Owls Well That Ends Well Part 21

I sniffed.

"Mainly charcoal-grilled hamburger," I said. "I could fetch you one if you're hungry."

"No, something ... funny."

I sniffed again. This time, I caught a whiff of what I suspected was bothering Sammy.

"Oh, that," I said. "Nothing to worry about. Rose Noir is doing her household cleansing ceremony."

Sammy looked puzzled.

"Smudging the area to clear away the bad energy," I clarified, and looked around to see if I could spot the source of the odor. "Ah, there."

I pointed to the edge of the yard. Apparently Rose Noir had decided to make a wide circle, taking in the house, the yard sale, and all the a.s.sorted outbuildings. She was marching at a stately pace, waving her smudging stick to create elegant arcs and crescents of smoke. Her mouth was moving, so I gathered she was either singing or chanting, but I couldn't tell at this distance.

"What's that she's burning?" Sammy asked.

"Probably sage, cedar, sweetgra.s.s-various herbs," I said. "Legal herbs," I added, remembering the time Mother had invited Rose Noir over to smudge the family house after the visit of a particularly unpleasant cousin. Rob had mistaken the odor of the smudging herbs for marijuana. I still wasn't quite sure if he'd been relieved or disappointed when he found out that his parents hadn't become potheads. I suspected Sammy had made the same mistake. He was still frowning suspiciously at Rose Noir.

Well, if he tried to report her, odds were the chief would set him straight, and if not, an unsuccessful drug raid probably wouldn't daunt this crowd. And maybe it was just my imagination, but the aroma of the smudging herbs seemed to lift my spirits. I strolled on, invigorated.

But I had no luck spotting Professor Schmidt. Apparently, apart from his l.u.s.t for the phantom Pruitt papers, he was immune to the call of the yard sale. I revised my opinion of him sharply upward, even as I fretted over how much trouble I'd have finding him.

I did run into Dad, who gazed at me reproachfully.

"Your cousin Rosemary says she's disappointed in you, trying to sneak behind her back and use a scent that clashes with your personality," he said. His tone of voice made it sound as if he shared her disappointment.

"You didn't have to tell her it was for me," I said. "In fact, didn't I warn you not on any account to let her find out?"

"I didn't tell her, but she suspected you were trying to pull a fast one."

"Good grief, Dad," I said. "It's not as if I was disobeying doctor's orders, or faking a prescription. It's only her opinion."

"She feels very strongly about it, though," he said. "I don't think you can change her mind."

"Of course not," I said. "Sometimes I think this family has cornered the market on pigheadedness, and she certainly has her full share."

"Hmmm," Dad said. I suspected he was thinking that Rosemary wasn't the only one with a good share of the family pigheadedness.

"I'll just tell her that the cosmetic and soap shop in the mall carries plenty of lavender- and rose-scented stuff," I said. "And they don't have any qualms about selling it to me."

"But Rosemary is so proud of her bath oils, and she uses only the best-quality, all-natural materials!" he exclaimed. "Here. She gave me this. She says it's you."

He handed me a small brown bottle. I opened it and took a whiff. Mistake; the intense smell of eucalyptus and menthol made my eyes water so badly that I had to fumble blindly to replace the cap, but even so they couldn't disguise the strong undertone of heavy musk.

"Yuck," I said. "What does she think I am? A civet with a bad head cold?"

But Dad had disappeared. I made sure the bottle was screwed tightly shut and stuck it in my pocket. I'd deal with Rose Noir later.

Some of my younger cousins, while taking rides over the crowd in the boom lift, were amusing themselves by pouring their lemonades into their popcorn buckets, and then dumping the resulting soggy mess down on the crowd while making barfing noises. I told them to cut it out, and when they didn't listen to me, I had Rob deposit them at the feet of an irritated state police officer who still had patches of soggy popcorn clinging to his uniform and perched on the wide brim of his Smokey the Bear hat.

And I still hadn't found Schmidt.

"Bother," I said.

"What's wrong, dear?" Mother asked.

"As far as I can tell, everyone in Caerphilly is out here, except for the one person I need to talk to," I said. "I'll have to go into town to look for him."

"I don't suppose there's anything I could do to help, dear," Mother said.

"Actually, there is," I said. "Find me some Hummel."

"Hummel?"

"You know, those little china figurines? Little girls with rosy cheeks, little boys in lederhosen, puppies, lambs, kittens-"

"Yes, dear, I know what Hummel is," Mother said, with a touch of asperity. "I just didn't know you liked it. And it doesn't really go with that Shaker/j.a.panese decor your house has been requesting, does it, dear?"

