A Holly, Jolly Murder (18 page)

“Is that what you want as an epitaph on your headstone?” I asked her. I grabbed her shoulders and spun her around so that she was facing Roy. Without releasing her, I added, “See that gun in his hand? He's going to shoot you.”

“Let her go,” Roy said.

She began to squirm, but I dug my fingernails into her flesh. “Or maybe he won't shoot you,” I said slowly. “The only members of your group who know that Malthea's in the hospital are Fern and Gilda. I'm going to assume Roy has not been in communication with either of them this evening. He must have learned this from you, Morning Rose. How did you find out? Did you see the ambulance go up the driveway at Primrose Hill?” She nodded. “But that wouldn't explain why you knew it was there for Malthea. Was it because you were responsible for the assault in the study?”

Roy leaned against the altar, rather casually, in my opinion, for someone who intended to cover it with bloodstains. Without letting the gun bobble even for an instant, he pulled a cigarette pack and a lighter out of his pocket. “Very good, Mrs. Malloy. Now let her go.”

“Not just yet,” I said as my fingers began to protest. “Gilda told me that Nicholas had evidence that would cause her to lose her job and possibly face criminal charges. That's why she tried to break into the house earlier—to find the evidence. It's also why Malthea did the same thing a few hours ago, and, apparently, did Morning Rose. What is it?”

“You haven't proved I was there,” said Morning Rose sulkily.

I shook her as I would a mysterious package beneath a Christmas tree. “Malthea seems determined to protect Roy, and not in order to hide any association with a satanic cult.”

“Don't be so sure,” he said as he lit the cigarette.

“But you did kill Nicholas,” I continued. “Why?”

“Because,” he said in a whiny falsetto, “I'm a victim, too. My father rejected me and my mother neglected me. The preacher used to beat me with a strap. I know I shouldn't have taken drugs, ma'am, but I was all alone and so confused. I guess I was beggin' for help.”

“Roy,” Morning Rose said, “this has gone on long enough. You've got a gun, and you should be able to find a way to use it.”

I abruptly shifted my arms to her waist and grasped my wrists, pulling her against me. “The bullet will penetrate both of us. Waste not, want not.”

“Don't make this any harder than necessary,” he said as he approached.

“I'm not going to make it any easier than necessary,” I said, calculating the distance. “I shouldn't do that, should I, Morning Rose?”

“No,” she said in a thin voice.

“I didn't hear you,” I said, vigorously administering the Heimlich maneuver to help her cough up a lie.

“No!” she wailed.

Roy was no more than a yard away, the gun a shade closer. I took a breath, shoved Morning Rose into him, watched both of them flounder backward against the altar, then darted into the woods. A shot ricocheted off a branch above my head, but I kept stumbling through trees and bushes. The sounds of thrashing and cursing made it clear that Roy was on his feet and coming after me.

It occurred to me that he was tracking me by the same noises. I crawled under a low fir, pulled my legs against my chest, and buried my face in decayed leaves and what smelled like the remains of a dead animal. The most minimal movement had exposed the amorous couple on the campus; I did not so much as blink. Footsteps crunched nearby, then moved away.

One of the egregious errors common to movies is for the fugitive to hear noises diminish, scramble to his or her feet, and go thundering onward, alerting the hunter to redirect the search. I stayed put, making no effort to do anything but listen for the most minute sound. When I felt the tingling onset of a sneeze, I clamped my nose between my thumb and forefinger and breathed carefully through my mouth. Something tickled my ankle. I told myself it was a leaf.

After ten minutes or so, a muscle in my calf began to quiver, warning me that a cramp was imminent if I didn't move. I stood up and wiped primordial ooze off my eyelashes and forehead. The road was to my right. Roy could be anywhere, but there was no future in freezing under a thicket. I kept a goodly distance between myself and the grove as I skulked from tree to tree like a spy in a cartoon.

When I arrived at the edge of the pasture, I could see the van where I'd parked it. Regrettably, this implied they were still in the vicinity. Loping like a hound, I made it to the road and squatted behind the scanty cover of a fence post. The van appeared to be empty. No one emerged from the woods behind me. I caught my breath, counted to ten, and then ran across the expanse of muddy ruts and flung myself into the stubble. I raised my head and peered over my shoulder, but the pasture remained a placid sea of weeds.

The stubble, on the other hand, was jabbing me most rudely in places never intended to be jabbed. Rather than make my way down the road, I decided to head for Nicholas's house. I could break another window if necessary, make a terse telephone call, and then hide in the garden until a patrol car came racing up the driveway. This would be one 911 call that required no rehearsal.

I took one final look at the woods, then ran toward the house, staying as low as I could and taking an impressive number of belly dives as I stepped in holes and caught my foot on obdurate vines. I was beginning to feel a bit optimistic when the headlights of the van came on and illuminated the pasture. I flattened myself and uttered a choice word.

