Ghost Wanted (6 page)

So far as the
Bugle
has been able to determine, this past week was the first time in the history of the legend that roses appeared linked to incidents which have resulted in damage or loss to the library.

The Thursday issue was the last in my filched stack. I assumed that meant I had arrived in the Goddard Library Thursday evening. To be sure, I checked the walnut desk in one corner of the guest room. Indeed, the university provided guests with all amenities. The top sheet on the desk calendar read Thursday, October 17. The puzzling events at the library were discovered Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday mornings and reported in the afternoon editions of the
Bugle
.

I arrived on the library landing the night of Thursday, October 17, a night when nothing untoward had occurred at the library. Because of my excitement in finding Lorraine, Douglas thought a woman had entered and spoken, but he had decided after a search that all was well.

As I settled into a very comfortable bed, I wondered if the theft of the Lewis and Clark journal was the final bit of chicanery intended. That seemed likely, since nothing untoward had occurred tonight.

I felt sanguine, slipping into sleep, until a vagrant thought occurred: If theft of the valuable journal was the objective, why the roses and smashed gargoyle?

Friday morning, I hovered for a moment in the grand foyer of the library, enjoying the grandeur of the double staircase, vaulted ceiling, and the vivid crimson and gold colors of sunlit stained-glass lancet windows. This grand old building seemed an unlikely setting for drama, though I well knew that good and evil occur equally in a kitchen, a high-rise, or a gothic library.

I had no difficulty finding the director's ground-floor office, a wide, deep room with more lancet windows, framed prints of faraway places on two walls, and a filled bookcase behind a mahogany desk. Kathleen Garza was already at her desk although it was only a quarter past eight. She clicked on her intercom. “Ella, I'm meeting with staff and Campus Security at nine. Hold all calls, no visitors.” Kathleen was attractive in an understated Katharine Hepburn way—thick dark hair in a 1940s style, a well-cut pale gray suit enlivened by a garnet necklace.

No visitors? I could circumvent that order.

In an instant I landed in a darkened cloakroom on the east side of the lobby. I made sure the room was empty, remembered the Adelaide police uniform, and appeared. French blue is flattering to redheads, and the royal blue stripe for the trousers is truly stylish. I walked out into the lobby. On some prior efforts in Adelaide, I had assumed the identity of Officer Loy, a tribute to Myrna Loy, who was such a superb Nora to William Powell's Nick Charles in
The Thin Man
. I ran my finger over the engraved letters of my name tag:
Officer M. Loy
. I stopped at the central desk. “Officer Loy. I'm here to see Director Garza about the theft of the rare book.”

I was inside her office three minutes later.

She came around the desk to greet me. “I spoke with Detective Smith yesterday. Do you have any news?”

I looked sage. “The investigation is continuing on all fronts, including contacts with rare-book dealers. So far”—I looked regretful—“we've had no success there. Detective Smith said he thinks you have excellent insight and, after considering all the circumstances, may have more useful background information.” I gestured toward the chair in front of her desk. “If I might ask a few questions?”

She settled behind her desk, still looking anxious.

I didn't, of course, know what Detective Smith had covered, so I began cautiously. “In regard to the records from the keypads used to enter the library . . .” I trailed off, looking interested.

She was polite, but dismissive. “Staff use the last four digits of their social security numbers for their entry code. It would certainly take a stupid thief to leave such a clear trail. However, I asked the tech staff for a report yesterday.” She swung to her computer, clicked several times. Her thin shoulders stiffened. She turned toward me, eyes wide with surprise. “There was one entry Wednesday night. Actually early Thursday morning. At 1:04 a.m., the code belonging to a student registered. Normally students aren't permitted to enter without a librarian but Michelle Hoyt—”

I managed to keep my face blank.

“—was added to the system Monday at the request of the History Department. I am shocked. The History chair vouched for her.” Her face folded in tight angry lines. “We'll see about this. She had no authority to enter the library except during working hours. And certainly it would be an odd coincidence if she used her code the very same night a valuable book was stolen.”

I held up my hand. “Before I investigate further with this student, did you ask about entries after hours for Monday and Tuesday nights?”

The director was crisp. “Of course. There are no recorded entries on the keypads for either of those nights.” Her thin black brows drew down. “Michelle's entry code was activated Monday. Since it wasn't used Monday or Tuesday nights, does that mean she had nothing to do with the roses or the gargoyle? As for the entry before the theft, possibly someone used her private information, but I will need to see proof of that.”

I was puzzled. Why would Michelle Hoyt point an arrow at herself on the night of the theft?

Garza frowned. “It doesn't seem likely the incidents aren't linked.”

I was judicious. “Possibly the thief took advantage of the arrival of the roses and the smashed gargoyle to confuse investigators. How do you think an intruder could enter without using the keypad?”

