Owls Well That Ends Well Part 28

"Oh, that reminds me," Rob said, in a more normal voice. "Are you up for pizza at Luigi's?"

"Maybe later," I said.

"You would have to mention pizza," Michael said. "I'm trying to remember when I ate last."

"The whole family's going," Rob said. "In fact, most of them are already there. I'm just waiting for Dad to get ready."

"Later," I repeated.

"Aw, come on," Rob said. "Pizza. Celebration. What's the problem?"

"Michael and I have to be ... elsewhere," I said.

"Right," Michael said. "Maybe we'll join you when we're back from ... elsewhere. I'll grab something we can eat on the way."

He opened the refrigerator door and began rummaging.

"Just ignore these," Dad said, waving a foil-wrapped object. "I'll move them later."

Rob shuddered.

"You're not just leaving the cashbox lying around," Barrymore Sprocket said. I glanced over to find him standing in the doorway behind us, looking shocked and indignant.

"I thought we'd lock it up," I said. "And do the accounting in the morning."

"I was hoping to report to the family," he said, "on the results of the sale so far."

"He's got a point, Meg," Dad said. "We really ought to take care of that before we start celebrating. If you have something else to do, I'll stay behind and count it."

"And I'll help him," Barrymore said.

"But Dad-" Rob said.

"Have them put the tab on our Visa," Dad said, thereby showing that he knew the way to Rob's heart: free food. "Your mother will be there to sign. And have them deliver a pizza for us. How about a sausage and mushroom-will that work for you, Barrymore?"

I didn't stay to the end of Barrymore's explanation of what sausage would do to his stomach.

"We'll be back later," I said, and headed for the driveway.

On the way, we pa.s.sed Rose Noire loading her leftover merchandise into her car. Actually, she was sitting cross-legged on a large box supervising while Officer Sammy and a gorilla-suited Horace loaded the car.

"And it's important not to let ridicule and social pressure prevent you from expressing your true nature," Rose Noire was saying. "I expect some people to laugh when I explain that in a previous life I was one of the sacred cats in the temple of Bastet."

"Narrow-minded people," Horace said. "The Egyptians considered the ape sacred to Thoth, the lord of books."

"I like cats," Sammy put in, hastily.

Michael and I waved and continued on to the car. Michael's car, which wasn't as blocked-in as mine, though we did have to drive across part of what had once been a flower bed to get out.

"That flower bed was in the wrong place anyway," I said.

"That's the spirit," Michael said. "So we're off to Carol's house," he added as he maneuvered his car off the gra.s.s and onto the driveway. "I trust you know where it is?"

"I have no idea," I said. "That's not where we're going. Head for the Spare Attic."

"It'll be closed by now," Michael said, but he didn't argue with me, and at the end of our driveway he turned right, not left. A left turn on our small rural road took us to civilization, or at least to the town of Caerphilly, and from there we could pick up the main roads that led west to Richmond, south to Yorktown, or north to D.C. A right turn led us even farther out into the countryside until the road finally dead-ended five miles away at Caerphilly Creek. Apart from the nearby farmers and anyone unfortunate enough to be living in converted 1920s motel rooms at the ramshackle Whispering Pines Cabins, the only reason anyone ever had for going past our house was to visit the Spare Attic.

Chapter 37.

The Spare Attic was a clever name for a fairly utilitarian place. The same local businessman who'd turned the Whispering Pines Cabins from a hot sheets motel into a residential hotel soon realized that many of his unfortunate clients had more stuff than they could possibly fit into their d.i.n.ky cabins. So he'd bought the old abandoned Brakenridge textile mill, dirt cheap; thrown up inexpensive chain-link part.i.tions in the central factory floor; and rented out the resulting storage units at exorbitant prices.

At least he'd tried to charge exorbitant prices until a lack of renters forced him to realize that apart from the tenants at the cabins, not many people wanted to rent his bins.

When old Ezekiel Brakenridge, Ginevra's father, had built the factory in the nineteenth century, he'd doubtless put it on the banks of Caerphilly Creek for a good reason, though I didn't know whether he needed the creek for power or just liked to have a convenient source of running water to pollute. But the mill was even farther from town than we were-probably about fifteen miles. However much people in town needed storage s.p.a.ce, most of them balked at driving that far for a bin. And the people nearby were mostly farmers who had plenty of barns and outbuildings for storage-as we would, once the Sprockets were out of our lives and we could bring our possessions onto the property without the risk that Barrymore and his kin would redefine them as Sprocket family heirlooms. So for now we'd rented a bin for our overflow stuff. At least the stuff that wouldn't suffer from the Spare Attic's lack of sophisticated climate controls-in fact, its almost complete lack of any heat or air conditioning whatsoever.

I considered it a benefit that only about half the units were rented. The slow pace of business had forced the landlord to postpone his plans to erect a second, third, and fourth tier of bins atop the original tier. Given his reputation for shoddy construction, I hoped we wouldn't need a bin by the time the upper tiers rose and then inevitably collapsed.

Or by the time the owner realized that a few well-placed sparks could turn his sagging business into a lucrative insurance claim.

But in the meantime, it was just what we needed for our temporary overflow.

And probably just what Gordon needed to hide any number of valuable a.s.sets from the covetous Carol.

"No one here," Michael said, as we pulled up.

"That's good," I said. "Let's find someplace to hide the car."

"There's an old dirt road that goes down by the river," Michael said, "popular with the more wayward students as a lover's lane."

"That should work as a hiding place," I said. "And you know about this lover's lane because ... ?"

"Prudish members of the administration periodically try to make being caught there punishable by expulsion," he said, with a grin. "Forcing wild-eyed radicals like me to battle these encroaching forces of repression."