After a moment, I looked back and saw a figure silhouetted against the headlights. Roy was halfway across the pasture and coming toward me. I couldn't see the gun, but it did not seem prudent to linger. I scrambled to my feet and ran toward the poplars delineating the driveway, fully expecting to feel an explosive pain in the middle of my back.

I arrived in the forecourt and paused. Roy would hear the breaking of glass and be inside the house before I could find the telephone in the dark. He would be less than empathetic. A bullet hit the front of the house, reminding me that I was unnecessarily exposed. The doors of the carriage house were ajar. I slipped inside and peered through the crack.

This time I could see the gun in his right hand as he came into the middle of the forecourt. He peered at the house, his head tilted as he listened for the sound of my footsteps. I edged backward and promptly bumped into the hearse. I remembered the storage room on one side, but it was very much a cobweb-festooned dead end.

The windows of the hearse had been down when I'd last looked inside it for Roy, and they still were. I slithered into it and crouched on the seat, praying the police had not removed the key from the ignition switch. My heart quickened as I felt it.

I eased into position in front of the steering wheel and located the pedals on the floorboard. Hoping Roy was the sort to keep his vehicle tuned and with adequate fuel, I switched on the engine. It began to purr most endearingly. My only chance to get it into reverse was to turn on the lights, and after a moment of fumbling, I yanked the right knob. The door behind me squealed as it was dragged open. I could see Roy's face in the red glare of the taillights.

I shifted it into reverse and jammed down the accelerator. Roy tried to leap out of the way, but he was only partially successful and went flying into the air, his arms flailing and the gun sailing into the darkness. I leapt out of the hearse. Roy lay a good ten feet away from the point of impact. Blood dribbled out of the corners of his mouth, indicative of internal injuries. I knelt and listened to his laborious breathing.

“Sorry about that,” I murmured, then opened the back doors of the hearse. “Let me give you a lift back to town, Roy. It's the least I can do.”

“Would you rather have coffee?” Jorgeson asked as he handed me a can of soda from the machine in the emergency room. “The cafeteria's closed, but we can find a pot somewhere.”

“I don't want anything,” I said, exploring scratches and abrasions on my heretofore flawless face. It was well past midnight, and Jorgeson and I were the only people in the room. He was in need of a shave; I suspected I looked as though I was the loser in a mud-wrestling competition. I'd called Caron and made sure she was home; she'd been grudgingly pleased to hear from me. “What about Morning Rose? Have you found her?”

“Let me check.” He went to the pay phone and had a muted conversation. When he returned, he said, “She called in a few minutes ago and demanded that we send dogs and a helicopter with searchlights to the woods to rescue you. The dispatcher assured her that everything was under control.”

“I wish it were,” I muttered.

Jorgeson overlooked my petulance. “What exactly did the staff say when you pulled up at the entrance in a hearse?”

“I told them the body was in the back. They were hesitant to open the doors until I'd explained that I wasn't looking for the morgue. A sense of humor does not appear to be a prerequisite for employment.”

His lips twitched momentarily, but he was too tired to produce a smile. “Okay, Mrs. Malloy, I have a reasonably clear idea of what happened. An officer will stay with Roy until we figure out what to do with him.”

“Both of them may need demonproof vests. Can you assign an officer to Malthea's room, just to be on the safe side?”

“I've already done it. There's no reason for you to stay here any longer. I'll have someone drive you home. You'd better see if Caron can handle the bookstore tomorrow, because it's going to take a long time to get your statement. The prosecutor may decide to sit in on it. That means the media won't be far behind.”

“They might have a better story if Roy truly were certifiable, but he's not. It's an act, Jorgeson. He's convinced that he'll be tried as a juvenile, incarcerated until he's eighteen or, at worst, twenty-one, and then be released. Presuming his father can afford it, an expert will testify about diminished responsibility and the effects of long-term abuse. Roy'll get a slap on the wrist. What he deserves is an Oscar.”

“Best actor in a bad movie?”

“And the Oscar for best director should go to Morning Rose Sawyer. She was using him to reenact some Wiccan mythology involving the sacred marriage between the Mother Goddess and the Horned God, whatever that is. The sexual undertones have been obvious all along. Considering her track record, one shudders to think what might have resulted from this union.” I disengaged a leaf from my hair and dropped it in a trash receptacle. “Sullivan suspected something, which is why he followed her. Nicholas must have seen her entering and leaving the carriage house late at night and realized what was happening. He was going to expose them before he went to Wales.”

