I wondered if the police really would release Giles soon or if he’d have trouble getting bail on a weekend. But I didn’t want to depress Michael. Especially since he was packing a picnic supper to take with us. Even if he was thinking of Giles’s missed meal more than ours, he was definitely packing enough for all three of us, and then some.
“Signs up,” Rob said, wandering back in. “Maybe we should threaten to turn Spike loose on anyone who isn’t gone by six.”
“Where is Spike, anyway?” I asked.
“Um … the cops had me put him in his pen when the crowds started dying down,” Rob said. “I guess he’s still out there.”
“Rob! You know he’s supposed to come in before dark!”
I hurried outside.
We’d had to placate Michael’s mother, Spike’s absentee owner, when she’d first heard about the pen, and explain that no, Spike wasn’t living in the barn. But since I’d spent so much time there getting ready for the yard sale and would spend just as much after we moved in, working in my forge, Dad and Michael thought it would be a good idea to have Spike there with me.
“You can keep each other company,” Dad had said.
“Some company,” I’d said, frowning at Spike, and from the expression on his face, I suspected Spike felt the same. A pity he couldn’t talk, or he’d set them straight by explaining that he could care less about human company as long as his food bowl was full.
“Besides, he can warn you of trespassers,” Michael had said. “It’s pretty isolated out here.”
So far, the one time we’d had a trespasser—a rather shabby character who tried to enter the house through an unlocked window—Spike slept through the whole thing, including my chasing the would-be thief away with a large (though unsharpened) broadsword. But even if Spike had barked when the guy began trying doors and windows, I’d probably have ignored the noise, since I’d long since gotten used to him barking at every legitimate visitor who turned into our driveway, every car or truck that passed by on the road, every mouse or squirrel that showed its nose in the barn, the owls every time they came or went, and the occasional shadow of a cloud or hawk passing overhead.
Still, I had to admit that Spike enjoyed his pen. A Spikesized doggie door let him go at will from the large, outside area, which we’d nicknamed the barking lot, to a small inside enclosure along one wall of the barn, where we kept his spare bed and a set of bowls. The main problem was that we couldn’t leave him out at night, to howl at the moon or mourn its absence, for fear of owls getting him.
“The barn owls probably wouldn’t try it,” Dad had said, eyeing Spike judiciously. “Unless they were really starving, and clearly they aren’t, if they’ve had a second brood. But a great horned owl wouldn’t hesitate to attack Spike.”
“It would if it knew him the way we do,” I’d said, out of loyalty. But I had to admit, Dad had a point. Spike’s craving for outdoor nightlife would have to remain unfulfilled.
I only hoped the police on duty would let me in to whisk him away before the owls did.
Chapter 20
Outside, I spotted Dad and Eric talking to Sammy, the young uniformed officer, at the gate of the yard sale area.
“Meg!” Dad called. “Do you want to come with us?”
“That depends on where you’re going,” I said. “I need to get to the barn to fetch Spike.”
“Then come along,” Dad said. “We’re checking on Sophie.”
“Sophie?” I spent a few minutes racking my brain to remember who Sophie was and how she fit into the murder investigation or the family tree. Or had someone once again made the mistake of thinking that Spike needed feminine companionship? If so, this time I’d send the vet bills to the idiot responsible.
“I give up,” I said, finally. “Who’s Sophie?”
“One of your owls,” Dad said, in a reproachful tone. “The female of the nesting pair in the barn.”
“Oh,” I said. “I don’t think we were ever formally introduced. But isn’t the barn still off-limits?”
“Not as long as Sammy’s escorting us. I thought you might like to see the barn. Since Sophie’s there,” he added, with a look of such perfect innocence that I knew he was up to something.
“Ah,” I said. “Yes, just for a minute.”
“Come with me,” Sammy said. “But remember, don’t touch anything.”
I started guiltily when he said that. He’d probably noticed me scrutinizing the various boxes and piles lined along the fence. I decided it wouldn’t be a good idea to explain that I was only wishing for someone to steal the hideous orange and purple lamp shade from Mother’s stash, not actually planning to do it myself.