"I don't like it," I said, hastily. "Loathe the stuff, and so does the house. Couldn't pay either of us to keep it around. But, at the moment, I need some. To bribe an informant."

"Ah," she said, nodding. "An informant with a certain amount of taste."

"Well, not my taste, but to each his own," I said. "So do you think you could get hold of some Hummel?"

"Ye-es," Mother said, nodding slowly. "I remember several shops in town that might have quite a lot of it."

"I don't need quite a lot of it," I said. "Just a couple of pieces. Maybe three, if you get a real bargain on them. Preferably not brand new. They don't have to be in perfect condition, either, as long as they're Hummel."

"Leave it to me, dear," Mother said, and turned to leave. Then she paused and remained staring thoughtfully at something.

At Rose Noir's booth. I winced. The booth decor suited Rosemary's business splendidly. Lots of ethereal flowers and little lace frou-frous, and great swaths of pink and lavender tulle hanging overhead. A nice environment for buying prettily scented cosmetics, but I couldn't see anyone living in it day in, day out, and I had the sinking feeling Mother could.

"Rosemary's new name," she said finally-and cryptically.

"What about it?"

"Shouldn't noir be noir?"

"Is that an existential question?" I said. "If so, ask me later. I'm in a very mundane, literal mode today."

"Sorry, what I meant was, shouldn't the word 'noir' have an 'e' on the end?" she said. "'Noire,' with an 'e.' Because, grammatically speaking, 'rose' is feminine in French."

"You expect correct French grammar from someone who renames herself more often than she cuts her hair?" I asked.

"True," she said. "But someone should enlighten her."

"Don't look at me," I said. "I can't even get her to sell me the cosmetics I want. She doesn't think I'm a rose or lavender sort of person."

Mother studied me thoughtfully.

"No, dear," she said. "But you try."

I didn't even want to figure that one out.

"I'm going to town," she announced, as she strode away.

"So am I," I said. "Want a ride?"

"No, dear," she called back over her shoulder. "I think I'm better on my own. Or perhaps Michael can take me; he's not as busy as you are."

And also not as immune to your charm, I thought with a sigh, but I let her go. I strolled over to Rose Noir's booth to see if I could enlist her to help poor Horace.

"I have a favor to ask you," I said. "It's about Darlene."

"She went home," Rose Noir said, shaking her head. "She's still upset about the owl in her bedroom last night. I don't want to sound judgmental, but ..."

Her voice trailed off as she shook her head, apparently despairing of saying anything non-judgmental about Darlene.

"But she's an idiot and Horace is better off without her," I said.

"Poor Horace," Rose Noir said, from which I deduced that she didn't exactly disagree.

"Poor Horace, indeed," I said. "A pity Darlene left. I was hoping you could ask her who she sold his gorilla suit to-after last night, I doubt if she'd tell me."

"Oh, I don't need to ask her," Rose Noir said, her face growing cheerful again. "I bought it."

"You? Why?"

"To give it back to Horace," she said. "I think it's terrible, trying to make someone give up a profound and meaningful part of his inner self."

I nodded. I wasn't sure how wearing a few yards of faded fake fur could be a profound and meaningful part of Horace's inner self, but I could remember when several of my prissier aunts had tried to convince me that the blacksmithing I loved wasn't a respectable career for a woman.

"Do you want to give it back to him?" Rose Noir asked, reaching under her table and pulling out a large shopping bag.

"I wouldn't want to deprive you of the pleasure," I said.

I would defend Horace's right to his inner simian self to the death if need be, but I'd rather not have the aunts who sided with Darlene think I was the one responsible for returning his suit.

I went off to find my car and continue the search for Professor Schmidt.

Chapter 28.

I had to wait while Cousin Sidney towed the three SUVs and one pickup truck that blocked the entrance to our driveway and put down some orange cones to save my s.p.a.ce.

With any luck, Professor Schmidt would be in his office, and if he wasn't, I could cruise by Michael's office, borrow his copy of the departmental faculty directory, and get Schmidt's home address and phone number.

Caerphilly was quiet. Unusually quiet, even for a Sunday. Almost unnaturally quiet-probably because nearly everyone in town was out at our yard sale-turned-carnival. Normally I had to cruise for fifteen minutes to find a parking s.p.a.ce within ten blocks of Dunsany Hall, where the English department had its offices, but today I had my choice of a dozen s.p.a.ces by the front door.

