A Holly, Jolly Murder (14 page)

“So I've heard,” I murmured, “What were they looking for, Jorgeson? No one could expect to find clues scattered about after your team went over the scene.”

“No one in his or her right mind, anyway. The guy with the shiny cap would fit right in with this group.”

“Thanks for the soda,” I said as I stood up. “I guess I'd better find Fern and make sure she's not driving the ICU staff crazy.” I took the elevator to the appropriate floor and followed stenciled arrows to the glass doors of the unit. A sign sternly forbade unauthorized visitors.

That being precisely what I was, I went into the waiting room across the hall. Fern was perched on the edge of a chair, her face grim with either concern or disapproval of the two androgynous teenagers sprawled across a couch in a corner. The latter was more likely, since they had nose rings and creatively styled purple hair.

I touched Fern's arm. “Have you spoken to anyone?”

“Only long enough to be told I'm not allowed to see Malthea. I'm of a mind to report that woman to her supervisor. Impertinence should not be tolerated.”

“Give 'em hell, granny,” said one of the teenagers. The other brayed in appreciation.

I stepped in front of Fern before she could launch an attack, verbal or otherwise. “Is she still unconscious?”

“They said that I would be informed of any changes in her condition. I couldn't tell which cubicle she's in or what sort of attention she's receiving. I really should be permitted to sit by her bed. She'll be frightened if she wakes up in a strange room and finds herself clad only in a flimsy gown. There are moments I wish I could cast an effective spell—or a curse that would teach that nurse a thing or two.”

I sensed the stirring interest of the pair of eggplant heads in the corner. “There's a coffee machine by the elevator,” I said. “I think you'll find a hot drink comforting.”

“I only drink decaf after ten o'clock in the morning.”

“There will be decaf,” I said, tugging at her arm. “Afterward, I'll try to get information from the nurse.”

Fern allowed me to guide her to the vending machines. I punched a button, waited while a stream of brown liquid dribbled into the cup, and then thrust it at Fern's trembling hand.

She stared at it. “I can't drink this. It's liable to upset my stomach.”

I put the cup on top of the machine. “I can see how worried you are. Have you and Malthea been friends for a long time?”

“We met while we were in college. We both planned to teach secondary English, but my fiancé returned from Germany and wanted to get married immediately. He stayed in the army for the next fifteen years, and was stationed everywhere from Omaha to Manila. It was hard to remain in touch, but Malthea and I did our best with greeting cards and letters.”

“What did she do?”

“Taught, of course. How else could she have supported herself?”

“She never married?”

“At one time, she was engaged, but the wedding did not take place. That's all I shall say concerning the matter.”

I noted the rigidity of her expression and abandoned the intriguing topic. “How long has she lived in Farberville?”

“Twelve, perhaps thirteen years. She bought a small house and did volunteer work to keep herself busy. We rarely saw each other while my husband was alive. He was a deacon in the Baptist church and disapproved of her eccentricities. When he passed away, Malthea urged me to consider Druidism as an alternative to the orthodox traditions I'd followed since childhood. I attended a ritual and met Nicholas, who offered me economical housing and loaned me money from time to time until I straightened out my financial affairs. He went so far as to help with the paperwork that was required for me to receive a widow's pension from the military. How could he have been so compassionate back then, and so cruel the evening before the solstice?”

I wasn't sure how much further I could go without reducing her to tears, but anxiety had made her garrulous and I was not above taking advantage of it. Amateur sleuths cannot be slaves to scrupulosity. “Can you tell me exactly what happened that evening? Were you and Malthea among the first or the last to arrive?”

“Let me think,” she said. “I do my best to be prompt, but we were a bit late because Malthea was so dithery. First, she forgot her sweater and had to go back inside. Nicholas's house can be drafty this time of year. We were all set to start off, and then she remembered a sack of holly she'd left in her kitchen. I was so annoyed that I refused to speak to her until we got there.”

“The others were already there, then?”

