Owls Well That Ends Well

by Donna Andrews

  “I think if you took a look at what she has in mind—”

  “Could we talk about it later,” I said. “I’m pretty tired.”

  “Sure,” he said. But I sensed something off in his tone. I felt a sudden flash of anger—not at him, though. And not really at Mother. At life, which keeps throwing stuff at us at the wrong moment. I took a couple of breaths and swallowed the impulse to snap at him.

  “Sorry,” I said aloud. “I know it’s important. Too important to talk about when I’m so tired I’m not really coherent. Not to mention so cranky I wouldn’t blame you if you let me walk home.”

  “I understand,” he said. “I just thought, while she’s up here, that this might be a good chance for you and your mother to do some bonding.”

  “Bonding?” I echoed. “Mother and I don’t need bonding. Mediation, occasionally, or possibly therapy. Have you been spending too much time in the psych department?”

  “Just a thought,” he said.

  But he meant well, I knew. He just hadn’t figured out yet that Mother and I could squabble noisily over everything under the sun without being really mad at each other. He and his mother hardly ever raised their voices, but when they did—look out. Mother and I rarely saw eye to eye, but we understood each other.

  “Maybe we could do something nice for Mother when the yard sale is over,” I said aloud. “Like that antiquing trip she’s been talking about.”

  “Good idea,” he said. And this time I could hear the hint of a smile in his voice. More like the normal Michael. A few seconds later he reached out and took my hand. A nice gesture, however transient, since his car had a standard transmission, and he’d probably have to downshift in a minute or two. Still—another quarrel averted. Or was it only postponed?

  Part of the problem was our difference of opinion on how to handle my parents when they came up with the sort of peculiar ideas my family specialized in, particularly when it came to how other people should run their lives. Michael favored humoring them as long as possible, while I thought it worked better if you set them straight immediately. Humoring them only hurt their feelings more in the end, not to mention creating a very real danger that they’d go out and do whatever strange thing you were trying to talk them out of.

  And the house caused more of these conflicts every week.

  Damn the whole house project anyway. I wondered how we could possibly get safely through the next few months, or even, God help us, years of repairs and renovations.

  Of course, looking on the bright side, next to surviving the house with our relationship intact, proving Giles innocent of murder looked remarkably easy.

  Despite the late hour, as we approached the house we could see lights blazing on every floor. And when we got closer, I heard shrieking from somewhere in the house. Barrymore Sprocket stood on the front step, smoking a cigarette.

  “There you are,” he said, as I ran toward him. “They’ve all been looking for you.”

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  He shrugged, and just then another chorus of shrieks rose up, so I raced past him into the house, and then up to the third floor, where the shrieking came from.

  Chapter 23

  I arrived in time to see a dozen of my relatives, clad in bathrobes and bedroom slippers, stampede past the head of the stairs, all shouting variations on “Watch out! Here it comes!” as they passed. They all vanished into the last two rooms along the corridor, slamming the doors behind them.

  Here what comes? The hall looked empty from where I stood—I’d stopped two steps below the third floor landing. I stuck my head into the hall and peered up and down. Nothing.

  “What is it?” Michael asked from the second floor landing.

  “No idea,” I said. “But something has them scared.”

  “So I gathered from Barrymore,” he said, arriving at my side. “But he hasn’t a clue what.”

  We couldn’t see anything ominous from our post, so we stepped out into the hall. No fearsome monster appeared to threaten us. The corridor was an empty line of closed doors, except for the last door on the right, which hung open.

  “Shall we check there?” Michael said.

  Just then I heard a soft hissing noise. I looked up and saw a small barn owl sitting on the ceiling light fixture at the end of the hall. I pointed it out to Michael.

  “Sophie?” he asked.

  “Too small. One of the fledglings, I suspect.”

  And quite possibly the fledgling who’d gotten in the habit of having its bedtime snack outside our window. The fledgling was bobbing its head as if warning that it was about to attack, but when I stepped closer it fled through the open door. Screaming erupted from the darkened room beyond.