"Now I know why you're so popular with the students," I said. "And if we run into any of your wayward students?"

"On Sunday night?" he said. "They'll all be home trying to do their Monday cla.s.s a.s.signments at the last minute."

"It's been a few years since you were student, hasn't it?" I said, with a laugh.

"Not that long," he said. "So if we run into anyone, just do your best to look furtive and disheveled. In fact, now that they've cleaned it up, I heard Caerphilly Creek is quite lovely by moonlight. If we have time before Carol arrives ..."

"Perhaps after we deal with Carol," I said.

He pulled the car off the lane at a picturesque spot where the creek widened and deepened into a tree-shaded pool that made me wish momentarily that it was still summer and warm enough for skinny-dipping. Then I focused back on the task at hand.

I grabbed my key ring, in case the key to our bin proved useful, and a flashlight, since the sky was not only moonless but rapidly clouding over. We both had our cell phones, of course, in case we wanted to report Carol, though I hoped we could pick her brain first. We crept back up the lane to the Spare Attic and found a place to hide behind an abandoned Dumpster.

"So why are we after Carol," Michael asked, in a whisper, once we were settled. "And why do we expect her to show up here?"

I brought him up to date on my day's snooping, as he called it.

"Incredible," he said. "Three people wander into a crime scene and can think of nothing better to do than mess it up. No wonder the chief's having a hard time getting to the truth."

"Well, I don't think the Hummel lady realized it was a crime scene," I said.

"No, but Ralph Endicott and Arnold Schmidt did," he said. "And how do we know any of them are telling the truth?"

"We know the Hummel lady is telling the truth because of Schmidt," I said. "And what Endicott said validates Schmidt's story."

"And makes Carol look like a murderer," he said.

"Unless Endicott's lying."

"True," he said. "And if you ask me, we should keep looking at Endicott. His story's rather suspicious, isn't it? Being hara.s.sed by Gordon's creditors doesn't sound like much of a motive for murder, does it?"

"You suspect him because he doesn't have much of a motive?"

"I suspect him because even though he doesn't have much of a motive, he still hid the body. I think there's more going on that we don't know about."

"Sorry," I said. "That's all I could find out."

"Hey, you did better then Chief Burke."

"Still, we remain suspicious of Endicott until we find out whether Carol's story validates or contradicts his."

"And if her story contradicts his, how do we decide who to believe?"

"I'll worry about that when we get there," I said. "First we have to find Carol."

"And what if Carol points the finger at yet another of our yard sale customers?"

"Then we'll hunt them down next," I said. "And badger them until we have the truth."

Just then we heard a car approaching. We drew back behind the Dumpster and watched as a battered Toyota Corolla crawled slowly across the parking lot and disappeared down the dirt lane.

"Preparing their Monday cla.s.s a.s.signments," I said, nodding.

"I hope they don't grab the swimming hole," Michael grumbled.

"I just hope they don't recognize your car."

We both burst out laughing at that, and were still suppressing the occasional giggle when we heard another engine.

The hulking shape of a large SUV turned into the parking lot and pulled up in front of the old factory's front entrance. I couldn't tell the make or color in the dark, but when its door opened, the dome light let me recognize the person inside.

"Carol," I whispered.

We watched as she got out of the car, wearing a black-and-white warm-up suit and pink-and-white running shoes so clean they practically glowed, even in the near darkness. What the well-dressed amateur burglar will wear. She looked all around to see if she was being watched-a fairly useless maneuver when you're the one holding a flashlight in the middle of an unlighted parking lot. Then she tiptoed over to one of the tall, multipaned windows that filled most of the front of the building. She glanced around again, and then pulled out the crowbar that she'd been unsuccessfully trying to conceal beneath the warm-up jacket.

"I've always wondered if this place had a security alarm," Michael murmured.

"I haven't," I said. "I just figure we're lucky it has four walls and a roof that doesn't leak all that much."

Carol looked up at the window. She could probably reach the gla.s.s with the crowbar, but climbing in would be a challenge.

Evidently Carol had done her homework. She returned to her SUV and hauled out a small stepladder. She set it up beneath the window and climbed up, so she had a much more comfortable angle for wielding the crowbar, and then she bashed in enough of the panes and surrounding window frame to create a hole large enough to let her enter.

"Okay, so either it's a silent alarm or there's no security," I said.

"Let's go," Michael said.

"Hang on a second," I said, tugging at his sleeve.

A few seconds later, the front door opened. Carol stuck her head out, looked around, and vanished inside.

"Now let's go," I said.

"Why would she do that?" Michael asked.

"Maybe she's not just planning to inventory Gordon's stuff," I said. "Maybe she's planning to haul stuff away, now that she's found it. Why carry things down the ladder if you can just march right out the front door?"

We darted across the open s.p.a.ce between the Dumpster and the front door and crept inside.

There was a small vestibule inside the door, and beyond it, an archway led to the cavernous three-story main body of the former factory. A light came on in the open area. Not a lot of light, but enough that Carol could spot us if we weren't careful. Michael and I stayed in the vestibule and peeked out to see what Carol would do.

Chapter 38.

The old factory building looked a lot different by night.

By day, and as long as the temperature wasn't extreme, it wasn't all that unpleasant. It had been built with great banks of windows, to save on lighting costs, which meant that during the day, natural light filled the huge central area. But now, with only a few widely s.p.a.ced 25-watt bulbs providing light, it was uninviting. In fact, downright spooky.

I'd have turned on my flashlight if I wasn't afraid of Carol spotting us. We waited to see what she would do.