by Carolyn Hart
We were in the hall now.
Garza faced me, but her eyes kept flickering toward the closed door.
I was hearty, displaying an “everything is as it should be” demeanor. “I’ll double-check a few things in room 211, then be on my way to Ms. Hoyt’s apartment. We’ll be in touch.”
I turned, opened the door, closed it behind me, leaned against it. “Lorraine—” I no more than spoke the name when I knew no one listened. The box sat undisturbed now on the table. On either side of the room were connecting doors to adjoining rooms. They were closed.
I tried to avoid swear words when on earth. I reached back into my memory and pulled out some old favorites that I used as a substitute. “Fish hooks. Denmark. Halibut.”
A rumble of laughter sounded beside me, followed, however, by a clearing of his throat.
I hastened to get the first word in, a ploy I’d found useful when Bobby Mac, face furrowed in despair, came across the room, checkbook in hand. His dictum was always: Please don’t subtract. That seemed unnecessarily harsh, simply because I’d once transposed some numbers and thought we’d had eight hundred dollars more in our account than was there. On that occasion, I’d looked at him soulfully, and said, as if picking up an earlier discussion, “I know you want to discuss Finnegans Wake. Bobby Mac, you are the sweetest man.” By the time he’d stopped laughing, the mistakes in the checkbook were safely in my rearview mirror.
“Wiggins, you are just the man I want to see.” Ouch. Poor choice of verb.
“See?” His deep voice was dour. “Certainly you know the Precepts frown upon emissaries appearing. If you hadn’t been visible”—great emphasis—“that unfortunate scene in the director’s office wouldn’t have occurred.”
“Excuse me, but—” I bit off a tart reply that if Lorraine had kept her mouth shut all would have been well. As Mama always said, “Men won’t believe a word against their honeys.” A bit of throat clearing of my own. “Lorraine has a knack for knowing the tree from the forest.” Admittedly obscure, but proclaimed in a most admiring tone.
“Tree from the forest?” Wiggins could be forgiven for not understanding.
“Definitely. She immediately championed Michelle Hoyt. Of course, Lorraine hasn’t been prepped about observing Precepts. That explains her forthrightness”—which was certainly one way of describing the interlude in the director’s office—“in speaking out. I rather felt I obscured the situation nicely. I believe no harm was done. Ms. Garza will work things about in her mind until she truly believes the contrasting voices came from my cell phone. In any event, it’s obvious now that all this fiddle-faddle about roses and gargoyles was a lead-up to the theft of the book.”
“Exactly.” He sounded like a man who has pulled himself from a sticky swamp onto dry land. “That’s why I’m here. The theft of the book, which apparently was taken by a student, proves Lorraine had nothing to do with the distribution of roses or the destruction of the gargoyle, so—”
I heard the rumble of the Rescue Express, wheels clacking on silver rails, whistle rising like a rush of wind.
“—you can return to Heaven.”
I found the relief in his voice disheartening.
“Wiggins, think of Lorraine.” I spoke emphatically.
“She’s fine. Her reputation will be unsullied when the culprit is revealed. Come now . . .”
The acrid smell of coal smoke was stronger.
“Lorraine is counting on me to prove Michelle Hoyt innocent of theft. If I leave, Lorraine will feel it’s her duty to help Michelle. You and I both know Lorraine has the best intentions in the world, but, Wiggins, as I stressed, she isn’t aware of the Precepts. To have her doing what she can for Michelle without any department expertise, why, the results could be most distressing. When I have an opportunity, I’ll explain to Lorraine that Heaven’s work is best done quietly, unremarked by the world.” Such sweet sincerity in my voice. “And”—this was the clincher—“you don’t want Lorraine to believe we have abandoned her. It means everything to her that you have her best interests at heart. You understand that Lorraine is guided by her heart. She sees a match for Michelle Hoyt and the editor of the Bugle, which means Lorraine is convinced of their goodness. We don’t want to abandon either Lorraine or Michelle, do we?”
“Oh.”
The silence in the small room was filled with tenderness. I felt a prick of tears in my eyes.