  When Michael and I stuck our heads in, we found that the screaming was coming from under a sleeping bag, while the owl fluttered around the edges of the ceiling, its ghostly white face luminous in the faint light from the door.

  “Come out from there!” I ordered the unseen screamer on the floor.

  No response. I fumbled beside the door for the light switch.

  When the light came on, I saw a familiar face pop up from beneath the sleeping bag. Darlene, Horace’s girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend now, I supposed. Unfortunately, popping up brought her face-to-face with the owl, which had just landed on a nearby box. Darlene shrieked. Maybe the owl did, too, though if it did, Darlene drowned it out. At any rate, they both dived for cover.

  “You can come out now,” I said. “It went into the closet.”

  “It will get me!” came the voice from beneath the sleeping bag.

  “No, it won’t,” I said. “Michael and I won’t let it. Just crawl out and run for the door. We’ll cover you.”

  Michael took up a karate stance and looked menacingly at the closet door.

  The sleeping bag heaved itself up and scuttled out the door.

  “So what do we do about him?” Michael asked, nodding at the closet.

  “Is at least one of the windows open?”

  “All of them wide open.”

  And without screens, of course—another item on our repairs and renovation list.

  “Then we leave the lights on and let him find his own way back out into the darkness,” I said. “Unless there’s some compelling reason for him to stay—do you suppose we have mice?”

  “I think if we had mice, we’d have found out by now,” Michael said, “considering how many people have been sleeping on the floor.”

  “Good point,” I said. “But let’s not mention that, or we’ll be up half the night chasing imaginary mice out of everyone’s sleeping bags.”

  Outside, I found that a dozen of my relatives had surrounded Darlene and were trying to comfort her. My arrival sent her into a renewed frenzy.

  “You knew!” she sobbed. “You knew that monster was out there all the time! How can you be so cruel?”

  “I told you to keep your windows closed if you didn’t want things flying in,” I said.

  “I thought you meant insects,” she said. “Little insects. So I wore some mosquito repellant. I didn’t expect to be attacked by a ravenous bird of prey! How can you—”

  “Where are the scoundrels?”

  We all started as Mrs. Fenniman emerged from her room, waving the antique cavalry saber she always kept under her bed for protection. Though considering how soundly Mrs. Fenniman slept, I didn’t think the local burglars were in much danger. And come to think of it, tonight she was using a sleeping bag like the rest of us—where had she put the sword?

  “Gone,” I said aloud.

  “Dang,” she said. “Never any fun around here.”

  With that, she jammed the point of the sword into one of the floorboards and left it there, quivering, while she stomped back into her room.

  Mrs. Fenniman’s arrival had startled Darlene into silence, but now she began to sniffle again.

  “Now, now,” Rose Noir said, putting her arm around Darlene’s shoulder. “I know it was a terrifying
experience. But consider what a wonderful omen you’ve received!”

  “Omen?” Darlene said, with a sniffle. “That horrible monster?”

  “Many cultures consider the owl sacred,” Rose Noir said. “They were beloved by the goddess Athena, symbolic of wisdom, and considered protectors of warriors.”

  She nattered on for a few minutes, relating bits of owl lore from around the globe, in a strangely soothing voice. Darlene began looking calmer, and one by one the rest of the gathered relatives yawned, said good night, and returned to bed.

  “Why don’t you stay in my room for the rest of the night,” Rose Noir suggested eventually. “I’m sure Meg will get the owl out of your room by morning.”

  Still sniffling Darlene made a visit to the bathroom—though not until Michael had checked it and declared it owl-free.

  “I notice you didn’t mention all the cultures that consider owls a bad omen,” I said to Rose Noir once the bathroom door had closed behind Darlene. I knew a bit of owl lore, too, thanks to Dad and SPOOR. “Like the ancient Roman and early British belief that hearing an owl hoot foretells death, or all the African countries that think the owl is too evil to name and just call it ‘the bird that makes you afraid,’ or—”

  “I see no reason to dwell on the negative side of things,” Rose Noir said, frowning at me.