Garza shrugged. “The library is big: three floors with many rooms and closets and restrooms and odd nooks. Just before the library closes at ten, Officer Douglas checks every floor, but anyone determined not to be seen could be in a toilet stall or supply closet or simply evade him in the stacks. It would also be possible for a ground-floor window to be unlocked at some point during the day, and an intruder could enter and leave by that means. However, the record is definite. Michelle Hoyt's code was used the night of the theft. Either she used her code or someone else did.” Her pale blue eyes glinted with anger. She looked formidable. “I should never have agreed to permit a student to have access to the library, but Dr. Gordon was insistent. He wanted her to be able to come and go, even though her full workday here was scheduled on Fridays. Actually, she starts this morning. Room 211. She should be there.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “We'll see what she has to say for herself.”

“Michelle will reassure you.” Lorraine's high voice was quite pleasant, but gently chiding. “She's a dear girl who is pinning the dreams of her future on her work here at the library. She would never be involved in a dishonest venture.”

Garza stared at me. She could scarcely look more shocked if I'd suddenly jumped to my feet and brandished a sword.

I lifted my husky voice a notch, but it was still an octave below Lorraine's dulcet tones. I spoke loudly: “Always two sides to every story.” I made a shushing motion with my left hand.

Garza's gaze followed my hand.

I let my hand drop, managed a strained smile.

“As for the keypad”—Lorraine's cultivated tone held a hint of disdain—“likely it registered the wrong number. I've heard students talk about electronic mishaps. They happen every day.”

Lorraine's voice was utterly distinct from mine. Hers was high, mine was low. Her voice had a bell-like quality with the precise diction of someone who did not grow up in the Oklahoma hills. Mine was deeper, with a hint of laughter and a drawl that was a mixture of Southern forebears and Western pioneers.

Lorraine was kind, but firm. “We must never jump to conclusions, must we?” An unseen hand gripped my elbow. “You'll see about this, won't you?”

Garza's eyes darted around the room.

I wriggled free of Lorraine's grasp, quite possibly resembling a disco dancer with a decided leftward list, and yanked the cell phone from my uniform pocket. I held it up, said loudly, “Sorry, Ms. Garza, sometimes the thing gets stuck on speaker phone and other calls get mixed in, quite a mess actually.”

Garza had the wary expression of a woman watching a hooded cobra rising from a basket.

“Certainly I hope your telephone problem is solved”—Lorraine was exasperated—“but technical difficulties are not of great importance at the moment. Please see about Michelle.”

Lorraine clearly had no idea she was causing a problem. I yelped into the cell. “Cut it out, Sergeant.” I was backpedaling toward the door. “I'm on my way to deal with everything right now. Don't embarrass the police department.” I was at the door, and a hand gently fastened on my elbow. I twisted my arm, grabbed a fine-boned wrist. “Straighten out the phone lines, Sergeant.” I spoke through gritted teeth, managed a strained smile for the director. “Ms. Garza, my apology for the extraneous chatter.”

“Extraneous?” Lorraine sounded puzzled.

“I'll run right upstairs and talk to Ms. Hoyt.”

“Oh, good. You'll take care of everything, I know you will.” Lorraine was clearly reassured.

Garza retrieved a key ring from her desk drawer, rose. “I will accompany you.” She edged from behind her desk, keeping a good distance from me, clearly convinced she was dealing with an unhinged personality.

“Michelle will no doubt explain everything.” Lorraine's voice was fading away.

On the plus side, I sensed that she spoke and left. No doubt she was already in room 211.

I turned toward Garza. I pitched my voice higher than usual. “Hopefully Ms. Hoyt can clear up the matter. Certainly, the use of her code after hours must be explained.”

Pale blue eyes stared at me intently. Finally, she gave a short nod, but we didn't exchange a word as we walked down the hall, out into the main rotunda, and up the stairs. On the second floor, she turned to her right.

We passed two closed doors.

At room 211, the director checked her keys, inserted one, and opened the door.

I was right behind Garza. There was a long oak table near the windows. Three boxes sat atop the table. A legal pad and pen lay in front of the oak chair drawn up to the table.

As we started across the room, the lid of one box rose in the air, apparently of its own accord.

Garza stumbled to a stop, stood as rigid as a lamppost, stared at the moving lid.

I was behind the librarian. I shook my head, waved my hands overhead signaling
Stop
.

A red leather-bound book went up in the air, hovered above the box.

Garza backed away from the table, bumping into me. I steadied her with one hand, pointed thumb down with the other.

The book was lowered to the box.

“Odd thing, gravity,” I said brightly. “I suppose it was just a tremor. You know, a scarcely felt earthquake, and the book was balanced in some way.” I was turning the librarian toward the door. “Obviously, there's nothing here for us to see. Don't worry, Ms. Garza. I'll find Ms. Hoyt.”

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.