“I see.” His voice was soft. “You’re right, Bailey Ruth. We never want anyone to feel abandoned. However, I must say the evidence against this student appears substantial, although I don’t understand this talk about codes, but everything is so newfangled these days. I gather she was supposed to be at her duty station here this morning and she is absent.”
“Yes.” My tone was suddenly grave. “I find her absence disturbing. I read the article in which she was interviewed about this project. She was thrilled, seeing it as a major step toward her life goal. Would she throw everything away to commit a theft?” I played my best card. “Lorraine doesn’t believe Michelle’s guilty. I’ll find out the truth.”
“Lorraine . . .” His voice was growing fainter, the clack of wheels more distant, the smell of smoke was fading. “Lorraine always knows the tree from the forest.”
I was alone.
I didn’t take time to be pleased. I felt pressed, uncertain, worried. Lorraine believed in Michelle because Lorraine believed in love and lovers. My response was more pragmatic. Michelle Hoyt hadn’t achieved a status rare for a senior in college by reckless, dishonest, unreliable behavior. Besides, she wasn’t stupid, and to use her own code to surreptitiously enter the library and steal a book was stupid.
Today should have been the beginning of her dream to someday write histories about real people who bumped westward in wagon trains, toiled to lay the crossties and tracks across a wilderness, followed dreams to open shops on new, dusty main streets. Real people with real pain, people whose hearts filled with joy, exulted in doing and daring, grieved at graves left behind.
Where was Michelle?
I’d start at her apartment. Unencumbered with physical matter, I thought and arrived.
Chapter 5
A trim white-haired woman in an orange OSU warm-up jacket and pants stood with arms akimbo in the middle of a small living room. “All right. You have a search warrant. Let’s see your ID.”
The tall, husky detective’s dark hair sprang from a widow’s peak above a lined forehead, strong nose, and pointed chin. He was a little over six feet with broad shoulders beneath a nicely fitted black-and-white houndstooth sports coat. His black slacks matched the stripe perfectly. “Yes, ma’am.” He reached inside his jacket, pulled out a black leather holder with a plastic card.
She looked at it, then at him. “Detective Don Smith.” She returned the holder. “What’s the search warrant for?”
“Ma’am, we are responding to a tip that stolen goods may be here.” He spread a big hand to encompass the square room with two rattan chairs, a blue sofa that looked lumpy, a desk in one corner. Despite the worn appearance of the furnishings, the room had character. Two posters decorated one wall; one was a replica of a 1939 New York World’s Fair poster, the other Dorothea Lange’s emotionally wrenching photograph of the migrant mother with two small children. A copy of the most recent Smithsonian magazine lay on the coffee table by the sofa.
“Stolen goods?” The manager’s tone was incredulous. She made a sound between a snort and a humph. “Nonsense.”
He was unruffled. “You are welcome to remain and observe our search. When did you last see Ms. Hoyt?”
“Wednesday afternoon, about five. She was getting out of her car with groceries. I asked her if she was going to have something special for dinner. She’s a gourmet cook . . .”
I heard a soft coo of approval not far from me. I would have to point out to Lorraine at some more
propitious moment that young women’s matrimonial prospects no longer hinge on culinary skills. I made a shushing sound that I hoped Lorraine would heed.
Detective Smith looked over his shoulder. “Hey, Johnny, you hear that noise? Some kind of hiss?”
Officer Johnny Cain poked his head into the living room. I smiled. Johnny was a fine young officer. I had no doubt Johnny Cain remembered the redhead—now he saw her, now he didn’t—who made a huge difference for the lovely girl Johnny loved and later married.
“Hiss? No, but look.” Johnny pointed at a large black cat staring fixedly at the white-haired woman.
The cat turned and marched toward a bowl on the floor, meowing.
The woman looked worried. “George is hungry. His bowl’s empty. Something’s wrong here, Detective.” She spoke in a nononsense staccato with a flat Midwestern accent. “I’ve been renting apartments to students for twenty-six years. I know kids. I don’t care if you find the mayor’s red negligee—”
The detective pressed his lips together.
