Owls Well That Ends Well Part 22

Unfortunately, Giles was wrong. For the next fifteen minutes, I heard his side of what was obviously a chewing-out by his department head. Not fair, really; it wasn't Giles's fault that the police unjustly suspected him of murder. Still, I felt bad, being present to witness his embarra.s.sment. I made a motion to leave at first, but Giles waved me back into my seat. I pretended to be absorbed in the faculty directory for ten times as long as it took me to find and copy down Professor Schmidt's address, and when I grew tired of rereading the names of the stuffed s.h.i.+rts who had it in for Michael, I turned to the nearest bookshelf and feigned an intense interest in its contents.

Though once I made the effort to focus on the t.i.tles of the books, I found they were rather interesting. I deduced from the few authors' names I recognized-E.C. Bentley, Das.h.i.+ell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, and S.S. Van Dyne-that I was seated next to Giles's collection of Golden Age mystery writers. I scanned the shelves for R. Austin Freeman and found him right at my elbow.

I'd seen these books before, of course, at least a dozen times when I'd visited Giles's office. But without the added interest of being a.s.sociated with a murder, they hadn't particularly attracted my attention. Like most of the books in that section of the shelves, they were rather nondescript. So many faded linen bindings in muted shades of blue, brown, green, and red, with the occasional battered dust jacket, and now and then an empty s.p.a.ce where a book was in use. The gentle patina of dust over everything further softened the colors. The whole effect was oddly soothing, rather like the bookshelves of some of my elderly relatives-except that many of Giles's books were neatly wrapped in plastic Brodart covers to protect them, while my relatives' vintage libraries were allowed to fade au naturel. I counted forty-eight volumes by Freeman, though some of them seemed to be different editions of the same t.i.tle. The English and American editions, I suspected. I'd have opened a few to check, but I wasn't sure how Giles felt about people handling his treasures. Maybe I was overreacting to the protective plastic covers, but they did seem calculated to repel casual inspection.

I found myself wondering if he read them or just collected them, and also how much he treasured them for their own sake and how much for what he thought they said about him-that despite his rather mild and pedantic manner, he wasn't a stuffy old dinosaur like so many of the department's faculty. That he was, in fact, hip and cool, though in a low-key, bookish manner.

It worked for me. I liked Giles's office almost as much as his study. Apart from the familiar, comforting presence of the books, I liked the bits of academic clutter he had scattered about. Here a Civil War vintage sword-the English Civil War, of course-there a Tudor coin, or a battered piece of pottery that Julius Caesar might have held. Whenever I grew impatient with Giles, I reminded myself that underneath the slightly stiff exterior was the man with the wit and erudition to create this office.

Perhaps I appreciated his office all the more today because usually an even layer of dust covered everything, and today, the dust had clearly been heaved around by the police search. I saw clear spots and spots where the dust had been piled up like a snowdrift by moving objects around. Nearly every knickknack stood near but not precisely on the clear spot where it had been resting for months or years before the police arrived. Strangely enough, this added to the room's charm.

Okay, it was clutter, but there's clutter and clutter. Not all clutter was created equal. Even with the signs of the police search, I liked Giles's clutter. Cla.s.sy, academic clutter. No more useful than any other clutter, perhaps, but I still had a hard time condemning it.

When I had the time-after the yard sale was over and Giles cleared of murder charges-I'd have to do some long hard thinking about my definition of clutter. And probably talk the subject over with Michael. I didn't want the house to be a place to keep our stuff while we went out to get more stuff, or however George Carlin had defined it. And I needed to make sure Michael felt the same way. If he didn't- "Sorry about that," Giles said, when he was finally able to hang up. "Apparently I'm not Dean Snyder's favorite underling today."

"Here's hoping we can change that, and quickly," I said. "Have you seen Professor Schmidt today?"

"Arnold Schmidt? Not that I recall," Giles said. "Dare I hope that you're about to pin the guilt on him instead of me?"

"It's a possibility," I said. "Remember the woman in the flowered hat who identified you to Chief Burke as the person who was entering the barn as she left?"

"The dame who fingered me?" he said, in a bad imitation of an American gangster's accent. "You bet I remember her."

"She lied," I said. "Not about seeing you, but about talking to Gordon. I suspect he was already dead and locked in the trunk when she went into the barn."

"Good show!" Giles exclaimed. "If you can prove that, perhaps Chief Burke will start looking for the real killer!"

"I'll try," I said. "And since Arnold Schmidt was just leaving when she walked in-"

"Oh, please let it be him," Giles said. "He's the most insufferable sn.o.b in the department."

"I'll keep you posted," I said.

"Please do," Giles said. He returned to his paperwork, looking almost cheerful.

I felt a momentary twinge of irritation. Was Giles doing anything to help himself, or just sitting back and waiting for me to clear him? He could at least have offered to help me find Schmidt. The way Michael would, if he weren't back at the yard sale, trying to keep it under control while simultaneously humoring Mother.

