“About the murder,” I repeated. “I see.”
Since, as far as I remembered, Rose Noir hadn’t been anywhere near the barn on Saturday, I had a hard time imagining that she could know anything useful. Had she overheard something? Perhaps two cops chatting about the case while waiting in line for Sno-Cones? Seemed unlikely. Still, you never knew.
“I should have warned everyone yesterday morning that something bad would happen,” she said. “I heard an owl hoot Friday night.”
“We have a whole nest of them in the barn,” I said.
“An owl’s hoot is always a dire omen.”
“What happened to the sacred owl, beloved of Athena, protector of warriors?” I asked.
“And it all goes back to feng shui,” she continued, ignoring what I thought was a very reasonable question. “I know in the long run your yard sale should have a very positive effect on the feng shui of your house. Though all those years of being packed with unwanted clutter probably left a lot of negative energy behind. I should probably do a house cleansing before you move in.”
“Mmm,” I said, noncommittally, while I tried to think of a tactful way of asking if a house cleansing merely involved waving around a lot of incense or if it included any actual scrubbing, and if the latter, whether she did windows.
“But, of course, in the short term having a yard sale, especially one so huge, means that you’ve gathered an immense amount of unwanted clutter here in one spot. Think of the incredible amount of negative energy that’s created!”
“You think this had something to do with the murder?”
“Of course,” she said. “You not only have acres of clutter, but you have all the greed and acquisitiveness that the yard sale has stirred up in the people who come here. It’s absolutely toxic!”
“Sort of a psychic cesspool,” I said, nodding. And rather like my notion of the evil Army of Clutter laying siege to the house. Of course, seeing eye to eye with Rose Noir on anything worried me. “I understand what you mean, but I’m not sure you could convince the police that it’s a factor in the murder.”
“Yes, but it is,” she said. “I’m sure of it. I think you should think very seriously before agreeing to hold another yard sale.”
“You know, you’re right,” I said. “I don’t need to think about it at all. You’ve convinced me. No more yard sales for us!”
“Wonderful!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands.
“Now, if I could convince you to change your mind about selling me the lavender stuff.”
Her face hardened, and I gave up. Probably not the time to approach her about interrogating Darlene, either. Time to do something useful, anyway. Like finding someone else to question.
The Hummel lady, for example. I was peering around, trying to spot her, when I ran into Dad.
“Looking for someone?” he asked. “An elusive suspect?”
“Just the Hummel lady,” I said. “Have you seen her?
“Why?”
“I happened to overhear Chief Burke questioning her,” I said. “She’s the last person who admits to seeing Gordon alive, and she claims that she saw Giles entering the barn as she left.”
“Aha!” Dad said. “Then she’s the prime suspect!”
“Not necessarily.”
“The last person to see the deceased alive should always be the prime suspect!” Dad said. He read far too many mystery books, and was fond of making such pronouncements.
“I thought the prime suspect was always the person who found the body,” I said.
“Well yes, them, too,” Dad said. “Sometimes you have multiple prime suspects. And, of course, you can’t overlook the deceased’s spouse. You’d be amazed at how many people are killed by their spouses.”
“I’m sure Mother appreciates your self-restraint,” I said. “But for now, I just need the Hummel lady.”
“Right,” Dad said. “There she is.”
He pointed, and I spotted the Hummel lady standing at one edge of the fenced-in area, studying the yard sale interior with a pair of opera glasses. She wore the same clothes she’d had on yesterday, including the strange hat with its bobbling flowers, so I deduced it was a costume of some sort.
Time to tackle the first prime suspect. I strolled over to the Hummel lady.
“Back again, I see,” I said. “Looking for anything in particular?”
The Hummel lady fixed me with an evil look. Then her expression changed. I imagined that I could see the thoughts passing through her mind—the angry impulse to be rude to me replaced by the sudden, surprised realization that I might be useful, and a fleeting look of cunning before she arranged her face into a smile that I might have thought authentically sweet and friendly if I hadn’t seen the whole sequence of expressions leading up to it.