Read Online A Holly, Jolly Murder by Joan Hess - Free Book Online

myself—when time has blunted the impact.
    I nodded at Jorgeson. “Shall we take a look at the broken window in the study?”

Chapter 4
    Jorgeson allowed me a quick look at Nicholas Chunder’s study, but the room was unremarkable except for the broken shards of glass on the hardwood floor. It was all very masculine, as I’d expected. The desk was large, with a computer and printer protected by plastic covers, neat stacks of folders, and an expensive-looking gold pen and pencil on a block of marble. There were bookcases against three walls, an antique globe on a wooden stand, assorted leather chairs for visitors, and between the two windows behind the desk, a framed chart of a multilimbed family tree. Oak, no doubt, with lots of acorns.
    â€œSix to eight hours ago,” I said as we walked toward the kitchen. “That would put the time of death between midnight and two. I suppose after they’d decorated the living room, the others left and Nicholas turned off the lights and went to bed. When he heard the window break, he went downstairs to investigate. Bad decision.”
    â€œCould have happened that way,” Jorgeson commented.
    â€œWhich means,” I continued, “that the members of the grove had nothing to do with this.”
    â€œDidn’t say they did.”
    I held in a growl of frustration. “They’re not your basic Sunday-morning congregation, and their beliefs are out of sync with traditional theology, but that doesn’t make them a gang of cold-blooded killers.”
    Jorgeson toured the front rooms and made sure all of his men were busily dusting for fingerprints, taking photographs of the scene, and measuring pretty much everything in sight. The paramedics had put Nicholas’s body in a bag and transferred it to the gurney. The medical examiner mumbled a promise to do a preliminary autopsy as soon as possible, then followed the squeaking gurney out the door. We continued into a dining room with wainscoting, drab wallpaper, and a somewhat menacing chandelier above a table that could accommodate two dozen guests without any bumping of elbows.
    We sat down next to each other rather than at opposite ends of the table, where megaphones might be required to communicate. Before Jorgeson could open his notebook, however, one of the officers came into the room. “I checked out the broken window,” he said, shaking his head. “The dust on the sill hasn’t been disturbed. Somebody broke the glass, but nobody came into the house that way.”
    â€œWhat about the locks on the doors and windows?” said Jorgeson.
    â€œAll the windows on the ground floor are locked, and the dead bolts on the doors are sturdy. We’re still looking for signs of a forced entry. I’ll be damned surprised if we find anything, though.”
    â€œThe back door was locked when we arrived,” I volunteered.
    Jorgeson sat back and eyed the chandelier. “So the victim either admitted the perp, or the perp stayed around after everybody else on the decorating committee left.”
    For some odd reason, I was offended at his aspersion on the grove, since it was impossible not to share a sense of camaraderie with those with whom one rendezvoused before dawn. What’s more, their potential as steady customers at the bookstore could not be easily dismissed.
    â€œIsn’t it more likely,” I said, “that someone came to the door, posing as a stranded motorist, and asked to use the telephone? Besides that, he knew plenty of other people who might have been invited for a late-night drink. I’m sure he was a member of all sorts of organizations, like the genealogy society and the historical society and the”—it was getting tougher—“the Sons of the Celtic Revolution. He used the Internet, too. There have been numerous stories in the newspaper about people who strike up an acquaintance and then discover they’re electronic pen