Mayor Neva Lumpkin was an oversized blonde with the physical attributes of a Wagnerian soprano. She was supercilious, condescending, and overbearing. I pressed my hand over my mouth to smother a giggle as I pictured her in a red negligee.
“—somebody else put it in here. Michelle Hoyt is as serious a scholar as I’ve ever had as a renter. She follows all the rules, pays her rent on time, no loud noise—and that’s not like some I could name. She’s lived here three years and never spent a night away without telling me she would be gone and asking me to feed George. I noticed her car wasn’t in its slot when I went out to jog Thursday morning at six. The car should have been there. It wasn’t there Thursday morning or this morning.”
“Whatever.” Smith sounded indifferent. “Lady, we got work to do. We’ll talk to you later.” He nodded at Johnny, who turned and disappeared from sight. There was the sound of a door opening, likely a closet. Detective Smith moved toward a small desk in the corner of the room.
The cat stood in the doorway to the kitchen, meowed.
“That cat’s starving. I’m going to feed him.” The manager gave Smith a defiant glare and darted across the room.
Detective Smith looked irritated. He followed her and waited in the doorway to the kitchen. “Make it fast. Don’t touch anything but cat food.”
A rattle as dry pellets were poured into a bowl. “Here you are, George.” A splashing sound. “And nice fresh water.”
When she stepped into the living room, Smith said curtly, “Stay by the door.” He returned to the desk, pulled open the center drawer.
A knock rattled the partially ajar hall door, pushing it in.
The detective turned. “Stop. Police investigation in progress.”
Joe Cooper strode inside. His dark hair was uncombed. He was unshaven. He quickly checked out the room, gave the detective a pugnacious stare. “Joe Cooper. Bugle. I got a call, some woman at the library—”
Lorraine obviously had used a telephone in an unused office to lure Joe here.
“—who said Michelle needs help. Where is she?” He looked around.
Deep lines bracketed the detective’s mouth. “Ms. Hoyt isn’t here. Police investigation under way. Stay where you are.” He lifted out the center drawer of the desk, scanned the contents. He replaced the drawer, opened a side drawer.
“Police investigation.” Joe’s frown was fierce. “What kind? Where’s Michelle? What’s going on?”
The detective ignored him, closed a bottom drawer, pulled out the upper drawer.
The white-haired woman took a step toward Joe. “They showed up about fifteen minutes ago, had a search warrant. I’m Alice Rogers, the manager. I saw your story on Michelle in the Bugle. She said she was going to meet you at the Brown Owl Wednesday night after she ran an errand.” There was a question in her voice.
Joe took three quick steps, looked down at her. “When did she say that?”
“About five o’clock.”
“She didn’t show up.”
Ms. Rogers’s face squeezed in a worried frown. “I hoped you might know where she is. I haven’t seen her since then. Her car hasn’t been here since Wednesday afternoon. I don’t think she’s been home at all.”
“Not since Wednesday.” Joe took a quick breath, pulled out a cell phone, swiped. “Newsroom.” He waited, the muscles hard in his jaw. “Hey, Ted. Joe Cooper. Appreciate a heads-up. Has the Gazette picked up anything on car wrecks Wednesday night? Any . . . assaults?” He gave a breath of relief. “Thanks. . . . No. I’ll let you know, but a friend’s hunting somebody, good to know nothing on the police report Thursday morning.” He clicked off the phone, looked at the manager. “Did she say what kind of errand she was going to run?”
“Robbie Upton in 306 was revving up his Harley.” The manager was apologetic. “I didn’t quite hear what Michelle said. Something about ‘never knew I was going to be chief errand runner.’ She sounded exasperated, and said, ‘I have to hurry. I just have time to put up the groceries and get out there and make it to the Brown Owl by six.”
“Oh my goodness. Where can Michelle be?” Lorraine’s high clear voice quivered with distress.
I whispered, “Hush.”
Detective Smith gave the manager a puzzled glance, likely assuming she made the comments but wondering at the difference in the voices. “Maybe she has a good reason not to show up.”
