Outside the library, I took a deep breath, leaned against the wall, and dialed Horace’s cell phone.
“Meg, what’s up?” he asked. “Are you—”
“The chief needs you,” I said.
Normally I responded patiently to everyone’s constant inquiries about how soon I planned to go into labor, but seeing a dead body had used up a lot of my usual reserve of calm. Even if it was the dead body of someone I’d come to dislike so intensely in our brief acquaintance.
“What’s wrong?” he said, all business.
“We have a body in the library,” I said.
“A real one?” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “One of the professors.”
“A professor? In the library? That sounds like—”
“Yes, someone killed a professor in our library,” I said. “And no, it wasn’t Professor Plum, and they didn’t use the candlestick, the lead pipe, or the wrench. Get all the Clue jokes out of your system before you get here—I don’t think the chief will like them.”
“Roger,” he said, and hung up.
Michael answered on the first ring.
“Everything okay?” he asked. “Or are you, I hope, calling to say that our departmental prima donna is ready for our meeting?”
“Meeting’s off,” I said.
“Don’t tell me she went home!”
“Not quite,” I said. “She’s dead.”
A pause. My grandfather appeared at the end of the hall, dragging a kitchen chair.
“You’re serious?”
“Someone hit her over the head with Tawaret.”
“With what? A toilet?”
“No, Tawaret. Egyptian goddess of pregnancy and childbirth. Not the real thing, of course—a statue. One of Rose Noire’s presents.”
I heard him telling Abe and Art, and their exclamations.
“Hang on, Meg,” Michael said. “Abe wants to talk to you.”
“Meg, are you all right?” Abe asked.
“Tell her she should sit down,” I heard Art say in the background. “She’s had a shock; she shouldn’t be on her feet.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “And Grandfather just brought me a chair—thank you,” I added to Grandfather. “Hang on a sec.”
I pressed the mute button on my phone.
“Grandfather,” I said. He was, predictably, heading back to the library. “Can you make sure no one leaves the premises until the chief gets here?”
“Leaves the premises?” he said. “You think this is a murder investigation?”
Had he somehow missed the bloodstained hippo statue?
“Looks that way to me,” I said. “Until the chief says it isn’t, we need to act on the assumption it is. We need to make sure people don’t leave. Normally I’d do it, but I’m a little out of it right now. You take charge. Round everyone up and keep them in the kitchen—most of them are probably hanging out there anyway.”
“Right,” he said, and stalked back down the hall toward the kitchen.
I pressed the button to unmute my phone.
“Sorry, Abe,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Should I notify the department chair?” he asked. “The death of a member of his department—he’s going to want to know about that.”
“Especially when it’s murder and most of the suspects are going to be faculty or students in his department,” I said. “But I think maybe the chief would rather break the news.”
“Are you sure it’s murder?” he asked.
I closed my eyes for a few moments. Fragments skittered across the inside of my eyeballs. The statue of Tawaret falling from a high shelf—only the shelves were all across the room. Dr. Wright succumbing to a sudden suicidal urge and clubbing herself to death with the statue—also unlikely. I even had a vision, worthy of Rose Noire, of Tawaret coming suddenly to life and leaping onto Dr. Wright’s head.
“I can’t figure out any way for it not to be murder,” I said aloud. “And that’s going to cause trouble in the department, isn’t it?”
Abe sighed.
“I do hope Art and I can alibi each other for the time of death, whenever that turns out to be,” he said.
“Abe!” Art said.
“Because the way things have been going in the department, Chief Burke would be a fool if he didn’t put us at the top of his suspect list.”
Just then I saw the chief’s portly form appear at the other end of the long hallway. Rose Noire was almost running to keep up with him.
“Speaking of the chief, he’s here now,” I said. “Talk to you later.”
“Take care of yourself,” Abe said. “You don’t need this right now. And there’s plenty of other people around to handle whatever problems this causes. Just yell if you need help.”
“Thanks.” I hung up.
“. . . at the end of the hallway,” Rose Noire was saying. “Meg! Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Dr. Wright isn’t. Dad’s in there checking to see if she’s really dead,” I added to the chief. “And I put in a call to my cousin Horace. And I sent my grandfather to the kitchen to make sure all your suspects stay put until you’re ready to deal with them.”
“All my suspects,” he repeated. “So you already know who my potential suspects are?”
I winced. The chief was touchy about even the suggestion of a civilian interfering with one of his cases. His round, brown face was already creased in the frown he usually wore when investigating a crime.
“Sorry,” I said. “I should have said ‘everyone who was in the house when this happened.’ Whether they’re suspects or potential witnesses or just people who might get in your way, I figured you wouldn’t want them showing up here. Whatever you want to call them, Grandfather is rounding all of them up in the kitchen.”
“You keep saying all,” he said. “Just how many people are here at the moment?”
“Let’s see . . .” I began counting on my fingers, and the chief began scribbling names in his notebook. “Me. Michael. Rose Noire. Mother. Dad. Grandfather. Mrs. Fenniman. Three Shiffleys. Señor Mendoza. Art Sass. Abe Rudmann. Dr. Blanco. Five or six of Rob’s student interns. And an estimated two dozen drama students. Oh, and an unknown number of additional Spanish and drama students who are just visiting to translate and eat paella and join in the party. At least fifty people.”