“Roy's only sixteen,” Jorgeson said, grimacing. “She's thirty-four. That's sexual misconduct, or maybe even violation of a minor, a felony, if the prosecutor can show she was acting as a temporary guardian when the affair started. I can't see her going to prison because of it, though. He's twice her size and could buy liquor without being carded. A fragile boy he's not.”

“She could hardly have consulted a lawyer, and she must have read about some recent cases in which the older woman received a substantial prison term. She had to worry about her husband, too. If he believed whatever evidence Nicholas had, he'd divorce her and get custody of the children. If you were a judge confronted with a diligent graduate student and a self-admitted witch who frolics naked in the backyard and seduced a teenage boy, what would you do?”

“So she encouraged Roy to kill Nicholas Chunder?”

I put down the can of soda. “Nicholas said something to them before the party, then went so far as to call Sullivan and repeat it. Morning Rose must have thought her only way to avoid prosecution and divorce would be if Roy killed Nicholas and, if necessary, confessed. When the burglary theory didn't hold up, and then the homosexual advances theory fell apart, they moved right along to the next one. You have to give them credit for flexibility.”

Jorgeson picked up the soda I'd rejected and took a swallow. “But it required Malthea's cooperation. How could they know she wouldn't deny it? There was no way they could prove these ludicrous accusations.”

“You'll have to ask them,” I said with a yawn. “I'm not accustomed to being chased by a demon, Jorgeson. I need to bathe, dab cream on my cuts, take two aspirin, and go to bed. I'll call you in the morning.”

 

“What were you babbling about last night?” demanded Caron as I hobbled into the kitchen the next morning. “Considering how awful you look, it's no surprise you were at the hospital. Shouldn't they have kept you for observation pending cosmetic surgery?”

I gave her a hooded look and poured a glass of orange juice. “Mr. Mortician decided to live up to his nickname, and did his best to let me be his first customer.”

“Roy Tate? What were you doing with him?”

I told her what had happened. When she stopped sputtering indignantly (and swiping at a tear or two, although she will never admit it), I added, “It's over now. They got swept up into something that made them feel omnipotent and exotic—or maybe they were looking for an excuse to behave badly. If you must join a cult, dear, please let it be nothing more nefarious than a sorority. I'll have you kidnapped and deprogrammed in no time.”

“Very funny,” she said. “Are you sure you're okay?”

“I did damage to some muscles I didn't know I had, but I'll be fine in a day or two. Tonight's Christmas Eve. I absolutely have to stop downstairs and have a cup of cheer, and then I suppose I'll go to Luanne's party. You don't have to come along, but we will be having dinner there tomorrow afternoon.”

“What time are you going downstairs?”

“Seven,” I said, eyeing her suspiciously. My social agenda is rarely of any importance in her overall scheme of the universe; the only time she inquires is when she's scheming to get the car. “Why?”

“No reason.”

Although I knew it was futile, I waited for a moment in case she chose to be more forthcoming. She did not. I told her she'd have to open the Book Depot and stay there until I'd finished at the police department, and then compounded the crime by telling her she might be stuck most of the day.

Caron goggled at me as if I'd revealed a secret hankering to take up skydiving. “But I have important things to do. I haven't finished shopping. I just know Inez is going to get me this pair of earrings I found out at the mall, and that means I have to give her this dorky scarf that makes her look like she's being throttled by a paisley boa constrictor. And I haven't found anything decent for Luanne. I think she may give me this nifty beaded purse. I can't just give her a coupon to rent a video.”

“I'm charmed by this display of selfless generosity,” I said as I put on my coat. “Shall we go? I'd like to get this over with.”

“I suppose.”

She rolled her eyes and sighed all the way to the car, but restrained herself from attempting to convince me that shopping had priority over making a statement at the police department. An atypical display of maturity on her part.

“So,” I said, frowning as I noticed how little gas was in the tank, “what did you and Ed find to talk about last night?”

“Nothing. I took him to the shelter and dropped him off, then went to Carrie's for a few minutes. She has this really cool computer.”

And I could hire eight tiny reindeer to pull the car to the gas station when I ran out of gas. “You must have had a reason for wanting to talk to him. You left him a note, after all.” I paused to consider an earlier remark. “How could you have done that without knowing his name?”

Caron turned her head to look out the window. “He must have mentioned it. I just wanted to ask him a couple of questions—okay? We did not bond. The only thing we have in common is that we were both fired by a woman with plutonium implants. How long is this statement going to take?”

I dropped her off and continued to the police station. Jorgeson managed a wan smile as I came into his office. “We've got to start keeping regular office hours, Mrs. Malloy. My wife is so mad that she's threatening to book a Caribbean cruise. What am I supposed to do for three days while she throws up in the sink? Play shuffleboard with pink-haired ladies from Miami?”

“Is Morning Rose in custody?” I asked.

