“Oh, I see,” I said, feigning ignorance. “I just heard it was an eagle. Michael and I were out of town then.”
“Yes, a bald eagle. Only eagle we usually get in Virginia. And everyone knew Doleson had smashed that eagle’s nest, but he was too sneaky to leave any evidence. Not that Chief Burke didn’t do his best.”
“No wonder all the SPOOR people were so upset,” I said. “I’m surprised Dad didn’t tell me about it.”
“I think your father felt that what happened was his fault,”
Randall said. “Since he was president of SPOOR when Doleson did it. Which is nonsense—no one blames your father at all. Not much you can do when you’ve got a sneaky, mean bas—er, scoundrel like Doleson.”
Randall still seemed quite worked up about the eagle, even four or five months after the event. Worked up enough to take revenge? I had a hard time believing it. But then, I had a hard time believing Clarence could be involved, either. And I remembered what the chief had said about the killer’s height—at least six foot two. Like Clarence, Randall was tall enough to have staked Doleson.
“So yes, I was mad at him,” Randall was saying. “And since he was still trying to cause me trouble over punching him, I guess you could say I had a double motive. That what you’re asking—whether I could have killed him?”
“Or whether you know anyone who might have?”
“Lot of high words down at the American Legion hall after the bald eagle incident. But not a lot of people mad enough—or stupid enough—to actually do anything.”
“Of course, if you’re thinking of killing someone, you wouldn’t necessarily run around making threats first,” I said. “Makes it so much easier for the police.”
“True,” he said, with a slight nod, as if conceding a point. “Still—there was some talk of boycotting Doleson’s businesses, but hardly anyone rents storage units from him anymore, and it’s not as if the poor souls living at the Pines have anywhere else to go, so that died down. Most anyone did was get up a petition to get him kicked out of the Santa job, and you can see how much notice the Town Council paid to that.”
“It still seems incredible that the Town Council made him Santa,” I said. “Do you think he had something on one of them?”
“You mean, was he blackmailing them?” Randall tilted his head as he considered the idea. “It’s a thought. If the chief ever finds Doleson’s files, maybe we’ll find out.”
“Ever finds the files—you mean they weren’t at the Spare Attic?”
Randall shook his head.
“One of my cousins is a deputy,” he said. “He’s back out there tonight, searching the Attic and the Pines, top to bottom. And no luck. So either Doleson didn’t have files or he kept them someplace they haven’t found yet, or someone got out to the Attic before the police did.”
“And before Caroline and Clarence did,” I added.
He nodded.
“So who do you think killed Doleson?” I asked.
Randall tipped his chair back and folded his arms behind his head as he considered the question.
“Plenty of people mad enough,” he said. “But it’s hard to think of anyone mean enough to do it at Christmas, and risk spoiling the parade like that. Still—the Lord moves in mysterious ways, and if He was moved to call Ralph Doleson home at what might seem to us an odd and inconvenient moment—well, I’m not going to complain.”
In other words, good riddance to bad rubbish. I wondered what he meant by Doleson still trying to cause him trouble. Legal trouble, perhaps? I was searching for a tactful way to ask when Randall spoke up again.
“I don’t know who killed him,” he said. “But I’ll tell you who didn’t do it.”
“Who’s that?”
“Norris Pruitt, that’s who. There’s no love lost between me and any of the Pruitts, you understand. But Norris? He has the height, yes, and the strength, but he sure as hell doesn’t have the gumption. Or the cunning to cover it up even as well as the killer did. And you can tell Chief Burke I said so.”
“It’s not as if he listens to me,” I said. “And after all, the chief knows Ralph Doleson wasn’t exactly well liked in Caerphilly.”
“ ‘Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone!’ ” Randall and I both started as Michael stepped into the kitchen, declaiming from memory, but carrying the script behind his back.
“ ‘A squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner!’ ” Michael went on. “ ‘Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster.’ ”