“Yes, I know he already called, Debbie Anne,” I said into the phone. “But tell the chief to hurry. We have the real murderer this time.”
“You see?” Michael said.
“I never doubted you,” I said. “But I couldn’t pass up the chance to let the chief know that we caught his murderer.”
“We did, didn’t we?” Michael said, with a smile. “As a team, we’re not half bad.”
And then, since Giles was not only tied up but still unconscious and the police wouldn’t show up for at least a few minutes, we seized the chance to end our quarrel in a much more satisfactory fashion.
Chapter 46
Chief Burke must have been in the next county. Most of the Caerphilly police force, two state troopers, and several dozen rubberneckers had arrived before he did. The tiny, book-filled office started to give me the creeps—or maybe it was the presence of the man I’d considered our friend before he almost became our murderer—so I convinced the cops who had arrived to let Michael and me wait for the chief on the building’s front veranda. We were standing arm in arm behind a huge white marble pillar, peeking down at the growing crowd, when the chief finally pulled up and began climbing the long front stairway.
“Did you catch Barrymore Sprocket?” I asked when he arrived at the top.
“Yes,” the chief said, sounding rather grumpy as well as out of breath. “Spotsylvania County picked him up half an hour ago. We’ll look pretty silly when we have to tell them he’s the wrong man.”
“He’s not the wrong man,” I said.
“He didn’t kill Gordon McCoy,” the chief said.
“He did take Gordon’s wallet, not to mention our cash box, and he knocked Dad out and tied him up,” I pointed out. “Which means he’s wanted for grand theft, assault and battery, and interfering with the scene of a crime, right? Just because he’s not the killer doesn’t mean he isn’t a criminal.”
“I suppose,” the chief said. “Thank goodness those bulletins always say alleged anyway.”
“And when you put the bulletin out, I was alleging like mad that Barrymore was the killer,” I said. “Not your fault.”
“Hmph,” the chief said, and turned to go inside.
“You forgot to ask him about the money Sprocket stole,” Michael said.
“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 hell with them. If they kick me out, it’s their loss.”
“The hell 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 succumbed 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.”