“Hey, how about we open a window. It’s hot in here,” Jenkins said.
“I think it’s just fine, Daryll. Beautiful spring day. Time to sit and chat about this and that. You want to tell me about your cousin and what the two of you have been up to? Or, should I call my friends in the Drug Enforcement Agency and see if they can’t find a whole lot of things to drop in your lap?”
“Hey, you can’t do that. You got nothing on me.”
Rita walked over to Karl and whispered something in his ear and left.
“You know, Daryll, you might just be right about that. What were you up to in that back room of yours?”
“What back room?”
“At your garage, Daryll. That back room.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, whatever it was, it’s gone now. Someone torched your garage just after we left. Who do you suppose would do a thing like that?”
“What? What do you mean, torched?”
“Up in smoke—took most of the rest of the building, too. Witnesses said it looked like a bomb went off back there. We’ll know more when the arson investigators are done, but first they have to finish putting out the fire. Too bad you can’t be there to help.”
“I gotta get out of here. You have to let me go.”
“Not today, man. We have enough charges on you to put you away for a while. If you have a lawyer, you might want to call him, or her. In the meantime you will be in the local lock-up.”
“Yeah? I’ll be out by dinner time.”
“How will that work? Cousin George going to put up your bail? Unless the moon is made of green cheese, he’s the dude who did your garage. All those chemicals and solvents. Did you know that just starting a car around all that stuff could set the whole building into orbit?”
“What chemicals? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Right. And then there’s old George, who, when he hears you’ve been talking to us, might just want to have a private little chat with you, too. You think?”
“I ain’t said nothing to you.”
“You will eventually, and anyway, George won’t know that, will he?”
“I’ll tell him otherwise.”
“Let’s hope he believes you. He’s got a mean temper, they say, and isn’t one to delve very deep into things, so you’d better talk fast.”
Daryll’s face paled and he began to bite what was left of his fingernails. “Look, I can’t say nothing, you got that? You need to protect me. I have rights, you know. I got the whatchamacallit, fifth amendment thing, right?”
“Oh yeah.”
“You have to do something.”
“Hey, if you call your lawyer, he will move for an arraignment. The judge will set bail and out you go. I can’t help you there.”
“If I don’t, you know, like, call right away?”
“Well, we can hold you for a while on suspicion, stuff like that. Of course the longer you stay with us, the more likely it’ll seem we flipped you. So either way, you’re on your way to becoming toast. Your call.”
“I want to think about this.”
“I’ll find you a cell with a window.”
Chapter 25
The scent of burning hardwoods and pine slowly filled the room, as the heat from the marble faced fireplace took the edge off an early evening chill.
“A fire is a cheerful addition on a day like today,” Ike said. What a lame thing to say, he thought, and smiled at Ruth who stood near the hearth frowning as if unsure whether she should pace, stand still, or sit. He could not read the expression on her face. That made him uneasy. Always in the past, whether she was angry, worried, happy, or sad, he could measure her mood, see through her. Tonight Ruth was opaque.
“Are you feeling all right?”
“What? I’m sorry, Ike, my mind must have drifted away for a moment.”
“A bit more than a moment.”
“Yes? Well…what would you do if you were me?”
Ike had been promised a light dinner in exchange for some conversation and advice. Apparently the advice part came first and what form that would take had been left vague. His stomach reminded him he had skipped lunch.
“If I were you,” he began, smiling…
“Before you start, Schwartz. I’m not in the mood for word games, salacious suggestions, or redneck humor. This is serious.”
“I surrender. I don’t know from what, but I recognize a woman on the war path when I see one. However, I still need to know the context at least. What would I do if I were you—about what, exactly?”
“The merger business. Isn’t that what we were talking about?”
“Actually, you were muttering to yourself while I was consuming some of your excellent single malt. How much do they pay you so that you can afford expensive scotch like this?”
“Not enough. It was a gift from Armand Dillon, if you must know. So help me out here, Sheriff. What do I do?”
M. Armand Dillon had, at one time, served on the board of trustees of Callend College, and remained its largest donor. He, though retired from a life spent accumulating additional assets to his enormous net worth, still retained his skills as a ruthless capitalist and entrepreneur. His, that is, the Dillon Art collection had been stolen from the Art Storage facility located on the campus the previous summer and subsequently recovered by Ike. Not without some confusion, a few shots fired, and a grateful Dillon who generously blessed the school with cash. The robbery, and its sequelae, also served as the fulcrum that leveraged Ike and Ruth together in the first place.
“Dillon always had good taste, I’ll say that for him.”
“Bushels of money will do that for you. I need to figure out where we go with this merger business. CU…”
“Who?”
“I told you, Carter Union, the college that’s breathing down our backs.”
“So it’s official now. They are seeking a merger.”
“Where have you been? Of course.”
“Been? Ruth, I think the term is ‘out of the loop.’ Just because you have had extensive conversations with me in your head, doesn’t mean I’ve heard any of them, you know? That is what you’ve been doing, isn’t it?”
