Chapter 21
I knocked on the dining room door.
“Yes?”
The chief sounded tired and cranky. I didn’t blame him. I peeked in.
“They haven’t found a chain saw,” I said. “So we’re making up beds for everyone.”
He nodded.
“I’m putting you in Rob’s room,” I said. “It’s the most comfy, aside from the official guest room, which we thought Caroline should have.”
A faint smile.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” I asked.
He nodded again and leaned back, looking more tired than wary. I came in and closed the door.
“I can tell you what you’re going to find when you finish inventorying the contents of Norris Pruitt’s storage bin,” I said.
“Not another body, I hope.” He sat upright again and suddenly looked much more awake.
“No, of course not,” I exclaimed. “Only a whole bunch of bright baubles that don’t belong to Norris, and would have been returned to their rightful owners if Caroline and Clarence had gotten away with their burglary. Norris is a magpie.”
“A chronic shoplifter, you mean?”
“A kleptomaniac, I imagine. And one of Ralph Doleson’s blackmail victims. You did know he was a blackmailer, right?”
“Well, I do now,” he said. “I don’t suppose you know any more of his victims?”
“Not yet,” I said. “I mean, I heard rumors, but—”
I decided to shut up and hope he hadn’t noticed the “not yet.” He sighed, but didn’t give me his usual lecture about not interfering with police business. That alone proved he was exhausted.
I thought of steering him toward Jorge, but decided against it. After all, the chief was investigating all the residents of the Whispering Pines. He’d have talked to Jorge already. And if Jorge turned out to be innocent, he wouldn’t appreciate my singling him out. He seemed paranoid—perhaps justifiably so—about coming to the attention of law enforcement. Maybe I’d have a word with Jorge privately, urging him to tell what he knew about Doleson’s blackmailing operations.
Then again—Jorge was looking more like a suspect all the time. Maybe I didn’t want to have too private a word with him. Not until Horace had had time to test that discarded sweatshirt.
I’d worry about all that later.
“You’ll probably find the photos or documents or whatever he uses to blackmail people with when you finish searching the Pines and the Spare Attic,” I said aloud.
“Pretty broad area to search,” the chief said. “You got any more specific suggestions?”
“They say Doleson has a large and very private bin at the Attic,” I said.
“With a big old padlock on it. We’ll be looking into that. Of course, we have to deal with Mrs. Willner and Mr. Rutledge first. At least now I understand why they both tried to confess to the murder.”
“They didn’t,” I said, with a wince.
“Separately.”
“I thought Clarence wasn’t talking,”
“This was in the heat of the moment, when we apprehended them. Now, he’s keeping his mouth shut, except to say that as soon as his lawyer is available, he’ll confess everything he knows about today’s events, and not to listen to a thing Caroline says, because she’ll just try to cover for him.”
“If you ever arrest me, that won’t be my definition of not talking.”
“And Caroline keeps saying it was all her idea, and we shouldn’t blame poor Clarence. Not that either one of them makes that plausible a suspect. Caroline’s too short, and Clarence too well al-ibied. Thanks to those fool amateur videographers, we can prove he was giving the tourists elephant rides during the whole window of opportunity. But this puts a new light on it.”
“It does?” My stomach tightened. I’d thought I was helping get Caroline and Clarence out of trouble. Was my attempt going to backfire?
“They could both be covering for Norris Pruitt,” the chief said. “Which could make them accessories after the fact.”
“If Norris is guilty,” I said. “You haven’t even talked to him yet—he could have an ironclad alibi.”
“We’ve already talked to him,” the chief said. “He was one of your blasted parade geese. One of the ones who’s tall enough—I suppose your father told you what he and Horace figured out from the stake’s angle of entry.”
Dad hadn’t, but only because I hadn’t talked to him since the parade began.
“Exactly how tall did they decide the killer has to be, anyway?” I asked.
“At least six feet two. That narrows our suspect list down a bit.”