“Have you heard anything more about that great horned owl sighting?” Dad asked Sammy.
“No, but I’ve asked the night shift to keep their eyes open,” Sammy said.
“For an owl?” I asked.
“Night time is when you find them out, owls,” Sammy said.
“Not just an owl,” Dad added. “A great horned owl!”
“Cool!” Eric said.
“Is this a good thing or a bad thing?” I asked.
“Depends on your point of view,” Dad said. “It’s a fascinating species, of course, and like the barn owl, endangered, so in theory it’s a good thing, spotting one. But not so close to the barn.”
“It could eat Sophie’s fledglings,” Sammy said.
“It could eat Sophie!” Dad exclaimed. “They’re two to four times the size of full-grown barn owls.”
“Can someone take Spike inside now?” I asked.
“Poor Sophie!” Eric exclaimed, looking very worried. “We have to do something!”
I deduced from Dad’s silence and the solemn look on his face that there wasn’t much we could do to save Sophie from becoming some larger owl’s dinner if she were unlucky enough to encounter one.
Inside the barn, I was relieved to see that Spike was fine. Dad, Eric, and Sammy hurried over to the far corner, where the owls had their nest high up in the rafters, while I followed more slowly, studying my surroundings. The barn was going to be my forge—my workspace. I felt possessive about it. I felt a stab of guilt when I realized that I harbored some resentment toward Gordon. Okay, I could blame him for trespassing, but it wasn’t his fault he’d gotten murdered in the barn. And was it selfish to hope that his murder wouldn’t affect my ability to work here?
But looking around, I felt reassured. I probably couldn’t get past what had happened here until the chief had arrested someone for Gordon’s murder—arrested the real killer, that is, not poor hapless Giles. But the barn already felt like home again. More so than the house, I realized, with a pang of guilt. In fact, while my decluttering labors had dimmed my appreciation for the house, they hadn’t touched my love of the barn.
Perhaps because the barn didn’t need much more work. No one expects a blacksmith’s forge to look like a House Beautiful photo shoot. All I had to do was move my tools and equipment into the least ramshackle end of the barn and I was set. The odd falling board or shingle wouldn’t hurt my iron and tools. They’d survive if the whole barn fell down on them, which two expensive structural engineers had separately warranted wouldn’t happen.
I’d planned to set up my forge Monday, as soon as I packed off the unsold yard sale debris to charity or the dump. Maybe I should still do that, even though we might not be finished with the yard sale. I’d be a lot easier to live with after a few hours of pounding on things with my hammer.
I stood with my eyes half closed, appreciating the barn, while the owl fanciers, having reassured themselves that Sophie hadn’t fallen victim to a hulking feathered bully, began searching the barn floor beneath the nest. For pellets, I assumed.
I suspected Dad was prolonging our stay in the barn so I could examine the place for clues, but I wasn’t sure there were any to find. I saw all the stuff Gordon had accumulated, neatly arranged along one wall, much of it still dusted with fingerprint powder. We’d
have to clean the powder off before we put the stuff back on sale. If they even let us sell it.
And if the police dusted the entire two-acre collection for prints, maybe I should just call Goodwill now.
“Sammy, they’re not dusting everything for fingerprints, are they?”
“No, mostly just the stuff in here,” he said.
“That’s good,” I said. “So why aren’t Horace and the rest still working on the stuff outside?”
“They will be tomorrow,” Sammy said. “Right now, they’re searching the suspect’s house.”
“For what?” I asked. “They have the murder weapon.”
“Yes, but they haven’t found the victim’s keys and wallet.”
Aha! So they were the mysterious missing items I’d overheard Horace mention.
“And they won’t find them at Giles’s house, I can tell you that,” I said.
Sammy shrugged.
“They have to search, anyway,” he said. “You’ve got to be thorough in a murder investigation.”
