Owls Well That Ends Well

by Donna Andrews

  “It’s not as if you were the only one to find the body,” I said. “People spent the entire morning finding it and hiding it again.”

  “They did? Well, how was I to know that?” she said. “I was standing there, looking at his dead body, and all I could think of was that everyone in town knew how much I hated him. Half of them had heard me threaten him, when I’d lost my temper. I figured if they found me with the body, they wouldn’t bother looking for the real killer. I was terrified. Hysterical. So I ran out.”

  “Without even thinking about what you should do.”

  “Exactly!” she exclaimed.

  “But not before taking his keys.”

  “Out of his pocket, no doubt,” Michael added. “Must have been pretty tough, hysterical as you were. Reaching down, touching the body of a dead man—a murdered man—and hunting around until you found his keys.”

  “I didn’t have to hunt,” she said. “I knew he kept them in his right back pocket. He was lying on his face; I didn’t even have to move his body.”

  Despite the dim light, she must have read the look on my face.

  “Not much, anyway. Okay, it was pretty awful, having to roll him over like that, but I figured it was my one chance to find out what the bastard was hiding from me, and where he was keeping it. I’d been trying for over a year, and that damned lawyer of his kept blocking everything I did.”

  “But why were you still so worried about finding his hidden assets?” I asked. “You didn’t have to worry about losing out on the property settlement. All you had to do was inherit.”

  Unless he’d made a will that disinherited her, of course. But I had a hard time imagining Gordon being that organized, and I suspected, from the look on her face, that she felt the same way.

  “Yeah, whoever killed him did you a big favor,” I went on. “Unless you did yourself a big favor.”

  “I say she looks good for it,” Michael snarled, in his best imitation of a hard-bitten PI from a noir flick. I had to pretend to cough to cover my grin, but Carol took him quite literally.

  “I didn’t do it, I tell you!” she wailed.

  “Give us a reason to believe you,” I said.

  “You won’t believe me,” she said, shaking her head. “No one will.”

  “We might if you told the truth about what you did and saw in the barn,” Michael said.

  “Especially if you saw anything that would help identify the real culprit,” I said.

  She looked back and forth between the two of us, the flashlight beam moving with her head.

  “I saw someone taking something from Gordon’s body,” she said. “His wallet. And then he slipped out the other door, just as I came in.”

  “Who was it?” I asked.

  “You see!” she exclaimed. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t believe you,” I said. “I just asked who you saw.”

  “It was your tone of voice,” she said, pouting. “You’re using a very hostile, accusing tone of voice.”

  “That’s probably because I feel slightly hostile,” I said. “After all, you just admitted that you saw someone leaving the murder scene with Gordon’s wallet in his hands and you didn’t do a thing about it.”

  “Why should I?” she said. “It’s not as if Gordon ever had much in his wallet worth stealing. Probably a few dollars and his famous rubber checkbook.”

  “It never occurred to you that the person you saw might have done more than steal the wallet—that he might have been Gordon’s killer?”

  “Of course,” she said. “But what if the chief didn’t believe me? And what if the killer did? Do you think I want a cold-blooded killer knowing I’m the only witness who can put him away?”

  “So you say nothing, and let a cold-blooded killer roam the streets while an innocent man rots in jail,” I said.

  “He’s not in jail,” Carol said. “He’s out on bail.”

  “No thanks to you,” I said. “I know why you didn’t tell anyone—you just wanted to get a chance to snoop in Gordon’s stuff, and you didn’t care what happened to anyone else. So who was it?”

  “Who was who?”

  “Who took Gordon’s wallet?” I snapped.

  “I don’t know!” she said.

  She took a step back. Probably because she’d seen my free hand clutch involuntarily into a fist.

  “Try again,” I suggested.

  “I don’t know his name.”

  “Describe him, then.”

  “It was that creepy little man who was helping you run the yard sale,” she said.

  Creepy little man? The only men who’d been helping me, apart from Michael, were Dad and Rob, and while they both had their detractors, I couldn’t imagine anyone calling either of them a creepy little man.