“Yes, and we're making some headway with the computer files. Chunder recorded every last detail, from what he spent on postage stamps to when he last spoke to his accountant. I won't be surprised if he kept notes about when he saw Morning Rose sneaking into the carriage house for late-night sessions. Last month he made a long-distance call to a seedy motel in Missouri, and not because he wanted a reservation. Someone there should remember them. It'll take a few days to reconstruct the evidence, but we will.”

“How's Sullivan taking it?”

“He is not a happy man. He's admitted he thought there might be something going on between the two of them, and that's the real reason he made Roy move out of the house. He told Chunder that his wife was just being supportive, but he knew she wasn't always in the backyard like she said she was. Corporal Billsby is not a happy man, either. We left him at the house with the two children. He's already called twice to beg for relief, but I think it'll be good for him. A young man like that can stand to build some character.”

“And Roy?” I said, waving off a uniformed officer who was headed toward me with a cup of coffee.

Jorgeson rocked back in his chair. “He has a couple of broken ribs, a ruptured spleen, and a lot of bruises. When he's ready to be transferred back up to the psych ward, he'll remain under full security. The shrinks will wear him down eventually, and he and Morning Rose will be slathering the blame on each other like whipped cream on pumpkin pie.” He took a couple of antacid tablets from a roll and offered it to me, but I shook my head. “Gilda seems to have packed up and left town. The manager at the trailer park thought he saw candlelight in her trailer late last night, but he was entertaining a widow. They were doing the lambada and he didn't want to lose the beat.”

I imagined Gilda on her bicycle, a suitcase strapped on the back, her coattails flapping in the wind as she pedaled down the road in search of yet another hospital in need of her services. “What will you do about her?”

“We'll find her,” he said flatly. “Now, Mrs. Malloy, we need your statement so you can get out of here. I hope the lieutenant doesn't blame this whole thing on me. That first morning I should have sent you home instead of asking for your help. You came damn close to getting yourself killed.”

“I did no such thing,” I replied tartly.

“Whatever you say.”

“And the lieutenant has no one else but himself to blame for this. If he hadn't goaded me into doing something uncharacteristic, none of this would have happened. I hope you will make that clear when you speak to him.”

He gave me the same sad look he'd given me when I'd blurted out my woes. “If he calls, I'll do my best.”

I spent the next three hours relating the events of the previous evening, struggling to repeat verbatim conversations with Fern, Gilda, Sullivan, Morning Rose, and most painfully, Roy. Yes, he'd said he was going to shoot me. No, he hadn't said he was going to kill me, but his intent was hard to miss. No, Morning Rose hadn't admitted any collusion, but the headlights on the van had come on when Roy was already in the pasture. She'd driven away while I was loading Roy into the hearse.

By the time I was finished, my face felt as if it were caked with clay. My eyes were gritty, my tongue fuzzy with exhaustion. I declined Jorgeson's final offer of coffee and put on my coat.

He walked me to the front door, raised his hand as if to pat my shoulder, then thought better of it. “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Malloy,” he murmured.

“You, too.” I went to my car and sat for a long while, overwhelmed by the sheer nastiness of the crime. The only one of the Druids who'd behaved honorably was Nicholas Chunder, and he was dead. He'd been partially responsible, of course; he'd hoarded his information instead of simply informing the appropriate authorities. I hoped he'd enjoyed his final opportunity to flaunt his power over the members of the Sacred Grove of Keltria. It certainly hadn't ended well for him.

Caron would be chewing her fingernails by now, but I wasn't ready to spend the rest of the afternoon brooding over unanswered questions. I drove to the hospital, went through the conventional entrance, and asked a volunteer behind a computer for the number of Malthea's room.

The woman, seventyish and as petite and perky as any of Santa's elves, punched buttons, then beamed at me. “She went home this morning. I hate the idea of anyone spending Christmas in a hospital, don't you? Carolers come by, and the auxiliary decorates the nursing stations and puts candy-cane reindeers on the meal trays, but it's just not the same as being surrounded with family members and close friends.”

I read her name tag and reciprocated with a warm smile. “May I use your telephone, Bea?”

“Normally, it's not allowed, but since it's so close to Christmas…” She looked as though she sincerely believed there was a manger in the nursery and shepherds keeping watch over their flocks in the parking lot. “Go ahead.”

I called Jorgeson. “Do you know that Malthea left the hospital?”

“The officer assigned to her door called in a few minutes ago. She persuaded him to go down to the cafeteria to get her a cup of hot chocolate. Someone from housekeeping had just shown up to clean her room, so he figured she'd be okay for ten minutes or so. When he returned, her clothes were still there. He alerted hospital security, and they wasted an hour doing a floor-by-floor search for an elderly woman in a robe and slippers. I've sent a patrol car to her apartment to pick her up.”