiming, “Oh, you mean Mrs. So-and-so?”

“Then there was a man in a gigantic Mexican sombrero,” I said. “He’s probably still around somewhere. And a tall man in a brown jacket. And one of the Gypsies—we have quite a lot of Gypsies, so I’m not quite sure which one. Oh, and Giles might have gone in to talk to him about a book.”

He couldn’t claim I’d left out Giles. But had my casual manner made Giles seem less suspicious or more? The chief just kept scribbling.

“Of course, I didn’t necessarily see everyone who went into the barn,” I said. “I was trying to keep the yard sale running. There could have been dozens of others.”

“Hmm,” the chief said, looking up from his notebook. “Somehow I suspect you didn’t miss much.”

Just then Horace returned, escorting a uniformed officer who held something in his latex-gloved hands.

The other owl-shaped bookend.

“We found it in the barn, sir,” the officer said, placing it on the evidence table. “Appears to be a match for the murder weapon.”

Of course, Giles picked that moment to stroll up.