Okay, it was clutter, but there’s clutter and clutter. Not all clutter was created equal. Even with the signs of the police search, I liked Giles’s clutter. Classy, academic clutter. No more useful than any other clutter, perhaps, but I still had a hard time condemning it.
When I had the time—after the yard sale was over and Giles cleared of murder charges—I’d have to do some long hard thinking about my definition of clutter. And probably talk the subject over with Michael. I didn’t want the house to be a place to keep our stuff while we went out to get more stuff, or however George Carlin had defined it. And I needed to make sure Michael felt the same way. If he didn’t—
“Sorry about that,” Giles said, when he was finally able to hang up. “Apparently I’m not Dean Snyder’s favorite underling today.”
“Here’s hoping we can change that, and quickly,” I said. “Have you seen Professor Schmidt today?”
“Arnold Schmidt? Not that I recall,” Giles said. “Dare I hope that you’re about to pin the guilt on him instead of me?”
“It’s a possibility,” I said. “Remember the woman in the flowered hat who identified you to Chief Burke as the person who was entering the barn as she left?”
“The dame who fingered me?” he said, in a bad imitation of an American gangster’s accent. “You bet I remember her.”
“She lied,” I said. “Not about seeing you, but about talking to Gordon. I suspect he was already dead and locked in the trunk when she went into the barn.”
“Good show!” Giles exclaimed. “If you can prove that, perhaps Chief Burke will start looking for the real killer!”
“I’ll try,” I said. “And since Arnold Schmidt was just leaving when she walked in—”
“Oh, please let it be him,” Giles said. “He’s the most insufferable snob in the department.”
“I’ll keep you posted,” I said.
“Please do,” Giles said. He returned to his paperwork, looking almost cheerful.
I felt a momentary twinge of irritation. Was Giles doing anything to help himself, or just sitting back and waiting for me to clear him? He could at least have offered to help me find Schmidt. The way Michael would, if he weren’t back at the yard sale, trying to keep it under control while simultaneously humoring Mother.
Then I realized I was being too hard on Giles. Not fair to expect a mild-mannered, reclusive English professor to turn into Sam Spade in a pinch, even if he was a vintage mystery fan. And definitely not fair to compare him with Michael. Giles needed rescuing. And the next step was to tackle Schmidt.
Of course, first I had to find Schmidt.
Chapter 29
I headed toward Westlake, where Professor Schmidt lived. Like much of Caerphilly, it had been built in quaint, mock-Tudor style, but in Westlake the houses were closer to manors than cottages, and the lawns were so impeccable that I suspected the owners made their gardeners manicure the grass blades with nail scissors. A very posh neighborhood filled with astronomical mortgages and the department heads and professors emeriti who could afford them. Even full professors probably steered clear of Westlake unless they were independently wealthy or had a spouse with a well-paying job. Michael and I hadn’t done much house hunting there, partly because we could never have afforded it, and partly because the houses there hardly ever went on the market anyway.
My route led through a part of Caerphilly I’d seen far too often since Mother’s arrival a week ago, since it contained most of the town’s antique stores. Including Gordon McCoy’s Antique and Junque Emporium, though that was on the very fringes of the district, merging into a neighborhood of stores where normal people shopped and restaurants that served iceberg lettuce instead of its snooty Italian cousins. Out of curiosity, I took the street that went past Gordon’s shop.
How strange. Three of Caerphilly’s small supply of police vehicles were parked outside the Antique and Junque Emporium, along with the chief’s blue Chrysler. Had the epicenter of the murder investigation moved from our house to Caerphilly, unnoticed by the crowds hovering around the yard sale? And for that matter, unnoticed by the various print and broadcast journalists?
I cruised past the shop at about ten miles per hour, but I didn’t see anyone, so I circled the block and came round again. Still nothing to see, so this time, as soon as I turned, I parked the car on the empty side street. If it hadn’t been for the police cars, I might have thought I was in one of those science fiction flicks where the heroine wakes up to find that everyone else has left the planet.