Mockingbird Court, page 16
“Come on, Orville,” Vera said. “You need to pick out your prize.”
Chapter 18
At the prize booth, Orville was dithering over an extra-large jar of pickled watermelon rind (which he loved) and an extra-large sack of chestnuts (which he also loved). While he and Knox discussed the pros and cons of each, Vera scanned the crowd.
She waved to Howard Chitters and his family, then spotted a figure slightly further on. She narrowed her eyes and told Orville she’d be back.
“Wait, where are you going?”
“I need to collect some facts,” she said, already moving out.
Detective Knox started to say something, but she heard Orville warn him off. “She’s using her reporter voice—it’s best to stay out of her way when that happens. Pickles would keep longer, wouldn’t they?”
Vera advanced on her target. With his well-tuned sense for being noticed, Bradley had already stopped and turned toward her, a grin on his face as if he were expecting a fan photo to be taken. But when he realized it was Vera, his dashing grin evaporated, and he looked to the side, possibly trying to sidle away.
“Marvel, I’ve got some questions for you.”
“Oh? Maybe just some follow-up on that fantastic interview your pal conducted? Happy to talk more about my books!”
“Oh, good, because that’s exactly what I want to ask about. Come on.”
“Where are we going? Where is everyone else?”
“This is an exclusive interview,” she muttered.
She half-dragged him to a spot well away from the crowd, which had only grown since her arrival. Twilight was turning the sky to amethyst, and shadows were gathering under the trees. Paper lanterns hung from branches all around, and a few creatures were steadily working to light them all, so it seemed like comically large fireflies had begun to appear in the orchard. The muted sounds of attendees laughing and chatting and the strain of a stringed instrument made everything feel so peaceful and normal.
Except, of course, for those creatures under suspicion of murder.
Vera turned to Bradley and told him that she knew all about what Darcy was really doing in her role as assistant.
He grimaced at first, then started to look sick. “You can’t tell anyone, Vera! Please! It would ruin me!”
“It was your choice to involve Darcy in your mess,” she told him, unwilling to let him off so easy.
“I know, and I never intended it to go so far. It was just meant to give me a little space, a little time to figure out what was wrong. But the thing is, she’s good, and the longer she did it, the more I kept asking myself why I wasn’t doing it.”
“Seems to me that you know you’re in the wrong.”
“You think I don’t worry about it every day? Of course I do! If the public found out that Darcy wrote the last three Percy Bannon novels, they might ask if she wrote the earlier ones, too.”
“And did she?” Vera demanded.
“No! I came up with the whole idea, and I wrote the first several, no problem! And readers loved Percy, and they just wanted more, more, more. What will they do when they discover they’ve been lied to? They’ll hate me. They might ask whether I’d written any of my books. They might think I didn’t even write Weaver’s Luck!”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please, I listened to you yap to poor Barry about it for an hour. I’m very sure you wrote that.”
“But all it takes is a seed, Vera. A hint of plagiarism, or trickery, and it’s all over. If one reviewer or publisher or agent in the city even dreams that book isn’t mine, no one will work with me again. Weaver’s Luck is the reason I got a break in the first place! It’s the only truly excellent thing I’ve ever written! And if I can’t ever get past this writer’s block, I’ll never do another thing like it. I can’t lose Weaver, you understand?”
“What would you do if I did write the truth in the paper?” she asked.
Bradley moaned. “No, don’t! I’d have to leave the city. All cities. I’d have to go somewhere so far away that no one has ever heard of Bradley Marvel or Percy Bannon or maybe they don’t have books at all…somewhere! I’d never show my face again to anyone I know. Don’t do it, Vera. You’ve got the power of life and death in your pen. I’m begging you.”
She inhaled. Desperation was practically rolling off Bradley, but he never once threatened her. His impulse was to run. Which was exactly what he’d done before.
“No promises, Bradley,” she said quietly. “But I know you need a chance to fix this whole mess. So you think about how you’ll do that, in a way that won’t hurt Darcy or anyone else. Got it?”
“Got it,” he said eagerly. “I’ll make it work, Vera. I can do it. As soon as this murder is solved, that is. I can’t think straight while I’m a suspect!”
She knew the feeling. “I’m doing my best to get the answers to the murder, too,” she said. “Unless the real killer can be identified, it will destroy a lot of folks’ lives, not just yours or mine.”
He nodded, then said, in a hopeful voice, “Can I help?”
Vera remembered all too well how intrusive Bradley’s “help” had been the last time she was solving a mystery. She said, “You can help by staying out of my way and trying to remember anything you might have missed about what happened with Rick. The smallest detail could be key.”
“Okay,” he said. “But if there’s any chance of a more…heroic way to help, let me know?”
Vera had to take pity on the dejected wolf. “I’ll do that, Bradley.”
“Great!” He beamed. “You know, I think this is giving me an idea for a story!”
Vera returned to where Orville was waiting with Knox. The soup contest had come down to two contestants. Cassia Brocket entered her family’s famous beer cheese soup. Mr. Gobble, a turkey from the distant village of Northfield, offered a barley and parsnip soup that had proven a surprisingly formidable competitor.
