Owls Well That Ends Well

by Donna Andrews

  “No; she hasn’t mentioned any drawings.”

  “She probably figures you’ll reject them without even looking at them. Why do you have to be so negative? She’s only trying to help.”

  “Oh, and that’s supposed to make me feel better? That she’s only trying to help; she doesn’t actually set out to drive me crazy?”

  “Forget it,” he said, turning and striding out of the room. Something about his tone scared me.

  “All right,” I called after him. “If it’s so damned important, I’ll look at them!”

  “Don’t put yourself out on my account,” Michael snapped back. His steps clattered down the stairway, and then I heard the front door slam.

  I walked out into the hall, and then noticed that several of the visiting relatives were peering out of the doors of their rooms, and Mrs. Fenniman had crept halfway down the staircase from the third floor.

  I ducked back into the room and closed the door before any of them could ask what was wrong, where was Michael going, and had we had a fight. I hoped my relatives wouldn’t come knocking on my door, trying to cheer me up by sympathizing with me and reviling Michael. Or telling me Michael was right and I was a fool for arguing with him. Worst of all, some might take Michael’s side and some mine, and we could end up with an all-night debate up and down the hallway. Which, knowing my family, is probably what would have happened if it hadn’t been past two A.M. already.

  Should I go after Michael? Not until I was sure I had my own temper firmly under control, or I’d only make it worse. Luckily, I hadn’t heard his car start. I went over to the window. He wasn’t in the driveway. Maybe he’d just gone out to the barn to cool off.

  I took a deep breath and decided I was calm enough to cope, so I opened my door and peered out. The lurking relatives had vanished. I emerged and went downstairs to the kitchen. I peered out the kitchen window, but I couldn’t see anyone out back. More to the point, I didn’t hear the inevitable noise Michael would have made, trying to find his way through the remaining clutter to the barn.

  Then I spotted something on the door-turned-table, near the leftover pizza and the now-empty cash box. One of Mother’s design notebooks.

  I could feel my temper heating up again. But my curiosity kicked in, too. I walked over and opened it.

  On the first page, in Mother’s neat printing, were the words, “Preliminary designs. For discussion only. Subject to client review. No work to begin until client signoff obtained.”

  Okay, maybe Mother had gotten the message after all. I stifled a small inclination to feel guilty and flipped the page.

  The first sketch was obviously a design for the master bedroom. I stared at it, transfixed.

  Not because it was horrible. It wasn’t. It wasn’t bad at all. In fact, I rather liked it. It didn’t really look like one of Mother’s designs. It was way too simple, and there wasn’t a square inch of chintz in sight. I could see elements of Japanese, Mission, and Arts and Crafts styles in it, but it wasn’t completely any of those things. It was simple, serene, uncluttered, and beautiful. And at the same time, I could tell there was a lot of storage space hidden away under the serene surface, which was a really smart idea. Michael and I still had plenty of stuff, and I didn’t see us getting rid of it all, no matter how much of a convert I’d become to simple living and spare, minimalist décor.

  I had to hand it to Mother. She’d come up with exactly the kind of design we’d have done ourselves, if either of us had had the time to work on it. Or the talent.

  Of course, if we told her to go ahead with her design, there was always the issue of whether it would look like this when she finished adding all those little touches that occurred to her along the way. And whether we could talk her into something equally to our liking for the several dozen other rooms in the house. And whether we could afford even this room. And how long we’d have her underfoot, and whether any of us would survive with our sanity intact.

  Not to mention my belief that, given a chance, Michael and I could do something with the place that suited both of us just fine. It might take longer and it might not be as breathtakingly beautiful as Mother’s design, but it would be our home, done by us, not merely a beautiful house that someone had decorated for us. Assuming we survived as an us. And then—

  But why let quibbling spoil a beautiful moment of guilt? I owed Mother an apology. But first, and more important, I owed Michael one.