  “What creepy little man?” Michael asked.

  “That Lionel Barrymore person,” she said.

  “Barrymore Sprocket?” I asked.

  “That’s the one,” she said.

  “And you didn’t even bother mentioning this!” I exclaimed. “If you had, they would never have arrested Giles! Tell me exactly what you saw.”

  “Meg,” Michael began. I gestured for him to be quiet. We had Carol talking; why interrupt her?

  “I didn’t really see anything else,” she said.

  “Meg—we really need to go back to the house,” Michael said.

  “But—”

  “Meg,” Michael said. “Barrymore Sprocket was helping your father count the yard sale proceeds, remember?”

  Chapter 40

  “Oh, great,” I said. “We’ve probably left Dad alone with the murderer.”

  “I’ll go get the car,” Michael said, running toward where we’d hidden it.

  “Give me your car keys,” I said to Carol. I shoved my flashlight into my pocket and held out my right hand while pulling out my cell phone with the left.

  “Use your own car,” she said, hugging her purse to her body.

  “We’re using our own car,” I said, as I dialed 911. “You’re waiting here for the police, and I’m taking your car keys with me to make sure you do it.”

  Carol picked that moment, when I was distracted and the light from Michael’s flashlight was disappearing into the distance, to turn off her own flashlight and make a run for it.

  “Oh, no you don’t!” I yelled, launching myself at her.

  Apparently the 911 operator answered the call while I was airborne.

  “A-a-i-i-e-e!!”

  Carol screamed when I knocked her down, and kept screaming at intervals while I relieved her of her keys and hunted through the leaves and gravel of the parking lot for her flashlight and my cell phone. As a screamer, she was right up there with Fay Wray for volume and drama but, luckily for me, she tended to go all out on each scream and then have to rest and catch her breath for long seconds. In between her screams, I convinced Debbie Anne down at the police station that Carol was merely hysterical, and that the real danger was at the old Sprocket farm, which was what most locals still called our house.

  “I’ll send someone over as soon as possible,” she said.

  “Can’t you get word to any of the officers who are still at the crime scene?” I asked.

  “Oh, Meg, I’m sorry,” Debbie Anne said. “When the chief gave the go-ahead for y’all to resume your yard sale, he took away some of the officers, and the rest all came back with Mr. Early when they arrested him. I think he sent everyone home for a good long rest. Even Sammy called in to say he was going home, now that all the sheep were back. But don’t you worry; I’ve sent pages out to every single one.”

  Wonderful.

  “Just tell them to hurry,” I said. “Before there’s another murder.”

  Carol was still screaming, though with increasingly longer rest periods, when Michael pulled up, spraying gravel all the way to the front door of the building. He didn’t stop—just slowed down and threw the door open, and he hit the accelerator about a
second after I landed in the passenger’s seat, with my cell phone and both sets of confiscated keys still in hand.

  “Are those Carol’s keys?” he asked.

  “And Gordon’s, too,” I said. “Damn! Dad’s cell phone isn’t answering. We really need a phone at the house. Damn the Sprockets, anyway.”

  “What about Rob? Or your mother?”

  “Trying them,” I said. In fact I was cycling through the entire family phone list, with no luck.

  Just by way of a change, I dialed a few Sprockets whose numbers I had in my cell phone, and on the third try I reached a Sprocket instead of an answering machine.

  “Do you know where Barrymore is?” I said, cutting off his complaints about being awakened.

  “Barrymore?” the sleepy Sprocket said. “Still locked up in Deep Meadow where he belongs, I hope. Why?”

  I hung up.

  “Barrymore’s a jailbird,” I said. I recognized Deep Meadow as one of the Virginia State prisons.

  I tried Chief Burke’s direct line, only to find myself forwarded to the dispatch office. Debbie Anne gave me another perky reassurance that she was sure one of the officers on patrol would be there any minute.

