Owls Well That Ends Well (35 page)

“It won’t work,” I said.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because I won’t let you get away with it,” Michael said, from the doorway.

Giles and I both started. I felt a flood of relief at seeing Michael alive and well. And then almost immediately wanted to kick myself for the missed opportunity. By the time it occurred to me to jump Giles while he was still off balance, he wasn’t.

“Michael,” Giles said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but you can’t talk me out of this. Step over beside her.”

“So you can shoot us both?” Michael said, without moving. “Is that what you want? Our blood on your hands?”

“Not to mention all over your books,” I added.

“The police are on their way,” Michael said. “I called them just now. Even if you shoot us both, they’ll catch you.”

Giles was glancing back and forth between the two of us. He narrowed his eyes and focused on Michael for several beats. Then he shook his head.

“No,” he said. “You wouldn’t stop to call the cops when you saw she was in danger. You’d just dash in and try to bluff me into giving up.”

I resented his underestimating Michael’s intelligence. At least I hoped he was underestimating it. Michael looked calm and confident, but then, he was an actor. He got paid to look calm and confident.

“Do you realize what you’re doing?” Michael began. “Gordon was an accident. But if you shot us, there would be no way you could pretend it was an accident. Not to the police and not to yourself.”

He was talking in a calm, soothing voice and, I hoped, distracting Giles. Good. Because while I hoped Giles was wrong, and Michael had sensibly called the police before barging in to rescue me, I wasn’t counting on it. I waited till Giles was completely focused on Michael, and then I made my move. Unfortunately, Giles wasn’t as distracted as I thought.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he exclaimed, grabbing the antique sword with his left hand, before I could get more than one step closer to it.

And then he focused back on Michael. He didn’t exactly turn his back on me, but he clearly wasn’t watching me closely.

Bad decision. Just because I didn’t have a weapon didn’t mean I wasn’t dangerous.

When Michael, who was a far more astute judge of my character than Giles, made a sudden feint to distract him, I tried again. I flung the contents of Rose Noire’s little perfume vial at Giles’s face. As I hoped, he flinched when the liquid hit him, and then the eucalyptus and menthol made his eyes water. He didn’t drop the sword or the gun, but he didn’t react quickly enough when I scrabbled at the book stand behind me.

You’d think an English professor would remember the old adage about the pen being mightier than the sword. The twenty-pound abridged edition of the Oxford English Dictionary made just as good a weapon as a saber. And a lot tidier; no messy blood to deal with.

Giles dropped both sword and gun and keeled over when the dictionary hit his head. A stack of books cushioned his fall—not that I particularly cared at the moment—and Michael tied him up with a long telephone cord while I called 911 with my cell phone.

“I did already call,” Michael said. “I’m a lot more practical than Giles thinks, you know.”

“Yes, I know he already called, Debbie Anne,” I said into the phone. “But tell the chief to hurry. We have the real murderer this time.”

“You see?” Michael said.

“I never doubted you,” I said. “But I couldn’t pass up the chance to let the chief know that we caught his murderer.”

“We did, didn’t we?” Michael said, with a smile. “As a team, we’re not half bad.”

And then, since Giles was not only tied up but still unconscious and the police wouldn’t show up for at least a few minutes, we seized the chance to end our quarrel in a much more satisfactory fashion.

Chapter 46

Chief Burke must have been in the next county. Most of the Caerphilly police force, two state troopers, and several dozen rubberneckers had arrived before he did. The tiny, book-filled office started to give me the creeps—or maybe it was the presence of the man I’d considered our friend before he almost became our murderer—so I convinced the cops who had arrived to let Michael and me wait for the chief on the building’s front veranda. We were standing arm in arm behind a huge white marble pillar, peeking down at the growing crowd, when the chief finally pulled up and began climbing the long front stairway.

“Did you catch Barrymore Sprocket?” I asked when he arrived at the top.

“Yes,” the chief said, sounding rather grumpy as well as out of breath. “Spotsylvania County picked him up half an hour ago. We’ll look pretty silly when we have to tell them he’s the wrong man.”