Then I realized I was being too hard on Giles. Not fair to expect a mild-mannered, reclusive English professor to turn into Sam Spade in a pinch, even if he was a vintage mystery fan. And definitely not fair to compare him with Michael. Giles needed rescuing. And the next step was to tackle Schmidt.

Of course, first I had to find Schmidt.

Chapter 29.

I headed toward Westlake, where Professor Schmidt lived. Like much of Caerphilly, it had been built in quaint, mock-Tudor style, but in Westlake the houses were closer to manors than cottages, and the lawns were so impeccable that I suspected the owners made their gardeners manicure the gra.s.s blades with nail scissors. A very posh neighborhood filled with astronomical mortgages and the department heads and professors emeriti who could afford them. Even full professors probably steered clear of Westlake unless they were independently wealthy or had a spouse with a well-paying job. Michael and I hadn't done much house hunting there, partly because we could never have afforded it, and partly because the houses there hardly ever went on the market anyway.

My route led through a part of Caerphilly I'd seen far too often since Mother's arrival a week ago, since it contained most of the town's antique stores. Including Gordon McCoy's Antique and Junque Emporium, though that was on the very fringes of the district, merging into a neighborhood of stores where normal people shopped and restaurants that served iceberg lettuce instead of its snooty Italian cousins. Out of curiosity, I took the street that went past Gordon's shop.

How strange. Three of Caerphilly's small supply of police vehicles were parked outside the Antique and Junque Emporium, along with the chief's blue Chrysler. Had the epicenter of the murder investigation moved from our house to Caerphilly, unnoticed by the crowds hovering around the yard sale? And for that matter, unnoticed by the various print and broadcast journalists?

I cruised past the shop at about ten miles per hour, but I didn't see anyone, so I circled the block and came round again. Still nothing to see, so this time, as soon as I turned, I parked the car on the empty side street. If it hadn't been for the police cars, I might have thought I was in one of those science fiction flicks where the heroine wakes up to find that everyone else has left the planet.

I strolled up to the front of the store, nonchalantly, and peered in the open door.

Gordon's front room was just as I remembered it, a cluttered warren without any apparent theme or organization. Priceless antiques stood next to items I'd have a.s.sumed were tacky pieces of junk except that their presence in Gordon's stock meant they were actually valuable collectibles. Chinese brush paintings hung beside painted velvet renditions of bullfighters and paint-by-number oils of puppies and kittens. Rare art pottery and Ming vases shared shelf s.p.a.ce with vintage c.o.ke bottles. Enameled samovars and hookahs shouldered a humongous scale model of the Stars.h.i.+p Enterprise, and tiny bronze Degas ballet dancers loitered in corners with the sort of elaborate, special edition Barbie dolls that would probably run away screaming if a small child ever tried to pick them up.

There were at least a dozen more rooms much like this one, though the most obscenely expensive stuff lived in the front room, where Gordon could show it off. And where it might catch the eye of a pa.s.sing collector.

Come to think of it, that was the theme-stuff Gordon could sell for obscenely high prices.

Though one room always felt different-the one where Gordon kept the used and rare books. I remembered it as way in the back, so I had to go through five or six other rooms to reach it, but perhaps deep in the heart of the shop would be a more accurate description. Was it only my bias that made this room feel like a serene oasis in a chaotic jumble? Or did it reflect how Gordon felt about the books? Endicott, his former partner, did say books were Gordon's first love.

I could relate to that. I'd noticed in the last several weeks that books were among the few material objects I didn't feel ambivalent about. In fact- Stop it, I told myself. I was on the verge of feeling sorry for Gordon, and apart from being a strange and disturbing feeling it wouldn't help me find his murderer. And I didn't have time to worry about it now. Chief Burke was standing inside the shop, and I'd lingered long enough at the door that he'd turned and spotted me. Too late to slip away quietly, so I waved and smiled at him.

"What's up?" I asked.

"Give me strength," Chief Burke said, rolling his eyes upward. Then he lowered them, fixed them on me, and frowned. "Just what are you doing here?"

"Rubbernecking," I said. "Morbid curiosity."

"Not trying to solve the murder case yourself?"

"I have every confidence that by the time you finish your investigation, you'll be convinced that Giles had nothing to do with Gordon's death," I said. "Of course, if I come across any information that will help speed up the process ..."

"You'll pa.s.s it along, instead of going off half-c.o.c.ked and getting yourself in a world of trouble," Burke said. "Naturally."

He didn't sound as if he believed it.

"Naturally," I said. "So what's going on?"

"Someone broke into Mr. McCoy's antique store," Burke said. "I don't suppose you remember what you were doing last night around midnight?"

"Michael and I were over at Giles Rathbone's house, having sherry and discussing his case," I said.

"Having sherry with your boyfriend and my prime suspect," Burke said, nodding. "Figures."

"Why would you suspect me of breaking into Gordon's store?" I asked.