A subdued but insistent whisper sounded near me. “We have to do something about Michelle.”
“Outside,” I breathed. I threw out the only bait I had. “News from Wiggins.”
Smith snapped, “Ms. Rogers, if you want to stay in here, I’ll ask you to be quiet and stop interfering with our search.”
The manager frowned. “I didn’t say anything.”
Joe’s voice had an odd sound. “Her lips didn’t move. I don’t think she said a word.”
Smith was irritated. “That’s enough out of you two. She’s the only woman in here, right?”
Hoping for the best, I popped out into the hall.
“Bailey Ruth? I don’t mean to be a bother.” Lorraine’s cultivated voice was forlorn.
I said gently, “Wiggins wants us to be unnoticed. Unheard.”
“No one is looking for Michelle.” Lorraine was distressed. “I’m terribly worried now. I didn’t know she was last seen on Wednesday evening. We have to do something.”
“I agree.” My tone was grave. Michelle wasn’t the kind of young woman to walk out and leave a cat with no one to care for him. I didn’t like to think what might have happened to her. “We definitely will look for her. First let’s see what’s happening in the apartment. Let’s go back and listen. If you need to talk to me, rattle a window shade.” It wasn’t exceedingly clever, but for now it would do.
Joe Cooper was talking to the manager. “. . . know who some of her friends are?”
Ms. Rogers shook her head. “Not by name. Maybe someone in the History Department can—”
“Hey, Don.” Johnny’s voice boomed from the bedroom. “Looks like I found it.”
The detective crossed the living room in three strides. Joe Cooper was right behind him. Ms. Rogers followed to the doorway of the bedroom.
Johnny stood in front of an open dresser drawer. He used his cell phone to snap one picture, two, three, four. He put the phone back in his pocket and bent to open an attaché case on the floor. He pulled out a pair of tongs. He already wore plastic gloves, but he used the tongs to lift up a brown leather-bound book. He turned toward Smith with a satisfied expression. “Shoved under some negligees. This matches the description, right?”
Ms. Rogers brushed back a white curl. “Is that the book stolen from the library Wednesday night? I heard about it on Channel Four.”
Smith glanced at a card, intoned, “Eight inches long, five inches wide, brown
leather covers frayed at the bottom. Slight tear on the upper left back of the cover?”
Johnny carefully turned the book over. “Check.” He pulled out a clear plastic bag from the attaché case, gently slipped the book inside the bag. He wrote on a white sticker, placed it on the bag. Turning back to the dresser, he continued his search. “Hey, look at this!” He lifted out a glass cutter. “What do you want to bet the lab finds some traces that match the glass in the display case at the library?” He hummed as he placed the small tool in another evidence bag. That done, he turned back to the drawer. “Looks like that’s all that matters. There’s a long-stem red rose wrapped in a lace handkerchief. That’s all besides silk stuff.”
“Ohh.” Lorraine’s voice was soft and dreamy. “She put the rose in her lingerie drawer. I left the rose on her desk.”
Smith jerked his head toward the manager. “You left the rose? How come? You know anything about the roses at the library?”
Rogers glared at him. “I not only didn’t leave a rose here, I know nothing about this particular rose or any other roses. Moreover, I did not say anything.”
Smith’s expression was skeptical. “That was a woman’s voice.”
“Not mine. Maybe the cat talks. I don’t know who’s saying stuff, but I can tell you one thing”—the flat Midwestern voice was brusque—“Michelle never took that book. I’m going to file a missing person report. You people need to start looking for her.”
Detective Smith raised his cell phone. “We’ll look for her, all right. What was she wearing?”
The manager hesitated, obviously put off by his aggressive tone.
Detective Smith was brusque. “You say she should be found. Help us find her.”
She took a quick breath. “Light blue blouse, white collar with blue piping, three-quarter-length sleeves, pintucking on the front, white trousers, navy sandals.”
“Pintucking?”
“The material tucked to make some vertical and horizontal stripes. She’s very stylish.”