Lord of the Wings by Donna Andrews

Author:Donna Andrews
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781466850569
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

Chapter 16

Of course, I have always been constitutionally incapable of merely waiting, so I passed the time by strolling up and down the foyer, peeking into the adjoining rooms to see how much damage had been done. Not much, actually, which probably meant that we could open the Haunted House again shortly after the chief released it. Assuming he did release it before the rapidly approaching end of the festival. And also assuming that news of a second murder didn’t send the tourists fleeing.

I was peering down the cellar stairs—okay, I was trying to eavesdrop on what the chief and Horace might be saying—when I was startled by a voice behind me.

“Oh, dear. Dr. Smoot didn’t tell me there had been a fire.”

I turned to see an odd figure standing in the doorway—a man who would probably have been close to seven feet tall if he stood up straight, but with such a pronounced stoop that he could probably have looked Michael straight in the eye—and Michael was six foot four.

Our visitor was elderly. He had taken off his hat upon entering the Haunted House, and I could see that he had a neat, closely cropped fringe of gray hair around the perimeter of his otherwise bald head. He was holding his hat in fingers so unusually long as to look positively freakish. Under his tent-sized dark gray raincoat I could see gray flannel trousers and galoshes.

“May I help you?” I asked.

“I’m Dr. Cavendish,” he said. “I have a seven o’clock appointment with Dr. Smoot.”

“I’m sorry,” I began. “Dr. Smoot isn’t available.”

“He was expecting me.” Dr. Cavendish hunched his shoulders defensively, which had the unfortunate effect of increasing his resemblance to an oversized vulture.

“I’m sure he was,” I said. “Unfortunately, Dr. Smoot isn’t here right now. He’s in the hospital. Can you tell me what he was expecting you for?”

“Oh, dear.” Dr. Cavendish pulled the left side of his raincoat open, revealing a well-worn Harris Tweed jacket beneath. He fished in the jacket pocket with two of those unusually long fingers—was it just my imagination, or did his fingers have more joints than usual? He pulled out a business card, then held it with both hands and presented it to me with a slight bow.

“Thank you.” I glanced down at the card, which read G.Q. CAVENDISH. FINE ART CONSERVATION AND RESTORATION followed by the usual address, telephone, fax, and e-mail information. “Oh! I remember. Dr. Smoot and Mrs. Paltroon both mentioned that you were coming by today to take a look at the portrait.”

“Yes.” Dr. Cavendish sounded relieved that at least someone was aware of his mission. “May I see it?”

“Let me ask Chief Burke,” I said.

“What is he chief of?” Dr. Cavendish looked anxious.

“Chief of Police,” I said. “The painting’s in the basement, which is technically still a crime scene.”

“Crime scene?” Now Dr. Cavendish looked positively alarmed. “Dr. Smoot didn’t tell me that there was a crime involved.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s been a long night and I’m probably not explaining anything very well.

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