A Festival of Murder (10 page)

At
the back wall of the pantry where the bags of rice were usually kept, Nicholas
came to a simple latched door that was used to bring in deliveries. He turned
the knob and pulled the door in.

“.
. . damned be.”

Nicholas
swiftly dropped into a crouch as he ducked back behind the door. He wedged it
until it was ajar only about four inches. Freezing air rushed in against the
skin of his cheeks. From the sound of it, Captain Sam was less than twenty feet
away.

“...somewhere.
Not like it can up and disappear. Aliens didn’t haul off and take it . . . not
like him, that ingrate.” Shuffling and more kicking of snow. “Don’t have no
idea—heck, no thanks for what I’m doin’ . . . goin’ out of
my way—bah, he don’t deserve it. Don’t deserve none of—”

“Nicholas!
What in the world are you doing?”

“Holy—!”

Nicholas
clutched at his chest with one hand as he shoved the door shut. Panting, he
straightened to his feet as he turned around. “You shouldn’t do that to a man
my age, Phoebe. Some people would consider that attempted murder.”

She
planted her hands on her hips. “What were you doing just now?”

“I
was spying on Captain Sam.” He tugged at the sleeves of his sweater rather than
meet her gaze. “I saw him going to the back and I wanted to see what he was up
to. Turns out it was just a bunch of muttering and pacing.”

She
sighed as if he were a fool to have expected anything more. “I dropped your
lunch off at your table. It’s now cold, just the way you like it.”

He
smiled charmingly at her. “I don’t suppose you could reheat it for me?”

She
rolled her eyes and walked away.

As
it was, the shepherd’s pie was not waiting on his table for him. Phoebe had
either taken pity and brought it to the kitchen for reheating or had tossed it.
But his table wasn’t completely empty.

Seated
there waiting for him was Detective Canberry.

The
mental associations Nicholas made with Detective Canberry were about as
pleasant as those he made with long, cylindrical objects and sitting down
comfortably. Though the detective’s probing last night hadn’t been overly
traumatic, Nicholas was haunted by the certainty that more invasive forays were
yet to come.

“This
is a surprise,” he said, pretending to actually be surprised as he slipped into
his chair across from the detective.

Canberry
looked a handful of years younger in the light of day, but Nicholas got the
impression the man was trying to overcome his age. The black pea coat he’d worn
last night was draped over the chair behind him, revealing that he wore a navy
suit coat beneath, complete with a dark blue tie pinned with a gold tie tack.
Light reflected in flat squares off Canberry’s wire-rimmed glasses,
occasionally concealing his eyes. Nicholas realized with confusion that it was
because the lenses were completely flat and non-prescription. Was it an
affectation or were the fake lenses the detective’s way of hiding what he was
thinking?

“I
went to your shop, Mr. Trilby, but I’d just missed you. I hope you don’t mind
if I join you?”

Nicholas
wondered if it was, in fact, all right for him to say that he did mind. He
decided it wasn’t a risk he was willing to take. “The kitchen here runs on
Italian time for some reason.” He listened to his stomach grumble. “I’m in no
hurry.”

“One
of your employees, Emma Flowers, was quick to point my way here.”

“I’ll
bet she was,” Nicholas muttered. He drummed his fingers on the table. When the
detective’s gaze dropped to the movement, Nicholas forced his hand flat. “So is
this a social call or—?”

“I
just wanted to touch base with you again, Mr. Trilby. Investigations are always
evolving as new information comes to light, and I have a few things I’d like
you to go over with me.”

“All
right. But I doubt I have anything helpful to add. I told you all I know.”

“It’s
not often that a body is found under such circumstances in the valley,”
Canberry began. “A good three quarters of the crime out here are related to
burglaries or robberies. Last night must have been a big shock to you and your
friends.”

“I’m
sure I’m not the only person who ended up drinking far more than they’d
initially intended to.”

Canberry
glanced at Nicholas’s tea. “What’s your poison?”

Nicholas
patted his stomach. “Last night, it was spiked eggnog. I think I drank at least
five thousand calories worth.”

“Ouch.”

Outside
the windows, a figure crossed the yard from the back of the Gingerbear.
Nicholas watched from the corner of his eye, curious to see how Captain Sam
reacted once he discovered Nicholas having a conversation with Detective
Canberry.

It
went down about how he expected it to. Captain Sam froze in the middle of the
yard, obviously having caught sight of the two of them through the window. He
couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d let out a scream of astonishment.
Nicholas watched Canberry as the detective watched Captain Sam. When the latter
turned and quickly lumbered, Bigfoot-like, across the yard, heading to the
walkway that would take him down to Main Street, Canberry nodded very slightly
to himself.

“You’ll
find a lot of odd characters among a group of alien hunters,” Nicholas said,
still curious about what Captain Sam had been doing in the back yard.

Canberry
eyed him. “Any I should pay particular attention to? Besides him?”

It
was an opening to steer suspicion away from himself, but Nicholas couldn’t
bring himself to do it. “They’re all weird.”

That
brought a bark of laughter from Canberry.

Phoebe
came to the table and delivered a cup of coffee and a creamer for Canberry. She
didn’t make eye contact with Nicholas but her stiff, jittery movements all but
confirmed that she expected at any minute to be arrested for something.

Nicholas
gnawed on the inside of his cheek as he glanced around the dining room. It was
a mistake, he soon saw. Every diner in the place—and business was booming
today—was engaged in fake conversation with their lunch partners while trying
surreptitiously to watch and eavesdrop on Nicholas’s conversation with
Canberry.

“Anything
for lunch, Detective?” Phoebe looked pained by the possibility of receiving an
affirmative answer.

“The
coffee’s fine, Miss James. Thank you.”