“He’s not the wrong man,” I said.

“He didn’t kill Gordon McCoy,” the chief said.

“He did take Gordon’s wallet, not to mention our cash box, and he knocked Dad out and tied him up,” I pointed out. “Which means he’s wanted for grand theft, assault and battery, and interfering with the scene of a crime, right? Just because he’s not the killer doesn’t mean he isn’t a criminal.”

“I suppose,” the chief said. “Thank goodness those bulletins always say alleged anyway.”

“And when you put the bulletin out, I was alleging like mad that Barrymore was the killer,” I said. “Not your fault.”

“Hmph,” the chief said, and turned to go inside.

“You forgot to ask him about the money Sprocket stole,” Michael said.

“We can worry about that later,” I said. “The money’s not that important. And if we don’t get it back from Barrymore, there are plenty of other Sprockets.”

He nodded.

“I should have known he couldn’t be trusted, the minute he walked in,” I said.

“I recall that you didn’t trust him,” Michael said. “You saw through Sprocket almost as soon as you met him. Not like me. I’ve known Giles for seven or eight years, and I never suspected he’d do something like this.”

“Not your fault,” I said.

“No, it is,” he said. “I should have realized something was wrong when he didn’t immediately warm to you.”

“Not his fault,” I said.

“Yes, it is,” Michael said. “If he wasn’t smart enough to like you for your own sake, he should at least have tried harder for my sake. I’m better off without a friend like that.”

He sounded tired and depressed. And to cap it all off, we saw the department chair and vice chair whispering over at one end of the veranda, and occasionally glancing our way.

“Already planning which of my detractors to appoint to my tenure committee,” Michael said. “Well, the hell with them. If they kick me out, it’s their loss.”

“The hell they will,” I said. “Wait here.”

Ironically, when Giles was about to kill me, the campus had been completely deserted, but now the crowd, drawn by the police sirens, was increasing by the minute. The police were keeping most of them, including the reporters, down in the street, but a growing number of faculty members had shown up and were milling about the veranda, exchanging misinformation. Including, oddly enough, Professor Schmidt. I walked over and pulled him aside.

“Can we talk for a minute,” I said.

“What about?” he said. But he must have guessed. He followed me, glancing over his shoulder, until we were out of the crowd’s earshot.

“Mrs. Pruitt,” I said. “The cover-up has to stop.”

He closed his eyes, as if I’d just announced my intention of executing him.

“Of course, I understand what happened. In your youthful enthusiasm for your subject, you succumbed to the temptation to hide the books. And, no doubt, you’ve regretted it ever since, but have been unable to find a way out of the trap you devised for yourself.”

He eyed me warily, as if not sure where I was going.

“But now, you have a chance to make a fresh start!” I exclaimed. “You can disarm suspicion by being the one to reveal to the world the discovery of these new primary sources.”

“Of course before I can do that I need to find these exciting new primary sources,” he said.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll give them to you.”

“And just where am I officially supposed to have gotten the damned things?” he asked.

“From me,” I said. “I found them in Mrs. Sprocket’s attic. Or possibly her barn.”

“Where did she get them?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “You’d be amazed what I found in her clutter collection, and I have no idea where she got any of it. Who cares? I found this box of books, and when I saw Mrs. Pruitt’s bookplates in them, I contacted you immediately, because I knew you were the world’s leading authority on her work, and I thought you would like to have them. Little did I know that these books would revolutionize Pruitt scholarship. You will analyze them, in a series of articles in all the usual scholarly journals, and show the world that you’re humble and honest enough to reverse your opinion when new facts come to light. It’ll probably breathe new life into your career.”

I could see a glimmer of hope in his eyes. And also a lot of suspicion.

“What possible reason could you have for helping me?” he asked.

“No reason whatsoever,” I admitted. “But I’m very keen on helping Michael.”

He frowned, puzzled.

“I’m sure if he knew, Michael would share my belief that you deserve a chance to make this right,” I said. “Just as I’m sure if you think about it, you’ll come to share my belief that Michael deserves tenure.”