  I’d been so focused on one urgent cause after another—emptying the house, organizing the yard sale, rescuing Giles—that I’d been losing sight of the real reason I was doing all this. That it was all supposed to be for us.

  It would serve me right if Michael decided he’d had enough of the grouchy, hyperactive Meg he’d seen in the last few months, the commitment-phobic Meg who changed the subject every time he tried to talk seriously about our future together, the—

  Of course, that was the moment when I heard a car door slam, followed by his engine starting and the screech of tires as he roared out of the driveway and down the road.

  I raced back up to our room, found my purse, and ran down to my car. And then lost valuable time when I had to run back in to ransack the house for ten minutes, till I found where I’d dropped my keys instead of putting them in my purse where they belonged.

  I headed for town. I didn’t need to rush—I had no chance of overtaking him now. Even in his usual good temper, he’d race along the long, empty road to town. And catching up with him while he was still angry wouldn’t be productive anyway. And it wasn’t as if I’d have to wander around looking for him. If it were day, he could have gone to the gym, or the faculty lounge, or even Luigi’s for a beer. But this time of night about the only place he could go was his office. If he drove around for a while to cool off, he’d eventually end up there.

  Caerphilly didn’t exactly roll up the sidewalks at dusk, but at two-thirty on a Sunday night (or Monday morning), it was almost eerily deserted. I didn’t see another car the whole way into town. I heard one, several streets off, when I was nearing the campus, but since it was too noisy for Michael’s well-tuned car, I found myself relieved when it faded in the distance. After all, Barrymore Sprocket, who had seemed so harmless and turned out to be a cold-blooded murderer, was still at large somewhere. Though surely somewhere far from Caerphilly, if he had any sense.

  Not a single car parked in front of Dunsany Hall, but then Michael could have parked in the adjacent faculty garage. I didn’t have a card for that, but I did have the key code to get into the building. I took the front steps two at a time, punched in the code, and slipped inside. I walked softly and didn’t turn on the lights. I didn’t want Michael to hear me coming and storm off again.

  And maybe with a fugitive at large it was better not to advertise my presence in a deserted building.

  For that matter, maybe I should have a weapon ready, in case I ran into Barrymore Sprocket. A quick search through my purse and pockets produced nothing particularly useful. For want of something else, I fished out Rose Noire’s bottle of “Eau de Meg” scent. It was small enough to throw but hard enough to hurt if it hit, and I didn’t much care if I broke it. Perhaps, if I held it menacingly, I could convince someone that it was mace. And I loosened the top, so I could throw the contents more easily. Self-defense through aromatherapy—it might not stop an attacker but at least the menthol and eucalyptus might slow him down for a few useful seconds.

  Clutching the small bottle and looking over my shoulder every few seconds, I tiptoed down the hall.

  Chapter 44

  But Michael wasn’t in his office. The door was unlocked, which was odd, but the lights were off and he wasn’t there.

  Should I check the men’s room? The soda machines in the basement?

  I didn’t really want to. Michael’s office was familiar, and gave the illusion of safety.

  I peered out into the corridor. Farther down, I noticed light spilling out of an office door that was slightly ajar. Giles’s of
fice. I relaxed slightly. Michael had probably come to his office to stew until his anger passed, seen the light in Giles’s office, and gone down there. Maybe he was venting to Giles. No, that wasn’t really much like Michael, and it would certainly be out of character for Giles. They were probably just talking. Not a bad thing. Talking with Giles always put Michael in a good mood.

  I found myself smiling as I walked down the corridor. Maybe they were even celebrating. We hadn’t seen Giles since we’d unmasked Barrymore Sprocket as the killer. So Michael probably got to tell him the good news. I’d join them, and bask in my share of the credit. He would probably be incredibly grateful and thus glad to see me as well.

  And catching up with Michael while he was with Giles wasn’t a bad idea. We couldn’t make up very satisfactorily with a third party around, but then we weren’t likely to continue the quarrel, if he hadn’t cooled down. I could probably find a way to run up a truce flag without Giles even realizing what was happening.