“Roy and Morning Rose were in the living room, acting as though they were at a funeral. While we were hanging up our coats, Nicholas and Gilda came out of the study. When I later asked her what they'd been discussing that had so distressed her, she mumbled something about needing to find another place to live. In my day, we were taught to speak clearly.”

I did a mental review of the roster. “What about Sullivan?”

“He was a full half hour late. Apparently there'd been a problem with the children, and Morning Rose insisted that he put them to bed by himself. I believe she walked to Primrose Hill. She must have regretted her decision, because she seemed very unhappy.”

“It must have been a tense evening,” I prompted her.

“Oh, it was that. My annoyance with Malthea soon spread to all the members of the grove. Everyone seemed sullen and disinclined to participate. I had to speak sharply to Roy when he failed to fetch a step-ladder at my request. Morning Rose and Sullivan had a whispered argument in the kitchen, and when they came back into the room, her eyes were red. Nicholas spent most of the evening in a chair by the fireplace, watching us as though we had designs on his knickknacks. I was deeply offended by his implicit accusation.”

I spotted the teenagers sauntering down the hall toward us and nudged her around the corner and into a storage room filled with odoriferous cleaning supplies. “Did something specific happen that caused him to make his unexpected announcement?”

Fern clutched her purse on the off chance I was about to mug her with an ammonia bottle. “We'd finished putting up the decorations, and were seated around the fire, drinking that dreadful beverage Nicholas insisted on serving. Malthea did her best to lead us in song, but even I was infected with their gloom. I was about to suggest we leave when Gilda stood up and said that she intended to perform the solstice ritual as she pleased. As she
damn
well pleased is what she actually said. Nicholas came close to spilling his tankard. He began sputtering, but she told him that it didn't matter if she was kicked out of the grove since this would be her final celebration. Morning Rose laughed bitterly and said she might as well join Gilda. Sullivan grabbed her arm, and then Roy grabbed
his
arm, and the two began to grapple. That was when Nicholas exploded with rage. It was quite terrible.”

“Why did Gilda say it would be her final celebration?” I demanded, my fingers crossed that the teenagers would not find us and make remarks that would send Fern off on a tangential tirade.

“I don't know. Shouldn't you find out about Malthea?”

“I'll try,” I said. We went back to the doors of the ICU and waited until we were noticed.

The nurse who opened the door did not seem pleased to see Fern behind me. “I've already told you that I cannot discuss the patient's condition. That is the attending physician's prerogative.”

“Not even with the patient's sister?” I said, hoping Fern was paying attention.

“She didn't say that earlier.”

I tried to sound moderately smug. “Did you ask her?”

“She should have said so.”

Fern cleared her throat, and in a voice well suited to a displeased schoolteacher, said, “You should have asked me. I was too distraught to respond to your coldhearted refusal to allow me to sit beside my only sister. If she should the before I have an opportunity to hold her hand and reminisce about how we used to make daisy chains in the meadow on summer afternoons, I may contact our youngest brother. He's an attorney.”

The nurse paled, then invited Fern to accompany her into a curtained cubicle. I considered tagging along, then decided not to complicate the ruse and returned to the waiting room. I was relieved to have it to myself.

At least I had a better picture of what had taken place between seven and nine o'clock on the evening of the murder, I thought as I tried to make myself comfortable on the plastic upholstery. Gilda's threat to turn up wearing nothing but an amulet may have triggered Nicholas's outburst, but he'd already listed his property with a real estate agency and contacted a similar agency in Wales. It seemed likely that he'd planned to delay his announcement until after the solstice celebration for the same reason one doesn't tell children about an imminent divorce on Christmas Eve.

But according to Fern, the Druids were already upset when she and Malthea arrived. Roy and Morning Rose had been brooding in the living room, and Gilda had heard something not to her liking in the study. Sullivan had argued with his wife. The host himself had been less than genial.

And why hadn't Malthea denied Roy's ridiculous accusation? She could have been so taken aback that she was momentarily speechless, but I'd practically begged her in the grove hours later. Morning Rose had seemed convinced that Roy had blindly obeyed Malthea's command to kill Nicholas. I wasn't.

