“True,” I said. “It wouldn’t be in the stuff they seized from Norris’s bin; Doleson was holding that hostage for several months. But unless Norris has undergone a miraculous transformation, he’s probably filching things and stashing them somewhere.”
Michael nodded. He slid the last of the bacon into a covered dish and turned the camping stove off.
“That should do it,” he said. “Werzel just went outside—maybe I should keep an eye on him.”
“Or maybe just tell him now that the road’s open he should hit it?” I suggested.
“Never wise to antagonize the press,” he said. He topped off his coffee cup, put on his heavy jacket, and went outside.
The idea that Norris might have filched Werzel’s camera cheered me no end. Odds were that by the time Werzel got his camera back, the parade, if not the murder, would be old news and whatever embarrassing or unflattering photos the camera contained would never see the light of day, much less the Style section of the Trib. Still—perhaps I should ask Clarence and Caroline, if they found it first, to give me a few minutes alone with its delete button.
If Clarence was still outside, maybe I could have a private word with him. I threw on my own wraps and went outside myself. I was still standing on the back porch, adjusting to the cold and looking around for Clarence, when I heard Michael’s voice.
“This is Ernest,” Michael was saying. “Our first llama.”
First llama? I’d been referring to him as “the” llama. And while I had to admit he wasn’t much trouble—far less than most human visitors—I wasn’t ready for an entire herd of Ernests and Ernesti-nas grazing in our tiny pasture. Though I feared Michael was.
I started to say so and stopped. Not a discussion I wanted to have in public, and especially not in front of a reporter. But I made a mental note that we needed to have that discussion soon. Meanwhile, I crunched through the snow to the pasture. Michael was leaning against the fence, gazing proudly at Ernest. Werzel looked grumpy, so I assumed he’d seen the “contributed to” credit. And he obviously wasn’t enjoying Michael’s discourse on the joys of llama ownership.
“Right, right,” he said. “So what can you tell me about this Doleson guy?”
Michael and I both immediately put on appropriately somber, regretful expressions. Michael, of course, was the better actor, but I’d had plenty of experience behaving properly at funerals of relatives I’d hardly met—and a few I’d met and heartily wished I hadn’t.
“A terribly sad business,” Michael said, shaking his head. I shook mine too, in solidarity.
“Sad?” Werzel said. “Who are you kidding? From what I hear, he was the biggest louse in town. If you liked him, you must be the only two who did.”
“I didn’t know him very well,” I said.
“But any man’s death diminishes me,” Michael intoned.
“Dickens?” I asked. “Not A Christmas Carol, I know that.”
“Donne,” Michael said.
“Oh, right.”
“Done what?” Werzel asked.
“John Donne,” Michael said. “Seventeenth-century poet. ‘No man is an island’?”
“Oh, I get it,” Werzel said, though from his expression I didn’t think he did. “Getting back to Doleson—”
“Look, if you’re trying to get us to say something snarky about the dead guy, forget it,” I said. “We didn’t know him very well, but we can still feel sad about someone dying in such a horrible way at a season when people are thinking about holiday celebrations, not funerals.”
Michael nodded solemnly. Werzel looked back and forth between us for a few seconds.
“Right,” he said. “I’m going to see what the chief is up to.”
Chapter 24
Michael and I both breathed a sigh of relief.
“I’m going to rehearse,” he said. “I can’t do it in the barn with Chief Burke and his men, so I guess I’ll stay out here.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said. “The cold air’s not good for your voice. Rehearse in the house. I’m used to it, and our house guests will just have to deal.”
“I’ll probably drive them all out again,” he said.
“You make that sound like a bad thing.”
Michael did go to the other end of the house, where he could really cut loose and declaim at full volume. Very soon everyone else found it important to be out in the barn or back in town. I never got the chance to ask Clarence or Caroline about the camera.
Our land line wasn’t working yet, but I checked in with a few people while my cell phone still had signal. Our Virgin Mary had given birth to a nine-pound baby girl, to be named Noel Grace. Dad got rave reviews on all sides for his performance as Santa. All the parade participants had made it safely home, except for the animals, who were warm and snug at the college barn. But I failed miserably in my subtle attempts to gather information about Doleson. Did people really know that little about him? Or were they just unwilling to share what they knew? I finally abandoned all subtlety and called several of the worst gossips in town, with no luck. Either no one had any dirt on him or they weren’t going to share it within the remaining useful life of my cell phone battery. The signal was getting fuzzy anyway, so I gave up.