“What? No. Have I? When did we talk last?”
“At the A-frame, you were in a funk and otherwise, we were studying tattoos mostly, or, in your case, the lack of them. Remember?”
“Really? That long ago? I guess I have become so used to talking things over with you that, yeah, the conversations in my head are…Oh, well. Here’s the thing, CU—you’re with me now? Okay, they’ve put up some numbers that have me scared. The board is listening to them like they’re first year students at orientation.”
“And the scary part is what?”
“My board is not blessed with business types. Oh, some of them are okay, I guess, but for the most part, they are members because they fit the Board Rule Profile.”
“Sorry, you’ve lost me again. What is the board rule profile?”
“Board members should be givers, getters, or get out of the way.”
“Ah. So, your board is in over its collective head when dealing with the shrewd city slickers from Carter Union.”
“Precisely. The negotiators from CU come from their business school and they’re throwing their weight around. We could be completely absorbed by them and that worries me.”
“And maybe lose your job?”
“That too, but believe me that possibility, as hard as it would be to accept, is not what has me upset. Callend is a fine liberal arts college that has served its constituency well. I’d hate to see it flushed away by a bunch of MBAs.”
“It’s all about the Benjamins, isn’t it?”
“The whats?”
“Money. Benjamin Franklin’s picture is on the one hundred dollar bill.”
“Oh, cute. This is more like one hundred thousand dollar bills.”
“That would be Woodrow Wilson.”
“How do you know all this stuff?”
“The magic of the internet. I am starving. How about we eat whatever it is you promised me and I will cogitate on your problem at the same time.”
“Cogitate? Don’t you start in on me.”
“Perfectly good word. It was today’s entry on my word builder calendar. ‘Cogitate, to ponder or meditate on, usually intently…’ etcetera, etcetera.”
“Since when did you need a word builder calendar?”
“Ever since you introduced me to your loquacious faculty friends.”
“Loquacious? Then you need to get me a Jeff Foxworthy dictionary so I can communicate in redneck with yours.”
“Very wise. Now what about that food?”
“You promise to help me after?”
“Help you with that and more.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself there, lover.”
***
Sam leafed through the last of the books she’d pulled from the shelf. A stack of Jonathan Lydell’s books were on one side and several local history books on the other. Somewhere between them lay the answer to what Anton Grotz was doing in the Shenandoah Valley. The librarian tiptoed over and slipped another document reproduction in front of her. Sam read again the report of the locked room mystery in the pages of the Staunton Spectator. She riffled through her notes and frowned. She didn’t notice Karl slip up behind her.
“Okay, Library Lady, time to pack it in for the day. The folks here want to close up.”
“Help me out, Karl,” she said, ignoring his suggestion. “All of the documents Grotz studied, and all the books he’d checked out of the library were about a particular time during the Civil War, and seem to have something to do with the Lydell family.”
“Maybe he came down to interview Lydell for a book he planned to write or something.”
“Maybe. But his wife indicated he thought he had found something she called big. That sounds more like a scandal or something controversial. Maybe something to do with the war?”
“Lord, Sam, that war was over a long time ago. Who cares about what happened then?”
“You need to live in these parts a little longer, Karl. The people down here are not done with it. They celebrated Robert E. Lee’s two hundredth birthday a while back. You do know who he is.”
“Southern general or something.”
“Oh my, you do have a lot to learn.”
“Not much call for that knowledge where I come from, and I mean both geographically and culturally.”
“Not a big deal in northern Minnesota, either. But down here? It’s like talking about God.”
“And you think I should bone up on southern culture and history, famous people?”
“And local heroes, if you plan to spend any time here, yes.”
“That’s the thing, though. I don’t plan to do that. Not on my radar screen.” Karl saw the cloud cross Sam’s face. “Hey, we’ll be okay, you’ll see.”
“Yeah, sure. Anyway, Grotz has this thing about the war, and the Lydells, and the murder in the room back then. There has to be a connection.”
“The only connection we can work on is, he was writing about the time and place and wanted to talk to a descendant of the original. That would explain why he was happy to change places with the other guy and move over to Lydell’s room.”
“I think it’s more than that.”
“Look, Sam, they want to close. Grab your stuff and we’ll talk over dinner.”
“Whose turn to cook?”
“Mine, we’re eating out.”
Chapter 26
Ruth stacked the dinner plates in the sink, poured two glasses of wine, and absently pounded her fist against the counter top. Ike sipped his wine.
“This is nice. What is it?”
“What? Oh, it’s an ice wine. Local. From the Rockbridge Winery up the road in Raphine, I think. Anyway, Agnes found it.” Ruth downed her glass and poured another.
Ike glanced at the label on the bottle, V d’Or, and fled into the living room, glass in one hand, bottle in the other. He found a place on the sofa and watched as Ruth stalked in, kicked off her shoes and prowled.