I decided to suppress my honest opinion of the investigation so far. Instead, I drifted to the corner where they were searching and looked up toward the owls’ nest.
Sophie sat on a rafter, gazing down at us. Her face, with its heart-shaped ruff of white feathers and long, flat beak, looked deceptively mild. I was relieved to see that she wasn’t bobbing her head. I’d seen her do it once, when I was up in the hay loft clearing things out some weeks before, and thought it rather cute how closely she resembled one of those bobble head dolls. Only later did Dad break the news to me that I’d probably gotten closer to her nest than she liked, and that the head bobbing was a sign that she was getting ready to attack.
She wasn’t bobbing tonight. She only stared down at me and blinked, in slow motion, as if asking me what I was doing here. Good question.
“Dad, can you keep an eye on things here while Michael and I go into town to see Giles?” I said, still watching Sophie.
“Don’t tell me the jail has visiting hours this late,” Dad said.
“Not until morning,” Sammy said.
“Actually, we hope the lawyer will get him bailed out soon, and we can take him home,” I said.
“Can’t the lawyer do that?” Dad asked.
“The lawyer could,” I said. “But Michael thinks Giles would appreciate seeing a few familiar faces, and I want to hear Giles’s side of the story.”
“Ah,” Dad said, nodding. “Get him off his guard and interrogate him. Good plan.”
“Not exactly,” I said. “We’re on his side, remember?”
“That’s right,” Dad said. “But I have to admit, in a way, it’s a pity. Giles would make such a perfect defendant.”
“That’s not fair,” I said. “Just because he’s a bit stiff and pompous—”
“I didn’t mean that at all,” Dad said. “Do you really think he’s pompous? I thought he was a friend of yours.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions about what you meant. It’s just that I’ve noticed that people who don’t know him get that impression.”
Including me, when I first met him.
“I just meant that he would be a very distinguished defendant,” Dad said. “Cultured, well-spoken, and … well, handsome doesn’t apply, I suppose, but he’s …”
“Appealing, in an untidy, bookish, professorial fashion,” I suggested.
“Yes, that’s the ticket,” Dad said. “And very suitable, too. I mean, it’s a much classier murder than most, isn’t it? Killing someone over a book, instead of drugs or money or infidelity or any of those typical motives. And a vintage mystery book, to boot—I really like that part.”
“I’m sure it will be a comfort to Gordon at that great yard sale in the sky, knowing he made an atypically classy exit. And to Giles when he’s put on Death Row.”
“Laugh if you like,” Dad said, in a tone of mild reproach. “I’m just saying that when you finally identify the real culprit, I hope it’s someone … um …”
“Equally classy, but not so nice?” I suggested. “I’ll remember that tomorrow when I start auditioning candidates for the role of the real killer. Meanwhile, I want to interrogate—I mean talk to Giles. Just to see if he knows anything we can use to shake Chief Burke’s belief in his guilt. You know, if I were an evil person, I’d point out to the chief that there was probably an eyewitness to the murder.”
“An eyewitness!” Dad exclaimed.
“Meg,” Sammy said, very solemnly. “You should have mentioned this to the chief earlier.”
“It wouldn’t do any good,” I said. “You’ll never get him to talk.”
“Who?” Dad asked, while Sammy shook his head with a worried air.
“Him.” I pointed to Spike.
“Hmm,” Dad said, looking at Spike. “You’re right. He could very well have been in the barn when it happened.”
“And look how cheerful he is,” I said. “He’s not usually this happy unless he’s bitten someone quite recently. He probably enjoyed the vicarious bloodshed.”
“You could be right,” Sammy said. “Do you suppose we should test him for blood spatter?”
“What good would that do?” I asked. “For one thing, he probably does have blood spatter on him; he must have bitten three people today alone. But even if you found Gordon’s blood on him, all that would prove was that he might have been in the barn at the time of Gordon’s murder, which isn’t exactly relevant. That bookend weighs more than Spike, and I’m pretty sure the murderer had opposable thumbs.”