I was not likely to find a listing for Sisters of Illumination in the telephone directory so that I could inquire into their membership role and annual observances. Surely law-enforcement agencies would have heard rumors if sacrifices, human or otherwise, were being performed in the area. There had been one such case concerning cattle mutilations in the county, attributed to almond-eyed alien vivisectionists, but the ensuing investigation had determined that a pack of feral dogs had been responsible.

I was still juggling ideas when a woman in baggy blue scrubs and plastic slippers came into the waiting room. Her hair was hidden under the sort of cap favored by surgical teams, but her sallow complexion could not be so easily disguised.

“Gilda?” I said. “What are you doing here?”

“It's as good a place as any. I'm waiting for someone I know to get off duty so he can give me a ride out to the trailer park. I'd be conspicuous dressed like this if I was walking down the road, but here I'm invisible. I was hanging around the emergency room when Malthea was wheeled in. What happened to her?”

I tried not to stare at the discreet bandages on her wrists. “She was attacked in Nicholas's study. Patrolmen noticed a light and investigated. Otherwise, she might have lain there for several days.”

“What was she doing there?”

“The same thing you were,” I said, “although you and she may have been looking for different things. What were you hoping to find?”

“Money,” she said quickly. “He was a real miser, so I figured he'd have a lockbox in a desk drawer. If I'd known they had the house staked out because of Roy, I wouldn't have tried it.”

“And that's why you wanted to talk to me the other evening? You wanted to ask me if I could suggest the most likely places to find a hypothetical lockbox? Then, after you'd been arrested, you thought my nonexistent license to practice law would facilitate your release? When I failed to bail you out, you attempted suicide? At the worst you would have been charged with criminal trespass, since you never made it into the house. I don't buy this, Gilda.”

She sat down on the couch vacated by the teenagers, pulled off the cloth cap, and placed it carefully on the armrest. “You seemed like such good buddies with the cops that I thought you could tell me what was going on. It's only been three hundred years since the Salem witch trials. Wicca is something entirely different, but we're still lumped in with medieval practitioners with their black cats and evil eyes.”

“Three hundred years is not the same as last summer,” I said. “The Puritans are no longer monopolizing the city council and the school board, and no one except a lifeguard cares if you float or sink. You're not stupid enough to break into Nicholas's house for money. What did he have?”

She went to the doorway and stuck her head out, then sat down next to me. “Will you promise not to tell anyone?”

“I can't do that, Gilda. It's against the law to withhold evidence, and in any case, I'm not going to do anything that will muddy the waters. Did Roy tell you that he confessed?”

“Twice, he said,” she said with a momentary smile. “Yes, we talked in the dayroom tins morning. He killed Nicholas, Mrs. Malloy. He's ashamed of it, but he did it and he's willing to accept his punishment.”

“Not so eager that he didn't escape this afternoon,” I pointed out.

“There are things he must do before he turns himself in again,” she said somberly. “He must conduct a final ritual in an attempt to protect himself from Ambesek. If it doesn't work, his body will never be found.”

“Would you people stop this!” I waited until I'd simmered down, but whiffs of steam may have still been drifting out of my ears. “This is nothing but self-indulgent nonsense. Oh, I'm sure everyone who works here has heard rumors of your Wiccan practices, and therefore thinks you're terribly romantic. Salem witch trials? Ambesek? Demon-repellant rituals? Buy him a can of Raid and give me a break!”

“You're a skeptic,” she said, pronouncing judgment from her plastic-covered bench.

“You can bet the farm on it. Now either tell me why you insisted on speaking to me, or see how far you can get after I call hospital security. Odds are not good that you can make it to an exit, but you may know of a door in the basement. Cast a spell and make yourself invisible. I don't care. A week ago I was minding my own business, and now I'm embroiled with a gang of delusional pagans. The man I care about is snuggled up in front of a fire with his ex–significant other. I'm being sued for a million dollars. My daughter's off committing a felony. Malthea's in ICU, Nicholas is in the morgue, Roy's in battle with a demon, and the best you can do is label me a skeptic?”