At the final round of tasting, Sun Li sat at a table with a bowl of each in front of him. The crowd surrounded the table, waiting for his verdict. Both chefs stood nearby, looking quite nervous.
The panda dipped his spoon delicately into the beer cheese soup and tasted. He nodded once. “A blend of cheeses, to allow for proper melting consistency. And not too much beer—the vegetable broth base is still present, with the herbs providing depth. Very well done.”
Miss Brocket heaved a sigh of relief.
Sun Li turned to the barley soup. Tasted. Pondered. He said, “The parsnips were roasted before being added, yes? And I think…the barley toasted in a nut oil of some type?”
“Walnut oil, pressed fresh last month,” the turkey bawked.
The panda nodded in approval. “Wonderful choice.”
He tasted each soup again, and the crowd held its collective breath.
Then Sun Li stood up. “What an honor to try each of the entries, and to taste the best the earth offers us, lovingly prepared by our friends and neighbors. All the contestants should be proud of their work, and this last round has been a challenge for me to judge. A delicious challenge,” he added. Then he lifted the bowl of barley and parsnip soup. “I declare this the winning entry. For flavor, yes, but also innovation and attention to detail. Congratulations, my fellow chef!”
Everyone broke out in a cheer, and Mr. Gobble stepped up to accept his award: a ladle carved from cherrywood. Cassia gave the winner a gracious hug and placed a chef’s hat on the turkey’s head.
After that, there was music and dancing, but Vera excused herself, wishing to be solitary for a while. The crowd was a little too jubilant for her mood. She waved goodbye to Orville and promised to stop by the police station tomorrow to let him know any developments. She threw a look at Detective Knox. “And you should watch out for the locals.”
He gave her a solemn nod. “I understand they can be rather partisan, Miss Vixen.”
* * *
Vera had spent the entire morning at the newspaper office, attempting to perform her usual duties while simultaneously fending off questions from other reporters and explaining to BW that no, she would not be writing a memoir from the city jail, so he didn’t need to plan a special edition for it.
“Just consider it, Vera. I’m not saying I want you to be thrown in jail. I’m just saying there’s a silver lining to every cloud. Think of the opportunities for the first serial.”
“I’m going to find lunch,” was her reply to that. She stood up and pushed past her ever-so-profit-minded boss.
Barry Greenfield gave her a wink as she walked by his desk. “Don’t worry. We’ll visit you in jail, Vixen.”
“Thanks, Barry. Means a lot.” She couldn’t stop a chuckle though. Reporters all thought they were comedians.
Vera opted to stroll down River Drive, watching the boats knocking along the docks and the many creatures hurrying about, all intent on their various tasks. A barge was being pulled, heavy with a shipment of crates from the city. The stevedores called to each other with jargon that made sense to them but sounded mystifying to outsiders. Vera appreciated the cheerful efficiency with which they worked.
She continued, and finally halted at the door of the Riverside Pub, where the proprietor had placed a wooden easel that was painted on both sides and chalked with the day’s specials. Today, the pub was advertising a spicy potato and pumpkin soup, and a red lentil, carrot, and apple slaw that claimed to be the “best of this season.”
That was promising. Vera walked in. She was about to slide onto a stool at the bar when a voice behind her said, “Won’t you join me?”
She turned and saw Detective Knox in a booth. She narrowed her eyes at him. “You trust me not to poison your slaw?”
“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” He gestured for Vera to take a seat in the booth opposite.
Despite everything, Vera found that she rather liked the detective’s unflappable demeanor. She just wished he didn’t consider her a suspect!
As if he read her mind, he said, “Don’t worry. I won’t arrest you over lunch. That would be very rude. And if I had to gamble on it—which would be illegal and unethical—I’d bet that you’ll never be formally accused of Renard’s murder.”
“Yay, I guess?”
They were interrupted by a stoat carrying a large tray. He stopped at the table and set down a bowl of soup and a plate with several little tidbits, along with a glass of amber ale. Vera looked at Knox’s meal and ordered an exact duplicate. “But no ale for me,” she added. “I’ll have the apple fizz.”
The stoat nodded and hurried off.
“Humph,” Knox said, huffing out the sound so it was almost a snort. He was frowning at a piece of paper in his hoof, which appeared to be some kind of communication from his department. He then glanced toward her, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“What is it?” Vera asked. Probably something dire if recent events were any guide. “Got a new clue that links me to the murder weapon? A witness who saw a fox stroll into the lobby of Bradley’s building?”
He looked surprised, then held the paper up to the light. “Can you see through this?”
“What? No! I was just making things up! You’re telling me that someone is trying to link me to the murder weapon?”
“No, it’s not that. But someone did see a fox enter the lobby of Marvel’s building.”
Vera gaped at him. “But I didn’t…”
“Not you, Miss Vixen. This witness reads the society pages, and they seemed to recognize Mrs. Priscilla Renard.”
“Wait, Rick’s wife was there, too?”