  “Any minute,” Michael repeated, when I relayed this to him. “We’ll be there any minute ourselves.”

  “Damn,” I said. “I should have talked to Sprocket. I’d almost forgotten that he’d even been in the barn.”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” Michael said, as he rounded a corner on two wheels.

  “But I should have remembered it,” I said. “And I know why I forgot. He came over and told me that he couldn’t make Gordon leave the barn, so I should go and do it. And I had no reason to suspect him, because when he did it, I didn’t even know Gordon was dead.”

  “And he probably did.”

  “He definitely knew, the bastard, because he probably did it. And what’s more, I bet he was trying to set me up to be the one who found the body.”

  “Didn’t succeed, though,” Michael said.

  “He did succeed in making me think he was harmless.”

  The house was in sight now. And completely dark, except for a single light in the kitchen. Apart from my car, there were only two vehicles in the driveway. Both apparently belonged to some relative or other; I’d seen them around for the past several days. Under other circumstances, I’d have been thrilled to find the road outside our house empty except for the deep, muddy ruts along both sides, and the yard littered only with debris, and not with hundreds of people. But now, I swore as I wondered what had happened to the several dozen relatives who’d been underfoot every minute of the last week. Had they all gone out to eat pizza on Dad’s tab? I hoped he was with them.

  The only unusual note was the sheep lying in the middle of our driveway, placidly chewing its cud.

  “Damn!” Michael said, as he braked and swerved onto the grass to avoid it. “I thought Sammy said he’d gotten them all back.”

  “Maybe he miscounted, or maybe Farmer Early did,” I said. “We’ll worry about her later.”

  “Just what we need,” Michael muttered. “More sheep thrills.”

  I ignored him. I was racing up the steps to the front door by this time, with Michael on my heels. I pulled out my keys to get in, but Michael reached past me and shoved the door open.

  The front door unlocked and hanging open—I didn’t like the looks of this.

  “Hello?” I called. “Anyone home?”

  I heard only echoes. I ran back to the kitchen. Empty.

  “Shall I call Luigi’s?” Michael asked.

  I shook my head and pointed to the half-eaten sausage and mushroom pizza on the table. Evidently Dad had gotten his favorite pizza after all.

  I walked back into the central hallway and listened. Apart from Michael’s footsteps as he moved from the kitchen to the dining room and then the living room, I could hear nothing but the muted sounds of insects outdoors. Quiet. Too quiet; why weren’t we hearing police sirens by now?

  “Dad?” I called up the stairs.

  I raced through the upstairs floors while Michael checked the basement. We met again in the kitchen.

  “Do you suppose he finished counting the money and went to Luigi’s?” Michael suggested. “Maybe that’s why the carryout pizza’s not finished. I’ll call and check.”

  “Maybe I should check the yard sale area,” I said, peering out, though the entire yard was dark and still.

  “Hello, Mrs. Langslow!” Michael said. “No, not now—something’s come up. Look, is Dr. Langslow there? Damn. Sorry. What about Barrymore Sprocket?”

  Or was something moving in the yard, I wondered. I pulled the curtain aside to get a better look. I realized I’d left my flashlight in the car, and turned to get it. I’d need it for searching the yard.

  “Your mother says your dad and Barrymore still haven’t gotten there, and they assumed they were still here counting the money,” Michael said, with his hand over the mouthpiece. “Shall I call the police and tell them—”

  “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”

  Chapter 41

  Michael almost dropped his phone when a bloodcurdling shriek pierced the night. I bolted for the back door.

  “That came from the barn!” I said.

  “We should wait for the cops,” Michael said, though I noticed that he was sprinting after me rather than following his own advice.

  “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”

  “I’m not standing around waiting for the cops while Barrymore Sprocket commits another murder!” I said, just as I slammed into another sheep.

  “Careful!” Michael said, a little late.

  I planned to have a word with Sammy about his sheep counting abilities, next time I saw him. The sheep baaed reproachfully, scrambled back to its feet, and sauntered off. I had to catch my breath again before I could get up, and Michael beat me to the gate.