"Looks like your style," he said. "There wasn't anything missing or damaged, and he had plenty of things a real burglar would have taken-a fair amount of cash, not to mention some nice jewelry and silver. But whoever broke in last night just disarranged some of the papers in his office. I figure it was someone snooping around for information."

"And you a.s.sume that someone was me?"

"If you didn't do it, I apologize, and point out that it wouldn't exactly be out of character, and if you did, I do hope you were careful and wore gloves."

"I always do when I'm burgling," I said. "Incidentally, that was a joke."

"Hmmm," the chief said, studying me.

"What was the burglar looking for?" I asked.

"If I knew that, I'd know who did it, wouldn't I?" the chief said. "They were messing around in his business records."

"Maybe it was someone who felt cheated by Gordon," I suggested. "And wanted proof so they could file a claim against the estate."

"Like as not," the chief said, nodding. "Of course, that doesn't narrow down my field of suspects. I have yet to find anyone who didn't feel cheated by Gordon."

"Well, I didn't, but that's mostly because I never did any business with him," I said.

"Why not?" the chief asked. "Did you have something against him?"

"Not particularly," I said. "We had him in to look over Mrs. Sprocket's antiques before the yard sale, but since he'd usually offer about half of what the other dealers would pay, we never sold him anything. And you've seen the yard sale-you can imagine about how much we need to buy junk. Or antiques."

"So you'd have no reason to want him dead," the chief said.

"Apart from a few stray homicidal urges when he knocked on our door before dawn, no," I said. "Out of my life, yes; but I wouldn't have needed to kill him to achieve that, because I knew once we were through with the yard sale, he would be. Out of my life, that is."

"I see," the chief said.

"Does this mean that you're seriously considering the possibility that Giles didn't do it?"

"I'd be a fool not to look at a suspect who just waltzes right into my investigation," the chief said.

I decided to a.s.sume this was a subtle hint that I'd overstayed my welcome, so I wished him luck and left.

I glanced up and down the street when I stepped out of Gordon's shop, and could have sworn I spotted someone peering around the corner of the building at the end of the block and then ducking back when he saw me.

I sauntered to the other end of the block, turned the corner, and then ran as fast as I could. Luckily I didn't have to go all around the block. An alley halfway down the cross street ran through the block, giving access to the back doors of the shops on either side. I raced through the alley to the next cross street and then carefully stuck my head out.

The someone was peering around the corner again. He ducked back, and I recognized him.

Professor Schmidt.

Chapter 30.

I waited until Schmidt peered around the corner again and was absorbed in whatever he saw. Then I crept up behind him.

"Looking for something?" I asked.

He jumped a foot in the air and uttered a rather undignified squeak. When he saw who it was, he tried to return to his usual pompous manner, but I decided I liked him better off balance.

"So, first you lie to Chief Burke, and now you're spying on him," I said. "Want to tell me why?"

"I beg your pardon," he said, but I could see he was nervous.

"Why don't you just tell Chief Burke what really happened in the barn?" I asked.

"What do you mean, what really happened?" he said. "I went there because Gordon offered to sell me some papers. He didn't have the papers with him, so I advised him to stop wasting my time and went away again. That's all that happened."

"Oh, sure," I said. And a sudden thought hit me- Schmidt wasn't just eager to buy the papers from Gordon-he was nearly frantic. What kind of papers would make anyone that upset?

"And you didn't burgle Gordon's shop last night?" I asked. "I suppose that was one of his other blackmail victims."

It was a gamble, but it worked.

"Blackmail," he exclaimed. "What are you talking about?" But from the way he flinched and the fearful look on his face, I knew I'd guessed right.

"Oh, come on, professor," I said. "I know he was blackmailing you. I heard that much. But I don't understand what he had on you."

For that matter, I was having a hard time imagining Schmidt doing anything worth blackmailing about. Perhaps in his long-distant youth, before he'd become such a pompous jacka.s.s.

"Mrs. Pruitt," he said, finally.

I pondered that for a few moments. Were we talking about the same Mrs. Pruitt? The long-dead poetess? I'd seen the portrait, and all the photographer's art couldn't make her look like anything but what she was: a stout, hatchet-faced woman in her fifties. She'd been closer to ninety when she died, and that was still several decades before Professor Schmidt was born.

"Well, obviously it was about Mrs. Pruitt," I said. "But I'm not sure I understand the details."

He sighed, loudly, and stared at the ground for a while.

"And if I can't understand it," I went on. "Well, maybe the police won't, either, but I'll just have to take that chance, and tell them everything I do know."

That finally worked.

"As I'm sure you know," he said, "I've made Mrs. Pruitt my life's work."

I nodded encouragingly.

"Not just a.n.a.lyzing her work, but defending it."

"Defending it against whom?" I said.

"Her work has sadly fallen out of fas.h.i.+on," he said, indignantly. "It's become quite trendy to belittle her work. Not just its quality, but its originality."

"They find her work derivative?" I asked.