  But when I reached Giles’s office, it was empty, too. No, empty was the wrong word for anything so full of books and other objects. Temporarily unoccupied, I thought, with a smile. And even in my current antimaterialistic mood, I didn’t lump in books with mere clutter. Right now, a room this filled with anything else would repel me, but Giles’s office was still inviting. I sneezed a few times—the book dust again.

  The harsh fluorescent overhead light was off, so the light came from a single old-fashioned lamp on the paperstrewn desk. His chair was pushed back, as if he’d just stood up. An ancient radio, nearly hidden among stacks of books and papers on the credenza behind the desk, played something I vaguely recognized as Mozart, though I couldn’t have named the piece. Probably the college station’s regular Sunday night classical program.

  But where was Giles? And was Michael with him? Surely Giles wouldn’t have gone far leaving his door unlocked and his light and radio on. He had far too many valuable books on the shelves, not to mention all the assorted antique objects littered among the books—the familiar academic clutter, all the coins, potsherds, and ancient weapons Giles collected, but in an off-hand, casual manner, quite unlike the fervor with which he accumulated books.

  I sneezed again. More dust in the air than usual, apparently.

  Odd. Most of the shelves looked the same as they had this morning, but one entire bookcase had been recently dusted. The one containing his golden age mystery collection—including the R. Austin Freeman books.

  And for some reason, that shelf looked different than it had the last time I’d looked at it—was it only earlier today? I closed my eyes and tried to visualize what the shelf had looked like—the muted colors of the cloth bindings and the slightly frayed and faded dust jackets.

  When I opened my eyes again, I realized what was different. Right in the middle of one shelf, among all the muted and faded colors, was a vivid red dust jacket I didn’t remember seeing this morning.

  I bent to look at it.

  The Uttermost Farthing, by R. Austin Freeman.

  Closer up, I could see that it wasn’t brand new, but it was in much better condition than the other Freeman dust jackets. Its color, behind the plastic cover, was intense and unfaded, its edges crisp and sharp. Was it a much later book, or perhaps a reproduction?

  In either case, it hadn’t been there before. I’d have noticed that intense red. Especially since it would have been at my elbow this morning, when I was contemplating Giles’s collection of Freeman books. I remembered that there had been at least one gap in that shelf, and now it was completely filled. I’d certainly have noticed the title, thanks to its association with the murder, and I think, despite my wariness of the protective plastic cover, I’d have pulled it out and examined it.

  As I did now.

  Copyright 1914, so it wasn’t a newer book. And close up, I could see the minute signs that it wasn’t brand new. Not a reproduction. Definitely a much healthier twin to the half-burned book Horace had found in his grill. In fact, a near-mint-condition copy of the book’s first edition. I felt a brief pang of sympathy for the book, which showed all the signs of having survived more than ninety years on this planet unread, and for that matter, rarely opened. I thought briefly of my own less rarified library. I tried to take reasonable care of books, but still, some of my books showed signs that I hadn’t always given them kid glove treatment. My complete Sherlock Holmes bore light flecks of the spaghetti sauce that had been a staple of my diet during the lean years right after college. My collection of paperback mysteries included more than one that had accompanied me, literally, into the bathtub. Occasionally, when I reread The Lord of the Rings, I would turn a page and dislodge a few glittering flakes of the rock candy I’d been eating obsessively during that long ago Christmas week when I’d first read them. They were probably less valuable, those books, but I had the irrational notion that they were happier.

  If only books could talk, I could ask them. And I could ask this book what it had seen. I had the sinking feeling it would tell me it had witnessed a murder.

  “He pulled a switch,” I said aloud. Giles had been telling the truth for the most part. He’d only lied about one thing—the worn, inferior copy was the one he already owned, and it was Gordon who’d found the infinitely more desirable mint copy I now held in my hands.

  Well, lied about two things, I realized. He’d also killed Gordon. After all the trouble I’d taken to prove he hadn’t.