“Okay.”
Phoebe shot Nicholas an anxious look.

“Maybe
you can check on my pie,” Nicholas suggested. “Burned won’t be any better than
cold.”

“Oh,
right. Okay, then.”

She
spun away in a blur of black.

“Miss
James seems nervous.”

Nicholas
shrugged.

“She’s
a beautiful woman.”

“Clearly
you’ve been listening to the gossip around town. Or do I have Emma to thank
this time?”

Canberry
smiled, took a sip of his coffee, and set it in the saucer again. “Emma and the
other woman—Bea?—are the guilty parties. They told me you come here every day
to see Miss James. That you have for nearly a year. You must have the patience
of a saint.”

“I
come here because otherwise I’d have to make my own meals. For the most part, I’d
rather starve than eat the monstrosities that emerge from my kitchen.”

“Hence,
The Joy of Cooking
.”

Nicholas
nodded warily. “Hence.”

“You
don’t go into Estes Park at all?”

“On
occasion. When I need to restock supplies. But I moved up here to get away from
cities and towns.”

“And
to get away from people, too, yes?”

Nicholas
remained silent, not about to hang the “loner” albatross around his own neck.

“I
live down in Estes,” Canberry said, “and it’s beautiful, of course, but it’s
not like this. Not this quiet. It must have irritated you when you began
gaining neighbors. There were only a few of you when you first arrived, is that
right?”

“There
were none, actually.” Nicholas watched the detective closely. He’d seen enough
reruns of Colombo to know the detective wasn’t talking for the sake of
conversation. “Horace and Charles were the first to move up here with me that I
was aware of, though it turned out Captain Sam had slunk up here at some point,
too.”

“All
of them because of your abduction story?”

“I’d
say that’s a safe assumption. It’s a beautiful area, but everyone’s too busy
staring at the sky to admire the lake.”

“Do
you feel responsible for their preoccupation?”

It
was a trap. Nicholas was positive of it. “What does any of this have to do with
the murder of Rocky Johnson?”

Before
Canberry could reply, Phoebe arrived with Nicholas’s shepherd’s pie. She set it
in front of him, stared at him for a moment as if trying to tell him with her
eyes that she’d baked a chisel beneath the mashed potatoes, and then hurried away.

“It’s
possible Johnson may have been killed because he intended to publish an article
that would have questioned the legitimacy of your experience and by extension,
the value of Hightop as a destination for alien hunters.” Canberry brushed a
hand down his tie, fingers grazing the center tie tack. “I need to know how
badly everyone up here cared about that.”

“I
don’t feel responsible for Hightop’s creation or for anyone’s beliefs. This isn’t
my
baby
. On the contrary. It turned into something it shouldn’t have.”

“But
Hightop gives you everything a person could want: livelihood and fame.”

Nicholas
swallowed down annoyance at the glib comment. “I sell alien jerky and cologne
called E.T. Connection. That’s hardly merchandise to be proud of or that makes
me rich. And as far as fame goes, I doubt even so-called reality show stars
would want the sort of attention I get. At least once a month I receive
packages containing baby food jars holding what the senders swear are alien
organs and other body parts. This—” he waved his hands to encompass his
surroundings, “—was never my intention, Detective.”

Rattled,
Nicholas reached for his fork and then hesitated, the tines shivering above the
golden, crusted potatoes of his pie.

“Eat
it before it gets cold, Mr. Trilby.”

Determined
to overcome his nerves, at least visibly, Nicholas picked up his fork and used
it to pierce the browned crust. He was starving, but it was difficult to take
that first bite with a homicide detective watching him. As he picked at the
potatoes, he seized on a change of topic. “Your tie tack. Does it represent
something?”

Canberry
leaned back slightly, his fingers brushing over the tack again. “It’s an eye.
This is the logo for the original Pinkerton Detectives and the origin of the
term ‘private eye.’”

“Aren’t
private eyes, well, private? Not employed by the police, I mean.”

“The
art of investigation requires talent and observation no matter who employs it
or where,” Canberry said, a bit testily in Nicholas’s opinion. “Ever since I
was old enough to read, I’ve been obsessed with men who use their wits rather
than their muscles to correct injustices in the world. You could say detective
work is a calling of mine.”

Nicholas
tried to find the news interesting but in truth, the tidbit added to a pile of alarm
that was growing in his head. He stabbed at his potatoes, drawing a crop circle
in them with the tines of his fork. “And how does your deductive reasoning fare
in a unique place like Hightop?”

“Peripherals
like alien fascination don’t hinder my investigation. I like to think I’m good
at separating fact from fiction, even if you have a tremendous amount of
fiction up here.”

“So
you don’t believe in aliens.” Normally Nicholas preferred this stance, however,
in this case it implied, justly or unjustly, a lack of imagination. Lack of
imagination and empathy in an investigator might mean Canberry might focus on
the most obvious theory while disregarding others.

“I
like to believe in the type of aliens that look like E.T. and create elaborate
crop circles,” the detective said. “They seem friendly.”

Nicholas
snorted.

“I’m
not much of a fan of the kinds of aliens who want to enslave us or use us for
food. I suppose you could say I’m a hopeful believer. Like your neighbors.”

“My
neighbors are a bit more than that.”

Canberry
studied him. Nicholas imagined a mental tape recorder clicking on inside the
man’s head. “Meaning what?”

Knowing
he should be cautious about what he said, Nicholas nonetheless couldn’t help
airing a pet peeve of his. “The majority of them are wasting their lives up
here, staring at the sky and reciting to themselves the details of my
abduction. They could be doing something more productive.”

“You
don’t appreciate their belief in your experience?”

“It’s
not that I don’t appreciate it. Every person has to have a passion, I suppose.
But I wish I didn’t have to play a role in it.”