The chief had stopped scribbling midway through my listing. By the time I finished, he was staring at me with an expression of dismay.
“I’m sorry there are so many of them,” I said.
“Not your fault,” he said. “Any of them with some particular reason to dislike the deceased?”
“All of them,” I said. “Well, all of them who know her. Dr. Wright is—was—an extremely difficult person.”
The chief scribbled some notes.
“Let me take a look at the crime scene,” he said. “Then we can continue this.”
“Fine,” I said. “By the way, is Scout okay?”
“Scout?” The chief blinked. He was devoted to his recently adopted hound, and normally would have beamed that I’d asked. But clearly his mind was on the murder. “He’s fine. Why?”
“Dad mentioned that he’d seen you at the vet’s,” I said. “It only just occurred to me to worry about why Scout was there.”
“He was just getting his annual checkup,” the chief said. “But thank you for asking. I hope it’s okay that I left him in your kitchen with one of my deputies.”
“Absolutely fine,” I said. “Just make sure he doesn’t eat any of the spilled pills.”
“Spilled what? Never mind. You can tell me in a minute. Right now I’m going to inspect the crime scene.”
I sat back in my chair and closed my eyes. Probably just as well I had a few moments to gather my thoughts before talking anymore to the chief. I needed to figure out where to begin—with Señor Mendoza’s arrival? With the prunes’ arrival? Or just with my arrival at the library? And should I tell the chief about Ramon�
��s—and for that matter, Michael’s—possible motive? Probably better to be honest about the many reasons everyone had to dislike Dr. Wright. He’d find it out anyway, so better if it came from me. And—
“Meg?”
Art, Abe, and Michael appeared at the other end of the hallway, with Sammy Wendell, one of Chief Burke’s officers, trailing behind them.
“Meg? Are you all right?” Art called.
The chief stuck his head out of the door.
“Chief Burke, thank goodness you’re here,” Abe said.
Michael just strode on ahead of them until he arrived at my side, then knelt down beside my chair and put his arms around me. I suddenly realized how shaky I felt, as if even sitting down I was in danger of keeling over.
“Should she be sitting here?” Art fretted. “Shouldn’t she be lying down?”
“May we inform the chairman of the English department?” Abe asked. “He should be told as soon as possible.”
“Maybe we should send someone out to the barn to check on Dr. Blanco,” Michael said, lifting his head. “After all, a lot of the people who have it in for Dr. Wright don’t like him very much either.”
“Oh my God,” I said. “You’re right! And he probably knows Dr. Wright better than any of us.”
“Sammy,” the chief said. “Go to the barn and fetch this Dr. Blanco person they’re so worried about. Put him in the kitchen with the rest.”
“Yes, sir,” Sammy said, and disappeared down the hallway.
“If you don’t mind,” the chief said to Michael and me, “I’d like to set up a work area here at your house for now. More convenient, until we finish processing the crime scene and interviewing all these witnesses.”
“No problem,” I said. “Would you like to use the nursery? With any luck, you’ll have solved the crime before Bonnie and Clyde arrive to occupy it. And meanwhile, I’m sure Mother would understand if she has to postpone her decorating for the time being.”
“No thank you,” the chief said. “I’m not getting between your mother and a decorating project. Besides, I’m too old to go traipsing up and down those stairs every five minutes.”
“Then what about my office?” Michael suggested. “It’s right here next to the library.”
“Maybe a little too close,” the chief said. “How can we be sure it’s not a part of the crime scene?”
“Because we’ve been keeping it locked up ever since the students moved in,” Michael said. “When we offered to let the students stay here, we realized it could create a security problem—we’d have dozens, maybe hundreds of people coming and going. Most of them perfectly honest of course, but it only takes one crook.”
“So we locked everything valuable or confidential in the closet in Michael’s office, and we keep the office itself locked,” I added. “There are French doors between the office and the library, but they’re locked from the office side.”
“Any chance someone could have made a key to the office door?” the chief asked.
“It’s a combination lock on a padlock,” I said. “So it’s unlikely.”
“Smart,” he said. “I’m having to keep my office locked up these days. Got twenty-seven criminal justice majors living in the jail wing until that damned heating plant is fixed. It’s as if we put the police station in the middle of a blasted dorm.”
“I know what you mean,” Abe said. “We have a house full, too. Rivka must have taken in the whole library science department. All through dinner last night they were planning a demonstration against library funding cuts.”
“We just took freshmen,” Art said. “They do get younger every year, don’t they? And none of them eat properly. It’s a wonder they’re not all deathly ill.”
We all sighed and shook our heads for a few moments.
“When you see Dr. Blanco, you can ask him about the heating plant,” I said.
“Why?” the chief said. “He’s in the English department, right? What do they have to do with the heating plant?”
“Dr. Wright, the victim, was in the English department,” I said. “Blanco’s in administrative services.”