  I walked over to the desk, still holding the Freeman book, and reached for the phone to dial 911.

  “I’m, sorry, Meg, but I can’t let you do that.”

  I turned to find Giles standing in the doorway, holding a gun. One of his elegant little antique dueling pistols.

  Chapter 45

  I wondered, briefly, if I should grapple with Giles. Try to take the pistol away from him. Or maybe just run away. After all, the gun was over a century old; what were the odds it still worked, or that Giles was a good shot, or even that he had enough nerve to shoot me?

  Not good enough. Something about the look in his eye stopped me. He looked more capable than the usual Giles. And a lot less sane. Or perhaps I was seeing Giles clearly for the first time. He stepped into the office and inched along the side, keeping his back to the wall and his eyes fixed on me.

  The Mozart piece ended just then, and the announcer told us what it was and who played it, in the molasses-smooth tones classical radio announcers cultivate, especially the late night ones.

  That’s the ticket. Calm, soothing, rational.

  “Giles,” I said. “Be reasonable. Let’s talk.”

  He shook his head.

  The announcer’s voice changed and cracked slightly, revealing his youth. Of course, now he was talking about something a lot more newsworthy than Mozart.

  “A spokesperson for the Caerphilly Police Department reported that state and national authorities have been called in to assist with the search for a fugitive suspected in the murder of local antique and book dealer Gordon McCoy,” he said.

  Giles chuckled.

  “Chief Burke stated that the fugitive was to be considered armed and dangerous,” the announcer said.

  “Barrymore Sprocket,” I said, nodding. “He stole the yard sale proceeds, and everyone thinks he’s the killer. Let’s just leave it that way.”

  He shook his head.

  “You’d never do that,” he said. “I know you better. You couldn’t live with yourself until you told the truth, even though it would make you look foolish, after all the time you spent trying to prove I didn’t do it.”

  “And succeeding,” I said.

  “Don’t think I’m not grateful,” he said. “But I just can’t let you undo all that effort.”

  “Giles, you’re not a cold-blooded killer!”

  “No, I’m not,” he said. “I didn’t mean to kill Gordon. I struck him in a moment of anger, that’s all. And ran away.”

  “Accidentally carrying the mint condition copy of The Uttermost Far
thing.”

  He nodded.

  “And then you came here, switched the books, and returned to our yard sale with your battered copy. Why? You’d gotten clean away—why not stay away?”

  “I had to put a copy of the book back,” he said. “After all, you knew he had it. Other people might have overheard.”

  “I knew he had a book he thought you wanted,” I said. “I didn’t know it was The Uttermost Farthing. I don’t recall him ever mentioning the name. I might not even have remembered R. Austin Freeman if the burned book hadn’t reminded me. If the subject ever came up, you could have picked any book at the yard sale and claimed it was the book he wanted to sell you; I’d never have known the difference.”

  “Damn,” he said, his face falling slightly. “If I’d known you were that clueless—damn.”

  Dad, who read far too many mysteries for his own good, was fond of saying that murderers frequently gave themselves away by their efforts to cover up their crimes, but I decided Giles might not appreciate the observation, so I held my tongue. The radio had gone back to its classical program, and more calming Mozart filled the silence.

  “At least I knew precisely how to get myself cleared,” he said, after a few moments. “I knew if I just made sure all the incriminating evidence came out right at the start, so you could hear it, you couldn’t resist trying to prove me innocent.”

  “My well-known weakness for rescuing strays of all kind,” I said, with a sigh.

  “Well, yes, along with your tendency to think you know best and the rest of us just have to come around to your opinion.”

  I winced. Yes, Giles knew me too well—a lot better than I knew him. He’d played me perfectly.

  “Annoying traits,” Giles said. “I always found Michael remarkably cultured for an American, but I never could fathom what he saw in you.” And what I heard in his tone made it all the more insulting—not hate, or anger, but puzzlement and vague distaste.