“Ah,” he said.

“So provided you snag the soon-to-be-vacant slot on Michael’s tenure committee, I see no reason to bore the public with any other version of events.”

He studied me through narrowed eyes.

“Done,” he said.

He strolled away, looking happier than I could ever remember seeing him. I returned to where Michael was standing and put my arm around his waist.

“Professor Schmidt looks disgustingly cheerful,” he said, leaning his head on mine. “Is he already gloating over Giles’s downfall and my future departure?”

“No,” I said. “I think we’ll find that his close brush with murder and the possible notoriety of being a suspect has given Professor Schmidt a change of heart.”

“He has a heart?” Michael said. “Who knew?”

“So if you hear that he’s lobbying to replace Giles on your tenure committee, don’t worry,” I said.

He blinked. Then he smiled.

“You’re up to something,” he said.

“Always,” I said.

“You want to share?”

“You’re better off not knowing,” I said.

“You know,” he said. “I think you’re much better at faculty politics than I am. If you won’t misconstrue this as a sexist remark, or an attempt at pressuring you into something you’re not ready to consider, or anything unfortunate like that, may I say that you have all the makings of an excellent faculty spouse? Assuming that’s a role you might possibly consider performing at some future point.”

I took a deep breath.

“I think it’s a role I might be very interested in performing, on one condition.”

“Name it,” he said, suddenly sounding much more serious.

“Neither of our mothers gets to plan the wedding.”

“Done,” he said.

He leaned over, pulled me behind a pillar, and kissed me. But a couple of titters from the knot of faculty members nearby broke his concentration and he frowned, at them and at the crowd milling about in the street. Including the reporters.

“My car’s down there,” he said, gesturing toward the street. “Why don’t we leave Chief Burke to wrap up his loose ends, and go home to discuss this more privately?”

“Home’s a bad idea,” I said. “By now, we’ll probably have at least fifty friends and relatives there, waiting to hear all about what happened.”

“Oh,” he said, his face falling. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“On the other hand,” I said, starting down the steps. “I have it on good authority that Caerphilly Creek is lovely by starlight.”

Other Meg Langslow Mysteries by Donna Andrews

We’ll Always Have Parrots

Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon

Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos

Murder with Puffins

Murder with Peacocks

AVAILABLE FROM ST. MARTIN’S / MINOTAUR PAPERBACKS

Praise for Donna Andrews’s Meg Langslow Mysteries

Owls Well That Ends Well

“It’s a hoot … A supporting cast of endearingly eccentric characters, perfectly pitched dialogue and a fine sense of humor make this a treat.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Death by yard sale epitomizes the ‘everyday people’ humor that Andrews does so well … For readers who prefer their mysteries light … Andrews may be the next best thing to Janet Evanovich.”

—Rocky Mountain News

“Andrews delivers another wonderfully comic story … This is a fun read, as are all the books in the series. Andrews playfully creates laughable, wacky scenes that are the backdrop for her criminally devious plot. Settle back, dear reader and enjoy another visit to Meg’s anything-but-ordinary world.”

—Romantic Times
(starred review)

We’ll Always Have Parrots

“Laughter, more laughter, we need laughter, so Donna Andrews is giving us
We’ll Always Have Parrots
… to help us survive February.”

—Washington Times

“Perfectly showcases Donna Andrews’s gift for deadpan comedy.”

—Denver Post

“Always heavy on the humor, Andrews’s most recent Meg Langslow outing is her most over-the-top adventure to date.”

—Booklist

“I can’t say enough good things about this series, and this entry in it.”

—Deadly Pleasures

“Hilarious … Another winner … keeps you turning pages.”

—Mystery Lovers News

Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon

“There’s a smile on every page and at least one chuckle per chapter.”

—Publishers Weekly

“This may be the funniest installment of Andrews’s wonderfully wacky series yet. It takes a deft hand to make slapstick or physical comedy appealing, yet Andrews masterfully manages manages it (the climax will have you in stitches.)”