Stork Raving Mad(55)

“No,” the chief said, with a sigh. “But I suppose it’s rude to tell a distinguished foreign visitor point-blank that he’s a bald-faced liar.”

“Of course, it’s always possible that he poisoned her and decided to confess to the bludgeoning to throw you off the track,” I suggested.

“Always possible,” the chief agreed. “But I think if he did poison her, he’d react a little more when asked about the pills. Let’s hope he’s content with having made his confession and doesn’t keeping popping back in here every five minutes demanding to be arrested.”

“Placate him,” I said. “Send Horace to confiscate his clothes for testing or something dramatic like that.”

“It’s an idea,” the chief said. “I just wish I knew what those blasted pills are.”

“You could call his doctor,” I said.

“I did,” he said. “Actually, I had Debbie Anne do the actual calling, since her Spanish is better than mine. But Barcelona’s six hours ahead of us, so the doctor’s office hours were over by the time we got his contact information. It’s unlikely we’ll hear before tomorrow.”

He picked up his notebook and began flipping through it. Was that intended as a dismissal? Probably. But since he hadn’t actually ordered me out, I could take my time and decide what I wanted to do. Nap? Or eat? Both ideas had merit. But both required getting up and moving. And I was strangely comfortable. My back hurt less than usual. And—

“Ms. Langslow?”

I started and opened my eyes.

“Sorry,” I said. “I was just trying to decide where to go when I left here.”

“You were asleep,” he said.

“Just resting my eyes and thinking,” I said. “When you’re as big as I am, you like to plan your movements.”

“You always snore when you’re thinking?”

I winced.

“I was trying to decide between taking a nap and getting something to eat.” I braced and heaved myself up. “I guess my body decided for me.”

“Take care of yourself,” he said as I waddled out.

Of course, halfway down the long hallway to the rest of the house, I realized I was more hungry than sleepy. And I had no idea whether the kitchen was still off-limits. Or whether I really wanted to eat anything in it, since we still had a poisoner on the loose.

I’d figure that out when I got there.

I made another pit stop in the front hall bathroom and when I came out, I ran into my grandfather searching the coatracks and muttering under his breath. He was, of course, looking on the wrong rack. I walked over to the right one and plucked out his overcoat.

“Here,” I said. “And where are you going, anyway?”

“Just out for a long walk to cool off,” he said.

“Cool off?” I repeated. “The house doesn’t feel overheated to me, so I assume you mean your temper.”

He scowled instead of answering, but he didn’t storm out, so I waited. Having someone to vent to would probably improve his temper even faster than a brisk walk, and I wasn’t at all sure anyone his age should be gallivanting about in twenty-degree temperatures.

I found myself wondering, once again, why he had turned up to visit us at this inconvenient moment. Was it just to see his great-grandchildren as soon as they were born? That seemed unlikely—he was fond enough of my older sister’s six kids, but he certainly wasn’t gaga over them. More likely he was in the planning stages for another installment of his “Animals in Peril” TV series. Were there any endangered species in Caerphilly, Virginia? Or was this going to be an exposé of animal abuse, like last year’s dogfighting documentary?

“When the hell is the chief going to solve this thing?” he asked finally. Even more suspicious—he normally didn’t share Dad’s interest in murder mysteries.

“As soon as he can, I’m sure,” I said. “It’s only been a few hours.”

“He’s probably working on a bogus theory of the crime,” Grandfather said.

“Bogus?”

“I can’t imagine why anyone would have killed that Wright woman!” he exclaimed.

“Of course not,” I said, in my most soothing tones. I was about to utter some noble platitudes about how utterly unthinkable murder was to any civilized being when he went on.

“Not with that Blanco fellow around and equally available to anyone who felt like improving the tone of the neighborhood. Do you suppose whoever did it could have made a mistake and knocked off the wrong professor?”

I eyed him suspiciously. My first thought was that Dad had spilled the beans to Grandfather on his poison-in-the-tea theory. After all, even a crazed killer would probably notice whether the person he was coshing on the head was a man or a woman. Poison, though, could easily go astray and be given to the wrong person. So if Grandfather was suggesting Dr. Wright had been killed by mistake . . .