  As we stumbled through the yard sale area toward the barn door, I berated myself for leaving the flashlight behind. There was still plenty of junk to stumble over. We plowed through the junk by brute force, and I was sure both my shins were bleeding by the time we made it to the barn.

  We burst inside and by the faint light of a fallen flashlight on the ground we saw Dad, bound with clothesline and gagged with packing tape, lying in the middle of the open center area.

  “Dr. Langslow,” Michael said, dropping down beside him. “Are you okay?”

  “Take his pulse,” I said. “Better yet, keep your eyes peeled for Barrymore Sprocket, and I’ll take his pulse.”

  “Right,” Michael said. He stood up, and I could see him looking around for a weapon.

  Dad’s pulse was steady, and after a few moments, his eyelids fluttered.

  “Dad,” I said. “What happened?”

  “Growf!”

  We all jumped—well, Michael and I, at least—and turned to see Spike, stumbling clumsily out of his bed and stalking toward us, growling. Which wasn’t unusual—Spike tended to be even grouchier when he woke up than the rest of the time. Not the first time I’d been glad to have a fence between us.

  Dad made noises.

  “Hang on a minute, Dad, I’ll rip the gag off.”

  “Ow!” he exclaimed. And then his face grew serious. “No! Look out!” he pointed with his chin.

  Michael and I whirled, and Michael raised the weapon he’d found—a broken bicycle tire pump. But Dad appeared to be pointing at Spike.

  “Eeeeeee!”

  The shriek again, but not as loud now. And coming from someplace outside the barn.

  “It’s only an owl,” Michael said, lowering the bicycle pump slightly. “I think.”

  “A great horned owl,” Dad said.

  “Dad, what happened?” I asked, as I worked at the knot in the rope on his wrists. “Who tied you up?”

  Though I suspected I already knew the answer. Glancing around, I saw three plastic milk crates placed upside down, as if someone had been using them for tables or stools. Our cash box la
y on the middle one, its lid open and all its compartments bare.

  “Sshh!” Dad said, putting his finger to his lips. “Barrymore. Went thataway!”

  He pointed to the barn door—the back door, not the one we’d come in.

  We heard a clank outside, as if someone had tripped over a saucepan.

  Michael and I looked at each other.

  “Can you untie your ankles, Dad?” I said. “While Michael and I see if we can catch him.”

  Dad nodded cheerfully, though he didn’t lean down to begin working on his feet. Instead, he lay back and stared solemnly up at the rafters, as if looking for something important. I grabbed Dad’s flashlight, but turned it off. No sense letting Barrymore know precisely where we were.

  Well, help should be on the way—should damn well be here already, for that matter—and the most important thing was to keep Barrymore Sprocket from doing any more damage, I thought, as Michael and I crept out of the barn.

  I heard another faint clang from the far side of the yard sale enclosure. I smiled to myself. Barrymore appeared to be stumbling away from the gate, rather than toward it. Perhaps he’d taken a wrong turn on his way out of the barn.

  He’d need to get back to the gate to leave. So maybe we should just make our way to the gate and wait for him to stumble into our hands.

  Unless he planned to pull up a couple of the stakes holding the fence to the ground. If he tried enough of them, he might find a couple that were loose enough to give way. Or he could cut a hole in the fence. Maybe that was the noise we were hearing—Barrymore making himself a new gate.

  I moved forward, and I could hear Michael, a few feet to my right, following suit.

  We had the advantage of numbers. But Barrymore had the advantage of the terrain, I realized, as I knocked over something that sounded like a stack of aluminum pie pans. He was the proverbial needle in the haystack. We probably couldn’t see him unless we got right next to him, and he could easily slip by us while we stumbled in the dark.

  Then again, Barrymore couldn’t see any better than we could. Which meant there was always the possibility that we’d all three stumble around the fenced-in area till dawn, like inept players in a giant game of blindman’s bluff.