“Then what was—never mind,” the chief said. “I’ll find out when I question him. Gentlemen, why don’t you wait for me in the kitchen? I understand Dr. Blake is gathering my potential witnesses there. You can help keep all those students in order. Ms. Langslow can let me into the office, and I’ll take a brief statement from her. If she shows any signs of tiring, Dr. Waterston, I’ll give you a call.”
Dr. Waterston. That was more like it. I beamed approvingly at the chief, which seemed to unnerve him so I schooled my face into the more serious look he would consider suitable for a participant in a murder investigation.
Michael and his fellow professors reluctantly shuffled back down the hallway. I took the smaller passageway that led to Michael’s office, which the previous owner had called the music room. It occupied the same place at one end of the library that the sunroom did at the other. I was punching the combination into the lock when we heard a disturbance outside in the main hall.
“What in tarnation?” the chief muttered, as he strode back toward the sounds. I followed more slowly.
Chapter 11
Outside, about halfway down the long hallway, Dr. Blanco and my grandfather were standing nose to nose, glaring at each other. Well, more like nose to chin, since my grandfather was half a head taller.
“I insist on talking to the chief,” Dr. Blanco was saying.
“And I’m telling you, he wants everyone to wait in the kitchen,” Grandfather was saying.
“What’s going on here?” the chief said.
Blanco made a quick feint to the left and then broke right, getting past my grandfather and heading for the library door. The chief planted himself in front of the door, feet apart, hands on hips, with a stern look on his face.
Dr. Blanco pulled up short a few feet from the chief. He was panting heavily and before speaking he paused for a moment to catch his breath, pull a handkerchief out of his pocket, and wipe the sweat from his forehead.
“I suppose we should be relieved that at least he’s okay,” I murmured.
“Am I to understand that something has happened to Dr. Wright?” Dr. Blanco asked.
“Coshed on the head with a bookend,” my grandfather said, before the chief could answer. The chief glared at him. Dr. Blanco’s mouth fell open in shock.
“It wasn’t a bookend,” I said, momentarily disconcerted by the thought of having a matched set of Tawarets. “There’s only the one of her. Just a statue.”
“Coshed on the head?” Dr. Blanco repeated. “Are you sure? By whom?”
“We’re not sure of anything yet,” the chief said. “And by whom is exactly what we’re trying to figure out. Dr. Blake, if you could go back to the kitchen to keep an eye on things?”
“Roger,” my grandfather said, and strode back down the hall.
“Oh my,” Dr. Blanco said, as if he’d finally taken the news in. His shoulders slumped and he visibly wilted.
“I’m sorry you had to learn the news in this way,” the chief said. “But I’m afraid Dr. Wright is dead. We are investigating the possibility of foul play.”
“I knew he was upset,” Blanco said, shaking his head as if in disbelief. “We knew he wouldn’t take the news well but I would never have expected him to do anything like this.”
“Who’s that?” the chief asked.
“Ramon Soto.”
“Ramon Soto?” The chief glanced at me. “Is this one of the people your grandfather’s got corralled in the kitchen for me?”
“Probably,” I said.
The chief pulled out his cell phone, peered over his glasses at it, and punched a few numbers.
“Sammy? Make sure there’s a Ramon Soto there. Uh-huh. No, just make sure he’s there and stays put like the rest of them.”
The chief hung up and turned back to Dr. Blanco.
“I’d like to hear more about why you suspe
ct this Mr. Soto,” he said. “But we’re still processing the crime scene so for right now, I’d like you to wait in the kitchen.”
“With the rest of the suspects,” Dr. Blanco said. “You suspect me of harming Dr. Wright? She was a colleague!”
Colleague? That was fairly tepid. He could at least have said friend.
Blanco must have realized how weak it sounded.
“A trusted colleague,” he added. “We worked very closely together on a number of difficult projects.”
Better.
“In fact,” he added, “I may have been the closest friend she had at the college.”
I got the curious impression that he was mentally totting up his own social circle, to reassure himself that he wasn’t as isolated as his colleague.
“You have my condolences,” the chief said. “I was about to ask if you could wait in the kitchen with the rest of the good people who have had the bad luck to be here when Dr. Wright met her unfortunate end.”
“I see,” Dr. Blanco said. He sounded somewhat mollified. “I will, as instructed, proceed to the kitchen to await my turn to be interviewed.”
He turned and started down the hall.
Just then two figures appeared at the far end. Randall Shiffley, accompanied by Deputy Sammy.
“Chief,” Randall called. “We’ve got a delivery truck outside—some of the stuff Mrs. Langslow ordered for the nursery.”
“Oh, bother,” I muttered. I closed my eyes and leaned against the wall.
“If we don’t let ’em deliver it, I’m not sure when we can get the stuff back. Is it okay if we—you! What are you doing here, you miserable rat?”
I opened my eyes to see Randall Shiffley and Dr. Blanco looking at each other from opposite ends of the hall. Randall was glaring fiercely, and Blanco was hunching again.
“So this is where you’ve been hiding when I try to reach you,” Randall went on. He began striding down the hall toward us.
“I’ve been completely available by cell phone at all times,” Blanco said. “I’m not hiding. But I choose not to respond to abusive, harassing phone calls.”
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