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Authors: Donna Andrews
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Gordon-you-thief under my breath, I sat down beside the trunk with the shoebox in my lap and began trying keys. The metal plate around the keyhole was slightly scratched. It hadn’t been when I’d put it out, which meant that she’d probably tried to pick or force the lock before bringing the trunk to me. A fact I’d bring up if, as I anticipated, she tried using the scratches to dicker over the price when I finally got the damned thing open.
To my complete astonishment, the seventeenth key I tried actually fit.
“Victory!” I exclaimed.
“It’s about time,” the woman who wanted to buy the trunk exclaimed.
I heaved the lid up and looked inside.
“It’s Gordon,” I said.
“Yes, he’s probably the one who locked the trunk,” Michael said, over his shoulder. “What did he put inside?”
“No, I don’t think he locked the trunk,” I said. “I mean, it’s Gordon inside the trunk.”
Chapter 8
“Gordon?” Michael exclaimed, leaping up from his chair. “In the trunk? Is he—?”
“Definitely,” I said. “I think his head’s bashed in.”
I hoped I sounded calm. I’d seen dead bodies before, and as a doctor’s daughter, I like to think I have a pretty strong stomach. But there’s a difference between hearing your father prattle on at the dinner table about dead bodies, real or on the pages of the mystery books he loves, and finding one in your own backyard. I inhaled deeply, as my yoga teacher always recommended in moments of stress, and then decided to postpone further deep breathing until later. Even through the reek of Gordon’s aftershave, I could smell the unmistakable odor of blood.
Gordon’s red pirate bandanna was askew, revealing his thinning, straw-colored hair, and both bandanna and hair were clotted with clumps of darker red.
“Someone probably hit him with that bookend,” Michael said, pointing to an object lying at the other end of the trunk, by Gordon’s feet.
“Oh, damn,” I muttered. The last time I’d seen that owl-shaped bookend, Giles had been carrying it.
The woman who wanted to buy the trunk looked in, shrieked, and fainted. I looked around. The people in line hadn’t been paying much attention to what I was doing before, but now, thanks to the unconscious woman, they were starting to gawk.
“Shut the trunk,” I said, and then followed my own orders. “Mrs. Fenniman, can you take care of her? We need to keep people behind the ropes—maybe if they don’t see what’s happened we won’t have a panic. And can someone go tell Dad not to let anyone in the barn?”
“We should call the police,” Michael said.
“No need to call,” Mrs. Fenniman said. “I saw Chief Burke a few minutes ago, looking over some fishing gear at Professor Hutson’s table. Shall I get him?”
“I’ll do it, and then enlist Meg’s dad,” Michael said, shoving back his Groucho mask as he turned. “You make sure no one leaves the scene of the crime.”
“Will do,” I said.
Not hard, since the only people planning to leave were the dozen standing in the checkout line, and at least for the moment, most of them seemed enthralled at having a front row view of what would doubtless be the most exciting thing to happen in Caerphilly in months.
Though they didn’t know about the murder just yet. At the moment, they were watching Mrs. Fenniman minister to the fallen customer. Some of them looked puzzled—probably the ones who knew that the Heimlich maneuver wasn’t necessary or even useful in cases of fainting. Of course, Mrs. Fenniman knew that, too, but she’d been dying to practice the technique ever since Dad had taught her how a few weeks ago. Thank goodness he hadn’t yet taught her how to perform a tracheotomy.
I scanned the crowd, looking for Giles. I couldn’t imagine him killing anyone, and I suspected he’d absentmindedly set the owl bookend down someplace. If he could remember where, that might help us—correction, help Chief Burke—identify the
To my complete astonishment, the seventeenth key I tried actually fit.
“Victory!” I exclaimed.
“It’s about time,” the woman who wanted to buy the trunk exclaimed.
I heaved the lid up and looked inside.
“It’s Gordon,” I said.
“Yes, he’s probably the one who locked the trunk,” Michael said, over his shoulder. “What did he put inside?”
“No, I don’t think he locked the trunk,” I said. “I mean, it’s Gordon inside the trunk.”
Chapter 8
“Gordon?” Michael exclaimed, leaping up from his chair. “In the trunk? Is he—?”
“Definitely,” I said. “I think his head’s bashed in.”
I hoped I sounded calm. I’d seen dead bodies before, and as a doctor’s daughter, I like to think I have a pretty strong stomach. But there’s a difference between hearing your father prattle on at the dinner table about dead bodies, real or on the pages of the mystery books he loves, and finding one in your own backyard. I inhaled deeply, as my yoga teacher always recommended in moments of stress, and then decided to postpone further deep breathing until later. Even through the reek of Gordon’s aftershave, I could smell the unmistakable odor of blood.
Gordon’s red pirate bandanna was askew, revealing his thinning, straw-colored hair, and both bandanna and hair were clotted with clumps of darker red.
“Someone probably hit him with that bookend,” Michael said, pointing to an object lying at the other end of the trunk, by Gordon’s feet.
“Oh, damn,” I muttered. The last time I’d seen that owl-shaped bookend, Giles had been carrying it.
The woman who wanted to buy the trunk looked in, shrieked, and fainted. I looked around. The people in line hadn’t been paying much attention to what I was doing before, but now, thanks to the unconscious woman, they were starting to gawk.
“Shut the trunk,” I said, and then followed my own orders. “Mrs. Fenniman, can you take care of her? We need to keep people behind the ropes—maybe if they don’t see what’s happened we won’t have a panic. And can someone go tell Dad not to let anyone in the barn?”
“We should call the police,” Michael said.
“No need to call,” Mrs. Fenniman said. “I saw Chief Burke a few minutes ago, looking over some fishing gear at Professor Hutson’s table. Shall I get him?”
“I’ll do it, and then enlist Meg’s dad,” Michael said, shoving back his Groucho mask as he turned. “You make sure no one leaves the scene of the crime.”
“Will do,” I said.
Not hard, since the only people planning to leave were the dozen standing in the checkout line, and at least for the moment, most of them seemed enthralled at having a front row view of what would doubtless be the most exciting thing to happen in Caerphilly in months.
Though they didn’t know about the murder just yet. At the moment, they were watching Mrs. Fenniman minister to the fallen customer. Some of them looked puzzled—probably the ones who knew that the Heimlich maneuver wasn’t necessary or even useful in cases of fainting. Of course, Mrs. Fenniman knew that, too, but she’d been dying to practice the technique ever since Dad had taught her how a few weeks ago. Thank goodness he hadn’t yet taught her how to perform a tracheotomy.
I scanned the crowd, looking for Giles. I couldn’t imagine him killing anyone, and I suspected he’d absentmindedly set the owl bookend down someplace. If he could remember where, that might help us—correction, help Chief Burke—identify the
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