I walked through the silent halls, sticking out my tongue and making faces at the closed doors of the Great Stone Faces, as Michael and I called the department chairman and all his stuffy cronies-all the diehards putting such intense pressure on Michael's tenure committee to turn him out in the cold.

Not a very mature thing to do, of course, but it helped me stay polite when I had to encounter them in person. And probably a lot safer to do today than during the week. The a.s.sistant dean had once dashed into the hall when I was sticking out my tongue at his door, and as part of my effort to convince him that I was doing wrinklepreventing yoga facial exercises, I'd ended up standing on my head in the faculty lounge for nearly half an hour. One of those days when I went home wondering if perhaps the best thing I could do for Michael's career was not to overcome my commitment phobia and make an honest man of him but to disappear completely from his life.

Though even my absence probably wouldn't help him snag an office here in the oldest, most prestigious part of the building. Professor Schmidt, of course, had a prime s.p.a.ce, only three doors down from the beastly department chairman.

"Professor Schmidt!" I called, and knocked loudly before turning the k.n.o.b. Which didn't budge. I frowned at the door for a few seconds, and then, as I turned to leave, my eye fell on a framed enlargement of a photo of Mrs. Pruitt that hung beside his door, as if to remind pa.s.sersby of the importance of the poet on whom he was the world's foremost expert.

Fas.h.i.+ons in photography had certainly changed over the years. The picture was a full-length portrait of Mrs. Pruitt sitting in a chair, with an elaborately swagged drapery and a potted palm behind her. Although sitting wasn't quite the word-she was perched rather precariously, as if she had only briefly alighted for the photographer's benefit, and would be off on another flight of poetic fancy in a few seconds. I kept expecting the chair to fall or break. And she should have just looked at the camera, smiled or frowned, and have done with it. Let the viewer see what she looked like without hamming it up. Instead, she was holding a slim book in one hand while she gazed soulfully at the ceiling, her other hand raised to place a single finger to her lips in a gesture clearly designed to suggest deep thought while slightly obscuring several of her chins.

Perhaps in its time it was considered a splendid likeness, and inspired droves of people to buy her books, but now it just looked silly. I could see why Professor Schmidt had to keep busy erasing the mustaches and sarcastic comments that each succeeding cla.s.s of English students felt inspired to draw on the gla.s.s covering the photo. I hadn't bothered to study it before, and wouldn't today if not for the possibility that there might be some tenuous connection between Mrs. Pruitt and Gordon's murder.

But whatever the connection was, I wouldn't learn it from Ginevra's primly pursed lips, so I shrugged and moved on to the less exalted wing of the building where Michael had his office.

Also locked, though this was uncharacteristic. Of course, he'd probably started locking it since he'd begun keeping an ever-increasing amount of stuff in it, stuff that we'd moved out of our old bas.e.m.e.nt apartment but couldn't yet take to the house.

Help was at hand, though. I glanced down the hall and saw that Giles's door was open. With any luck, he'd have a copy of the faculty directory.

When I reached his doorway, I saw Giles hard at work on a large stack of official Caerphilly College forms. I recognized the distinctive pale blue paper the administration liked to use-Michael swore it was so pa.s.sing bureaucrats could tell at a glance if a faculty member was allowing the forms to pile up on his desk.

"Giles, Giles," I said. "You're hopeless."

He started at my voice, and then looked slightly relieved to see it was only me.

"Hopeless?" he repeated.

"Here we go to all the trouble of implicating you in the most shocking crime Caerphilly has seen in generations, all for the sake of enhancing your public image as an edgy, hip kind of guy," I said. "And you go and ruin it all by spending your Sunday chained to a desk doing paperwork?"

"Oh, is that what all this is in aid of?" Giles said, with an expression that I'm sure he intended as a smile, though it came off as more of a grimace. "If it's all the same, I'd just as soon return to my old image as a boring fuddy-duddy."

"I'll see what I can do," I said. "Speaking of which, may I borrow your faculty directory? I need to track down a suspect."

"By all means," Giles said, astonis.h.i.+ng me by pulling the directory out of a pile of stuff without much hunting. "Looking for anyone in particular?"

I was opening my mouth to explain when the phone rang.

"Sorry," he said, gesturing to the phone. "It's the department chairman. I really ought to ..."

"Want me to leave?" I asked, reaching for my purse.

"No, no," he said, with his hand over the mouthpiece. "Please don't; I want to ask you something, and he's probably just calling about tomorrow's faculty meeting. Dr. Snyder," he said, into the phone. "How are you?"