  Cousin Darlene emerged from the bathroom.

  “I’ll need my makeup kit in the morning,” she said, and followed Rose Noir down the corridor, trailing her sleeping bag behind her.

  “Yes,” I murmured as the door closed behind her and Rose Noir. “And you might just get it back, if you tell me who you sold Horace’s gorilla suit to.”

  “She didn’t,” Michael said. “How could she?”

  “She did, and he dumped her because of it,” I said.

  “Good for Horace,” Michael said.

  Another item in the plus column. Michael not only tolerated my family, he actually liked them.

  Some days, more than I liked them myself.

  “Why not get Rose Noir to find out who got the suit?” Michael suggested. “Darlene will probably feel very grateful to her by tomorrow.”

  “Great idea,” I said.

  Just then Mrs. Fenniman’s door flew open. She stomped out into the hall, wrenched the saber out of the floor, and disappeared into her room again. A few seconds later I heard a sharp thud. Michael and I both winced and glanced involuntarily at the gash in the hall floorboard.

  “We need to refinish the floors anyway,” Michael said, finally. “Let’s turn in.”

  Chapter 24

  Sunday morning dawned bright, clear, and unseasonably warm. I knew because I got to watch. I woke up just before dawn, started worrying about everything I had to do, and couldn’t get back to sleep. I didn’t hear any hooting owls or screaming cousins, but just listening for them kept me wakeful. And the eight-foot-tall windows that made the room so wonderfully light and airy faced east. Given our remote location, I hadn’t made curtains a high priority. That would have to change.

  Still, lovely weather. Perfect yard sale weather. Too bad that instead of a yard sale, we still had a crime scene in the backyard. I could hear voices—probably Cousin Horace and the local evidence technician showing the crime scene to the promised reinforcements from Richmond. A lot of reinforcements, from the sound of it. At least what I could hear over the renewed hammering from the roof.

  I tried to focus on something positive. The bare wooden floors, for example. Beautiful hardwood floors; at least they would be after someone (probably me) refinished them. One of the few things in the house that didn’t need expensive major repairs. Just some elbow grease. Okay, a whole lot of elbow grease; probably more than I’d have to spare for months. But they were already beautiful in potential.

  Or maybe I just liked them because they were bare. Only the sleeping bag, pillows, and an alarm clock to mar the beautiful emptiness; and I could roll up the sleeping bag neatly and put it and the pillows in the closet for the day.

  Of course, I’d have to wait until Michael got up.

  I talked myself out of going down to tidy the kitchen. The itch to tidy was only a symptom. Tidying the already tidy house wasn’t what I really wanted.

  I wanted to clear the two acres of junk out of our backyard, and I wanted to clear Giles of murder. The junk would have to wait until the police released the scene.

  So what could I do about the murder?

  I took out my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe. Which Michael sometimes calls my security blanket. He’s not far wrong. It’s certainly my way of imposing order on an unruly world. Whenever I feel overwhelmed, I take out the notebook and make sure I’ve written down everything I have to do or remember. No matter how dauntingly long the list is, I know I’ll feel better once I have each task pinned down in ink and captured between the notebook’s covers. In the last few months, especially when Michael was away on his acting trips, I sometimes felt the notebook was the only thing that kept me sane.

  I’d been scribbling for a long time when Michael finally turned over and yawned.

  “Morning,” he said, with a sleepy smile.

  In fact, a downright inviting smile, and I was tempted to rejoin him in the sleeping bag. Just then the boom lift platform appeared outside the window, carrying half a dozen of my uncles and cousins wearing plaid flannel shirts and toting saws. They waved cheerfully before settling down to the fascinating task of removing the dead oak branch.

  Michael sighed and waved back.

  “I’ve put curtains really high on my to-do list,” I said. “And meanwhile, I need to ask you something.”

