Owls Well That Ends Well Part 34

"We can worry about that later," I said. "The money's not that important. And if we don't get it back from Barrymore, there are plenty of other Sprockets."

He nodded.

"I should have known he couldn't be trusted, the minute he walked in," I said.

"I recall that you didn't trust him," Michael said. "You saw through Sprocket almost as soon as you met him. Not like me. I've known Giles for seven or eight years, and I never suspected he'd do something like this."

"Not your fault," I said.

"No, it is," he said. "I should have realized something was wrong when he didn't immediately warm to you."

"Not his fault," I said.

"Yes, it is," Michael said. "If he wasn't smart enough to like you for your own sake, he should at least have tried harder for my sake. I'm better off without a friend like that."

He sounded tired and depressed. And to cap it all off, we saw the department chair and vice chair whispering over at one end of the veranda, and occasionally glancing our way.

"Already planning which of my detractors to appoint to my tenure committee," Michael said. "Well, the h.e.l.l with them. If they kick me out, it's their loss."

"The h.e.l.l they will," I said. "Wait here."

Ironically, when Giles was about to kill me, the campus had been completely deserted, but now the crowd, drawn by the police sirens, was increasing by the minute. The police were keeping most of them, including the reporters, down in the street, but a growing number of faculty members had shown up and were milling about the veranda, exchanging misinformation. Including, oddly enough, Professor Schmidt. I walked over and pulled him aside.

"Can we talk for a minute," I said.

"What about?" he said. But he must have guessed. He followed me, glancing over his shoulder, until we were out of the crowd's earshot.

"Mrs. Pruitt," I said. "The cover-up has to stop."

He closed his eyes, as if I'd just announced my intention of executing him.

"Of course, I understand what happened. In your youthful enthusiasm for your subject, you succ.u.mbed to the temptation to hide the books. And, no doubt, you've regretted it ever since, but have been unable to find a way out of the trap you devised for yourself."

He eyed me warily, as if not sure where I was going.

"But now, you have a chance to make a fresh start!" I exclaimed. "You can disarm suspicion by being the one to reveal to the world the discovery of these new primary sources."

"Of course before I can do that I need to find these exciting new primary sources," he said.

"Don't worry," I said. "I'll give them to you."

"And just where am I officially supposed to have gotten the d.a.m.ned things?" he asked.

"From me," I said. "I found them in Mrs. Sprocket's attic. Or possibly her barn."

"Where did she get them?"

"I have no idea," I said. "You'd be amazed what I found in her clutter collection, and I have no idea where she got any of it. Who cares? I found this box of books, and when I saw Mrs. Pruitt's bookplates in them, I contacted you immediately, because I knew you were the world's leading authority on her work, and I thought you would like to have them. Little did I know that these books would revolutionize Pruitt scholarship. You will a.n.a.lyze them, in a series of articles in all the usual scholarly journals, and show the world that you're humble and honest enough to reverse your opinion when new facts come to light. It'll probably breathe new life into your career."

I could see a glimmer of hope in his eyes. And also a lot of suspicion.

"What possible reason could you have for helping me?" he asked.

"No reason whatsoever," I admitted. "But I'm very keen on helping Michael."

He frowned, puzzled.

"I'm sure if he knew, Michael would share my belief that you deserve a chance to make this right," I said. "Just as I'm sure if you think about it, you'll come to share my belief that Michael deserves tenure."

"Ah," he said.

"So provided you snag the soon-to-be-vacant slot on Michael's tenure committee, I see no reason to bore the public with any other version of events."

He studied me through narrowed eyes.

"Done," he said.

He strolled away, looking happier than I could ever remember seeing him. I returned to where Michael was standing and put my arm around his waist.

"Professor Schmidt looks disgustingly cheerful," he said, leaning his head on mine. "Is he already gloating over Giles's downfall and my future departure?"

"No," I said. "I think we'll find that his close brush with murder and the possible notoriety of being a suspect has given Professor Schmidt a change of heart."

"He has a heart?" Michael said. "Who knew?"

"So if you hear that he's lobbying to replace Giles on your tenure committee, don't worry," I said.

He blinked. Then he smiled.

"You're up to something," he said.

"Always," I said.

"You want to share?"

"You're better off not knowing," I said.

"You know," he said. "I think you're much better at faculty politics than I am. If you won't misconstrue this as a s.e.xist remark, or an attempt at pressuring you into something you're not ready to consider, or anything unfortunate like that, may I say that you have all the makings of an excellent faculty spouse? a.s.suming that's a role you might possibly consider performing at some future point."

I took a deep breath.

"I think it's a role I might be very interested in performing, on one condition."

"Name it," he said, suddenly sounding much more serious.

"Neither of our mothers gets to plan the wedding."