“According to the witness, another resident of Mockingbird Court, Mrs. Renard walked in about an hour before the witnesses first discovered the body. Isn’t that interesting? The witness saw her begin to climb the stairs, but since they lived on the second floor, they couldn’t say whether she continued all the way up to the fifth.”
“But that’s a huge development!” The reporter in Vera wanted to whip out her notebook. “Is one of your colleagues going to question her?”
“Already went to her house, hence this message.” Knox waved the paper in question. “But here’s an even more interesting development. Apparently, Mrs. Renard has left the city, and her household staff has no idea when she’ll be back.”
Vera had to take this news in for a long moment before she could even formulate a reply. At last, she said, “Mrs. Renard just left, without leaving word at all?”
“So it seems. Perhaps the grieving widow simply needed time away from all the attention.”
“As if! No creature is grieving Rick, and in any case, what’s her excuse for going to Bradley Marvel’s place at all, let alone the one evening that Rick just happened to be going there too? Mrs. Renard’s a society fixture, not a working creature. She wouldn’t have any business with Bradley, and if she wanted to see Rick, she could wait for him to come home.”
“Unless the business she wished to discuss with Rick would be better conducted in someone else’s home. No one wants their own clean floors covered in blood, and I’m sure her floors are especially clean, what with the maids and all.” Knox’s tone was mild, but the implication incendiary.
“Could Rick’s wife really be the killer?”
“She certainly had motive. It can’t be pleasant to endure years of infidelity, especially when Renard seemed so blatant about it.”
“And her alibi?”
“Not sure about that yet. And I must be careful. The fact is, Miss Vixen, it’s obviously important to have an alibi confirmed and to carefully assess all the evidence one can put their paws on. But it doesn’t amount to much if the psychology doesn’t match up.”
“What do you mean?” asked Vera. The stoat returned with her food, and the two of them began to eat as they discussed the case.
“What I mean is facts are all well and good,” Knox went on after sampling the slaw. “But facts can be manipulated. Or they can be misunderstood. Let’s say for example, you walk into a room, and you see a knife on the floor, with little red drops all around it. And even more smearing the blade. Now a reasonable creature might immediately think, ‘Aha! That’s blood, and this knife has been used in a crime.’ If they were to study it and notice any telltale signs, such as a paw print, or perhaps a bit of fur that had been stuck to it, they would automatically assume that evidence belonged to either an attacker or the victim.”
The police detective continued, “However, another creature walking in and seeing the same scene, but who wasn’t looking for a crime, would only see a knife dropped on the floor with ketchup around it, and conclude that some poor creature was quite clumsy in making their lunch, and was called away on some errand before they could clean it up. Which scenario is true? I can never know the entirety of what is happening in the world. I can only see the particular moment, or perhaps listen to a few key witness accounts, which may or may not agree with one another.
“My method is to not only look at facts, but also to look at the psychology, and to make sure that those two things are in harmony. In your case, everyone that I’ve spoken to is adamant that you could not possibly have committed such a crime. Some of them suggested that while you are capable of great emotion, and occasionally perform some overly dramatic action not fully thought out”—Vera assumed that was Orville talking—“none of them would countenance the idea that you would murder anyone. So you see, while a few of the facts lying before me would indicate that you are indeed a suspect, the psychology does not match. And I’m not suggesting that psychology outweighs facts. All I am saying is that when I only have one of those things pointing toward a particular conclusion, I need to be extremely careful before proceeding to that conclusion.”
“That makes sense,” said Vera. “I’ve never heard it explained exactly like that before.”
“Well, I’ve been on the force a long time. I don’t imagine I would’ve explained it like that my first year on the beat.” Knox took a sip of ale, then leaned back in the booth.
“So you don’t suspect me of the murder. But I noticed that you’re not exactly proclaiming my innocence yet.”
“Well, I do like to keep my options open. And I hesitate to declare anyone innocent until I know exactly who is guilty.”
She asked, “Do you have any particular theories about who is guilty? Does this news about Priscilla change your ideas?”
“Oh, I have several, some of them quite outlandish. As I said, the psychology and the facts often don’t agree, even within my own theories. I prefer to keep those theories private. But what about you, Miss Vixen? Do you have any theories?”
She nodded slowly. “Also several. Some of them probably even more outlandish than yours. One thing that I can’t forget is how angry I was at Rick the last time I saw him, when I left the city all those years ago. And it occurred to me that if such a nasty situation had happened to me, it must’ve happened to other folks as well. Creatures tend to be predictable. They behave the same way over and over until they’re given some reason to change their behavior. If I was angry at Rick, then I have to believe there were other creatures just as angry, or maybe even more so. His wife, certainly, but others as well.”
“It’s true that he made enemies as well as friends. It’s not difficult to find a city official or politician, or some society paragon, who was on the wrong end of Rick’s reporting, or later, one of those tell-all books. He loved a shocking headline, and he wasn’t above the kind of journalism that valued sensation over solid reporting. He would never outright lie, but he would frame things in such a way that strongly implied something about a creature…then he was always able to walk it back if the objections became too loud. Like he was always playing a game.”
