The Good, the Bad, and the Emus(97)

“I hope so, too,” Stanley said. “Because Thor seems like a nice kid, and I thought Heedles was definitely barking up the wrong tree there. If nothing else, I think a kid with his mechanical and technical skills could have rigged up a much more efficient way of setting a fire to cover his tracks.”

“Did Williams happen to work with Smedlock Mining?” I asked. “Or one of its subsidiaries?”

Stanley shook his head.

“That’s good.”

“I’d have mentioned it if he did,” Stanley said. “In fact, that was going to be one of my lines of inquiry. Seeing if there was any connection whatsoever between Smedlock and any of the places he worked.”

“Do you remember the names of any of the places where he worked?” I asked.

Stanley pulled out his pocket notebook and read me five company names. None of them rang a bell, but I wrote them down in my notebook, just in case.

“Of course,” Stanley went on, as he tucked his notebook away. “If the chief’s looking at him as a suspect, I’d better hold off on that. I might just go home to Caerphilly to do my copying—I heard from Muriel that the power’s back on and the diner’s open again. I could do my laundry and get some home cooking while I’m there.”

I had to smile at that. No one in Caerphilly had yet figured out whether Stanley was romantically interested in Muriel, owner of the local diner, or if he just appreciated her cooking. Either way, he would clearly enjoy the trip home.

“Sounds like a good idea then,” I said. “Though, could I make a suggestion? Could you come back before nightfall and keep an eye on Miss Annabel’s house? Maybe I’m being paranoid—”

“Or maybe you’re being sensible,” he said. “She could be a target. I’ll plan to get back tonight, then.”

“And I’ll keep you posted on anything that happens while you’re gone.”

“Thanks,” he said.

But as the day wore on, I grew less and less confident that I’d have anything to report. Chief Heedles and her officers spent an hour or so searching one of the tents and a nearby silver van—presumably both belonging to Williams. They hauled off the contents of van and tent in a pickup truck.

Sherry, the Valkyrie, found this highly unsatisfactory.

“Why didn’t they take the tent as well?” she asked. “And his van’s still here. What are we supposed to do with them?”

“Not our problem,” I suggested.

“And why are they interrogating him?”

“He was in town around the time of Cordelia Mason’s death,” I said. “And he used to work for a mining company.”

“A mining company!” She looked ashen. “Which one?”

“He’s worked for several,” I said. “I don’t remember the names offhand.” I didn’t mention the fact that I had them in my notebook. What if in her fury against the mining companies Sherry did something to complicate Stanley’s—or Chief Heedles’s—investigation. “Does it matter which ones?”

“Well, yes,” she said. “Some of them are reasonably responsible, and some are just horrible. Who would know?”

“Stanley Denton,” I said. “The PI. I’ll ask him when I see him.”

“I’ll ask him now,” she muttered.

She strode off before I could tell her that he was gone for the day. I wondered if her reaction would be typical. Clearly, she was upset by the possibility that someone with ties to the hated mining industry had managed to infiltrate the brigade.

I wandered through the camp, feeling at loose ends. Should I go out and join the emu hunt? Go over and keep Miss Annabel company? Or maybe see if the library was open so I could resume my research?

I ran into a woman sitting in front of her camper, knitting so rapidly and with such a thunderous expression on her face that I couldn’t help thinking of Madame DeFarge in A Tale of Two Cities. Was this woman recording everything that happened here in camp? If I could read the pattern of her stitches, would I learn the truth about Weaver’s murder?

Actually, I suspected this might be Millicent, creator of the emu turtleneck, which made her no less ominous a figure.

“Morning,” I said.

“What do you think?” She held up her knitting, which turned out to be a scarf, already three feet long, in a hideous shade of puce. “Isn’t this a lovely purple?”

What did I think? That she needed to know the difference between lavender and puce. That far from being lovely, it was the sort of puce that reminded you that “puce” was French for “flea.” That if I were going to spend all that time knitting, I’d at least pick a more attractive color. And should I mention that she appeared to have dropped a few stitches about a foot from the start of the scarf, creating a hole that was already unraveling? Probably better not to. At some of the snootier craft shows, where knitters would be insulted if you called them that instead of “fiber artists,” I’d occasionally met avant garde practitioners of the art, who considered dropped stitches and even giant gaping unraveled holes an important, organic part of the creative process. With my luck, she’d turn out to be one of those.