"Done," he said.

He leaned over, pulled me behind a pillar, and kissed me. But a couple of t.i.tters from the knot of faculty members nearby broke his concentration and he frowned, at them and at the crowd milling about in the street. Including the reporters.

"My car's down there," he said, gesturing toward the street. "Why don't we leave Chief Burke to wrap up his loose ends, and go home to discuss this more privately?"

"Home's a bad idea," I said. "By now, we'll probably have at least fifty friends and relatives there, waiting to hear all about what happened."

"Oh," he said, his face falling. "I hadn't thought of that."

"On the other hand," I said, starting down the steps. "I have it on good authority that Caerphilly Creek is lovely by starlight."

Other Meg Langslow Mysteries by Donna Andrews

We'll Always Have Parrots Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos Murder with Puffins Murder with Peac.o.c.ks AVAILABLE FROM ST. MARTIN'S / MINOTAUR PAPERBACKS

Praise for Donna Andrews's Meg Langslow Mysteries

Owls Well That Ends Well "It's a hoot ... A supporting cast of endearingly eccentric characters, perfectly pitched dialogue and a fine sense of humor make this a treat."

-Publishers Weekly "Death by yard sale epitomizes the 'everyday people' humor that Andrews does so well ... For readers who prefer their mysteries light ... Andrews may be the next best thing to Janet Evanovich."

-Rocky Mountain News "Andrews delivers another wonderfully comic story ... This is a fun read, as are all the books in the series. Andrews playfully creates laughable, wacky scenes that are the backdrop for her criminally devious plot. Settle back, dear reader and enjoy another visit to Meg's anything-but-ordinary world."

-Romantic Times (starred review) We'll Always Have Parrots "Laughter, more laughter, we need laughter, so Donna Andrews is giving us We'll Always Have Parrots ... to help us survive February."

-Washington Times "Perfectly showcases Donna Andrews's gift for deadpan comedy."

-Denver Post "Always heavy on the humor, Andrews's most recent Meg Langslow outing is her most over-the-top adventure to date."

-Booklist "I can't say enough good things about this series, and this entry in it."

-Deadly Pleasures "Hilarious ... Another winner ... keeps you turning pages."

-Mystery Lovers News Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon "There's a smile on every page and at least one chuckle per chapter."

-Publishers Weekly "This may be the funniest installment of Andrews's wonderfully wacky series yet. It takes a deft hand to make slapstick or physical comedy appealing, yet Andrews masterfully manages manages it (the climax will have you in st.i.tches.)"

-Romantic Times Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos "At the top of the list ... a fearless protagonist, remarkable supporting characters, lively action, and a keen wit."

-Library Journal "What a lighthearted gem of a juggling act ... With her trademark witty dialogue and fine sense of the ridiculous, Andrews keeps all her b.a.l.l.s in the air with skill and verve."

-Publishers Weekly "Genuinely fascinating. A better-than-average entry in a consistently entertaining ... series."

-Booklist Murder with Puffins "Muddy trails, old secrets, and plenty of homespun humor."

-St. Petersburg Times "The well-realized island atmosphere, the puffin lore, and the ubiquitous birders only add to the fun."

-Denver Post "Another hit for Andrews ... entertaining and filled with fun characters."

-Daily Press [Newport, Virginia]

"Andrews's tale of two puffins has much to recommend it, and will leave readers cawing for another adventure featuring the appealing Meg and Michael."

-Publishers Weekly "The puffin angle proves very amusing ... an enjoyable flight of fancy."

-Booklist Murder with Peac.o.c.ks "The first novel is so clever, funny, and original that lots of wannabe authors will throw up their hands in envy and get jobs in a coffee shop."

-Contra Costa Times "Loquacious dialogue, persistent humor ... a fun, breezy read."

-Library Journal "Half Jane Austen, half battery acid ... will leave you helpless with heartless laughter ... Andrews combines murder and madcap hilarity with a cast of eccentric oddb.a.l.l.s in a small Southern town."

-Kirkus Reviews "Andrews's debut provides plenty of laughs for readers who like their mysteries on the cozy side."

-Publishers Weekly Keep reading for an excerpt from Donna Andrews's latest Meg Langslow mystery

No Nest for the Wicket

COMING SOON IN HARDCOVER FROM ST. MARTIN'S MINOTAUR "Move," I said. "You're blocking my shot."

The cow chewed her cud and gazed at me with placid bovine calm.

"Go away!" I ran toward her, waving my arms wildly, only to pull up short before I ran into her. She was bigger than me. Half a ton at least. Maybe three quarters.

I turned my croquet mallet around and prodded her black-and-white flank with the handle. Not hard-I didn't want to hurt her. I just wanted her to move.

She turned her head slightly to see what I was doing.