  “Ask away,” he said.

  “What do you know about Mrs. Pruitt?”

  “Who?” he said, frowning and sitting up.

  “Ginevra Brakenridge Pruitt,” I said. Shouted, actually; the volunteer lumberjacks had started their chain saw.

  “The Poet Laureate of Caerphilly?”

  “Is she?”

  “Well, not officially,” he said. “And I suspect the administration would love to downplay her connection to the college, if it weren’t for all that money she left them. The whole student demonstration thing was pretty embarrassing.”

  “Demonstration?” Caerphilly’s students were notoriously apolitical. “When did the students demonstrate, and what did it have to do with Mrs. Pruitt?”

  “Back in the late seventies,” Michael said. “I wasn’t here, but I’ve heard all about it. They protested against having to sing the school song at graduation.”

  “Let me guess: Mrs. Pruitt wrote it.”

  “All five interminable verses,” Michael said. “The administration appointed a commission to study the suitability and political correctness of the lyrics, and declared a moratorium on singing it until the commission finished its work. And since the commission’s last meeting was held in 1981 …”

  “So that’s why we all hum along instead of singing the school song at college events,” I said. “I’ve been meaning to ask.”

  “In my opinion, which counts for very little around the English department—”

  “But a great deal here in the sane world.”

  “She’s unreadable. Not that I’ve tried recently, but I did, back when I was new on campus, and hoping to make a good impression on people like Schmidt. I know that sounds pretty ridiculous,” he said, frowning slightly when I began laughing.

  “No,” I said, wiping my eyes. “I’m laughing because I tried the same thing, before the first time you took me to a faculty bash. I looked up some of the people you told me were important and tried to bone up on their subjects. I should have remembered Schmidt from that. And you’re right. She’s completely unreadable.”

  “So under the circumstances,” Michael said, smiling again, “I imagine the only person in Caerphilly who cares much about Mrs. Pruitt would be Arnold Schmidt.”

  “The world’s leading scholar of her oeuvre,” I said, nodding.

  �
��Probably the world’s only scholar of her oeuvre,” Michael said. “He’s built his career on analyzing her work.”

  Outside the window, the chainsaw sputtered into silence and was replaced by a lively quarrel between several of the amateur tree surgeons over where to make their next incision.

  “Would he kill to protect his career?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Michael said. “I suppose he might, but I can’t imagine how Gordon McCoy could have anything to do with Mrs. Pruitt or Schmidt’s career. Gordon doesn’t—didn’t do anything without a financial motive, remember, and how could you possibly make any money from a long-dead poetess nobody reads anymore?”

  “Isn’t the word ‘poetess’ rather antiquated?” I asked.

  “And Mrs. Pruitt isn’t?”

  “True. Anyway, Schmidt said Gordon was rumored to have found a cache of Pruitt’s papers,” I said. “Which he wanted to buy, of course.”

  “Well, it’s not as if he’d have any competition,” Michael said. “The college certainly wouldn’t care. But even at Gordon’s prices, he could afford them. No need to kill for that. And I have a hard time imagining Schmidt doing anything violent. For that matter, I have a hard time imagining him doing anything even mildly energetic.”

  “Hmmm,” I said. “Still, I have this feeling he’s hiding something.”

  “Something reprehensible, I hope,” Michael said, crawling out of the sleeping bag. “He’s one of the department’s worst snobs.”

  We heard a loud cracking noise outside.

  “Timber!” several of the volunteer lumberjacks shouted.

  I glanced up at the window, but couldn’t see anything except several of my uncles flinching as something—presumably the dead branch—landed below, with a lot of crashing sounds. Also breaking glass sounds. Then the uncles glanced up at me with sheepish looks on their faces.

  “How bad is it?” I asked, as Michael peered out of the window.

  “We’d probably have had to replace that window anyway,” Michael said. “Whoever owned the funnel cake truck will be upset, but it’s not as if they had our permission to park it on our lawn, so we’re probably fine.”