“I should tell the chief, though,” Sammy said. “Don’t give him a bath until I find out if we need to test him.”
“A bath? Do I look like a masochist?” I said. “But if you like, you can take him into protective custody.”
“No, thanks,” Sammy said.
“Released on his own recognizance,” Dad said.
I was about to leave them to their fun when I saw Sophie close her eyes and shudder slightly.
“Dad,” I said. “I think something’s wrong with Sophie.”
Chapter 21
Dad, Eric, and Sammy hurried back to the corner and stood at my side. I pointed. Sophie’s face took on a pained expression. Her eyes closed, her features scrunched up, and she shifted uneasily from foot to foot.
“Grandpa?” Eric said, looking slightly uneasy himself.
“Should we leave her alone?” I asked, jerking my thumb at Eric, trying to communicate to Dad that if Sophie were about to keel over at our feet, maybe we should lure Eric out before her demise.
“No, let’s stay a little longer,” Dad said.
“She hasn’t been poisoned, has she?” I asked. “That is what SPOOR is worried about, right? Farmers using poison on their rodents and killing the owls?”
“No, I don’t think she’s been poisoned,” Dad said. “Watch.”
We watched for a few more minutes. I was already working on how to explain Sophie’s death to Eric if Dad stuck me with the job, and wondering whether we had a box the right size to serve as a coffin for the owl funeral that I could see in our future.
Suddenly Sophie stretched out her neck, opened her beak, and spat out a pellet.
“There,” Dad said, beaming proudly, as if Sophie had done something particularly clever. “You see, she’s fine.”
“Co-o-ol!” Eric said, running to retrieve the pellet. For the SPOOR collection, no doubt.
“Ick,” I said.
“Can she do it again?” Eric asked.
As if this were her cue, Sophie launched herself into the air and swooped gracefully out the open door.
“Isn’t that fascinating?” Dad said.
“At least she makes a lot less fuss than a cat with a hairball,” I said. “Take Spike inside, will you? I’ll see you when I get home from jail.”
“Is there anything else I can do to help?” Dad asked, as he headed over to Spike’s pen.
“No,” I said. “Then again
—if you wouldn’t mind. It’s not something you can do tonight, but if you wouldn’t mind tomorrow …”
“Just say the word,” Dad exclaimed.
Dad was disappointed at his secret assignment—obtaining lavender and rose bath products from Cousin Rosemary—but the warning that she must on no account know that he was buying them for me satisfied his taste for cloak-and-dagger operations.
Michael and I had plenty of time to cool our heels and eat our share of the picnic supper when we got down to the police station, but shortly after ten, Chief Burke let Giles go. Probably a good thing we’d come to collect him. The defense attorney was having a splendid time, arguing with the chief and threatening to file various motions. He wasn’t eager to leave. We hustled the tired and disheveled Giles out of the station.
“Enthusiastic sort of chap,” Giles said, when we were safely in the car.
“Well, this is what they live for, defense attorneys,” I said. “A nice, challenging case.”
“And he’s very good,” Michael put in. “Whenever any of the law school professors need a defense attorney, he’s the one they call.”
“That’s encouraging, I suppose,” Giles said. “Just as a point of information, do the Caerphilly law faculty get arrested often?”
“Not really,” Michael said. “But I’m told that when and if they were, he’s the very man they’d call.
Giles nodded.
“Think positively,” I said. “As a mystery buff, don’t you find it exciting to experience the criminal justice system firsthand, instead of just reading about it?”
“No, I think reading about it is infinitely preferable,” Giles said, looking at me with alarm. “For that matter, I suspect it will be a good long while before I really enjoy reading mysteries again. Especially police procedurals.”
“You’ll feel better in the morning,” Michael said.
“Better, perhaps; but not differently,” Giles murmured.
Giles lived in a quiet neighborhood, only minutes from the police station—and, for that matter, only minutes from campus. You had to move out of town, as we had, to find anyplace that wasn’t only minutes from anyplace else in Caerphilly.
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