Owls Well That Ends Well(105)

I winced. Yes, Giles knew me too well—a lot better than I knew him. He’d played me perfectly.

“Annoying traits,” Giles said. “I always found Michael remarkably cultured for an American, but I never could fathom what he saw in you.” And what I heard in his tone made it all the more insulting—not hate, or anger, but puzzlement and vague distaste.

Not to mention the ominous past tense. I suddenly remembered the open door of Michael’s empty office. Why was the door unlocked if Michael hadn’t been here? Was Giles up to something in Michael’s office?

Or had Michael already been here and run into Giles and his lethal little antiques. Surely if he’d done something to Michael, I’d have found—

I shoved the thought away.

“Not to change the subject,” I said. “But just how do you think you can get away with killing me?”

“There’s still a dangerous fugitive at large,” he said, nodding toward the radio. “The police will find me, dazed and half conscious on the floor of my office, and learn that their fugitive wrested the gun away from me, shot you with it, and then coshed me over the head before fleeing with whatever cash and small valuables we had. Now put the book down.”

I glanced down, and realized that I was unconsciously holding The Uttermost Farthing in front of my heart.

“It won’t work,” I said.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because I won’t let you get away with it,” Michael said, from the doorway.

Giles and I both started. I felt a flood of relief at seeing Michael alive and well. And then almost immediately wanted to kick myself for the missed opportunity. By the time it occurred to me to jump Giles while he was still off balance, he wasn’t.

“Michael,” Giles said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but you can’t talk me out of this. Step over beside her.”

“So you can shoot us both?” Michael said, without moving. “Is that what you want? Our blood on your hands?”

“Not to mention all over your books,” I added.

“The police are on their way,” Michael said. “I called them just now. Even if you shoot us both, they’ll catch you.”

Giles was glancing back and forth between the two of us. He narrowed his eyes and focused on Michael for several beats. Then he shook his head.

“No,” he said. “You wouldn’t stop to call the cops when you saw she was in danger. You’d just dash in and try to bluff me into giving up.”

I resented his underestimating Michael’s intelligence. At least I hoped he was underestimating it. Michael looked calm and confident, but then, he was an actor. He got paid to look calm and confident.

“Do you realize what you’re doing?” Michael began. “Gordon was an accident. But if you shot us, there would be no way you could pretend it was an accident. Not to the police and not to yourself.”

He was talking in a calm, soothing voice and, I hoped, distracting Giles. Good. Because while I hoped Giles was wrong, and Michael had sensibly called the police before barging in to rescue me, I wasn’t counting on it. I waited till Giles was completely focused on Michael, and then I made my move. Unfortunately, Giles wasn’t as distracted as I thought.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he exclaimed, grabbing the antique sword with his left hand, before I could get more than one step closer to it.

And then he focused back on Michael. He didn’t exactly turn his back on me, but he clearly wasn’t watching me closely.

Bad decision. Just because I didn’t have a weapon didn’t mean I wasn’t dangerous.

When Michael, who was a far more astute judge of my character than Giles, made a sudden feint to distract him, I tried again. I flung the contents of Rose Noire’s little perfume vial at Giles’s face. As I hoped, he flinched when the liquid hit him, and then the eucalyptus and menthol made his eyes water. He didn’t drop the sword or the gun, but he didn’t react quickly enough when I scrabbled at the book stand behind me.

You’d think an English professor would remember the old adage about the pen being mightier than the sword. The twenty-pound abridged edition of the Oxford English Dictionary made just as good a weapon as a saber. And a lot tidier; no messy blood to deal with.

Giles dropped both sword and gun and keeled over when the dictionary hit his head. A stack of books cushioned his fall—not that I particularly cared at the moment—and Michael tied him up with a long telephone cord while I called 911 with my cell phone.

“I did already call,” Michael said. “I’m a lot more practical than Giles thinks, you know.”