“Ike, you know about things and you can’t be bamboozled. You need to help us with the negotiations.” She put her glass down on a piecrust table, and padded to the window. The temperature outside had dropped when the sun set, and even though the room still held the fire’s warmth, she hugged herself against the chill air sliding off the panes.
“Need to? Not me, Ruth. When it comes to hard-nosed financial maneuvering, I am a babe in the woods. Now if you wanted me to put out a contract on one or more of them…”
“No, be serious, and anyway, it’s not just about the Franklins—”
“Benjamins.”
“You know what I mean, the money. It’s the snotty attitude they bring to the table. Like, ‘We’re here to help you. Trust us. We know what is best for you.’ It’s as if they think of us as slow-to-learn children or something.”
Ruth made a slow circuit of the room and paused by the entryway. She ran her hand along its brocade hanging, fiddled with the tieback, and turned back toward Ike. He rose and stirred the coals in the dying fire. Small sparks leapt out only to be captured and extinguished by the fire screen. He shook his head and studied her as she continued her path back to the piecrust table and her glass.
“Back to the issue—I hate to say it, Madam President, but when it comes to this sort of thing, your faculty often behave as though they were children.”
“I know, I know. Something like half my tenured professors bought into a Ponzi scheme last winter. See, that’s what I mean. You don’t fall for all that stuff. You are a quintessential skeptic…”
“Oh, oh, we’re back to the word builder.”
“Stop it. I need your help. What I mean is, you could sit at that table and they couldn’t fool you.”
Ike resumed his place on the couch and sipped his wine. After a moment he looked up and said, “It’s a thought, Ruth, but not a good one, I’m afraid.”
“Why?”
“I am the sheriff of Picketsville, not a business guru. Your board, your faculty, the committee, whoever, would not take it kindly if you were to wedge me into the discussion, believe me.”
“Again, why?”
“How will it look? President Harris asks good ole Sheriff Ike to come to the table and save the college from a fate worse than death. To them I am Buford T. Justice complete with mirrored sunglasses and…you get the picture. And then, ‘what are his qualifications for the job?’ they ask…hmm…let’s see…well, he’s her boyfriend, no, make that her lover. He has no background in business, mergers, academics, education, or anything whatsoever that’s relevant or needed.”
“You’re smarter than any of them, and you know it.”
“I don’t know it. What’s worse, you’re not paying attention. Ruth, merger or no merger, you and I are ‘an item.’ Your faculty is unhappy about me sneaking into their president’s house and, may I say, bed. They have a low opinion of me and what I do. I have absolutely no credibility whatsoever. They will be so distracted by me and by our relationship, CU will eat them alive.”
Ruth plopped down on the chenille sofa next to him and slouched back, legs outstretched, revealing a very unladylike expanse of thigh. She studied the dregs of the wine in her glass and extended it toward him. He poured another dollop for her.
“Thanks.” She sipped at her wine and puffed out her cheeks. “Then what will I do? As it now stands, I think we will be eaten alive anyway. Your being there can’t make it worse.”
“Perhaps not, but if that were to happen, and if I were in the mix, guess who’d get the blame, and then who’d pay for it?”
“You and then me. Damn!”
“My advice to you is to load your side of the table with some heavy hitters from the business community. You must have alumni, parents of students, friends, people, who can help you out. I’ve seen you work a room full of
potential donors and I know you can get them to do almost anything you ask. Go spin your rolodex and bring some professionals in.”
“You think?”
“No question.”
Ruth tugged halfheartedly at her skirt, which had retreated alarmingly close to her waist. She toyed with the top button on her blouse and sighed. A log collapsed into the coals. A shower of sparks crackled and snapped—miniature fireworks.
“Ike, I know this is mean of me. I guess you had plans for later…tattoos and all that…but I am bushed. Will you be very angry if we call it a night?”
“Angry? No. Disappointed? Well, maybe a little. You need your beauty rest, so I’m out of here.”
“It’s not beauty rest.”
Ike grinned and stood. “Glad to see you are still in possession of your sensibilities. I’ll call.”
“What’ll you do? I feel awful.”
“I’ll commandeer the rest of this nifty wine and tune in the classic movie channel—my major off-duty pastime. Casablanca is on in a half hour. And don’t worry, schweet heart, we’ll always have Paris.”
She gave him a rueful smile and waved him out the door.
***
Sam sat upright, blankets pulled up to her chest, scowling in concentration. “There has to be more to this than just an interview. Look, the man was murdered. That alone tells you something else had to be…”
Karl sighed. The clock read one AM. He had the seven to three shift and was not a morning person. “Sam, give it a rest. We have two, no, three, cases running now and not only can the murder wait, it will have to. No matter what Grotz had turned his hand to, who struck John with this or that, as long as we can’t unlock that stranger room door and show how it happened, it won’t matter a lick.”
“Okay. I know, I know. But suppose I’m right. Suppose Grotz knew something about Lydell, like, maybe he’s a blackmailer or something.”
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