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Stork Raving Mad(57)

By:Donna Andrews


“It might not be his fault,” I said. “Did you read the editorial The Fa—the college president wrote in the last alumni bulletin?”

“I’m not a Caephilly alumnus, dammit!”

“Sorry,” I said. “Anyway, it was all about what a pain it was when people gave money with so many restrictions that the college could in theory have millions in endowments and not have enough cash to pay the light bill. The Face is big on non-restricted donations. Maybe Blanco’s just trying to please his boss.”

“Hmph!” my grandfather said. “Then he should grow a backbone.”

With that he strode off. But toward the kitchen, not out the front door, so apparently venting to me had cooled his temper some.

“Come on out to the barn,” he called over his shoulder. “Your mother’s doing a buffet out there before the dress rehearsal.”

A buffet in our barn? Trust Mother to treat a murder investigation as yet another social occasion. She probably knew exactly what wines went with forensics and interrogation. Or was the rehearsal the reason for the festivity?

If Grandfather had waited a few seconds I could have asked him to send someone back to the house with a plate for me.

I could always wait until someone came back to the house.

My stomach rumbled.

I rummaged through the racks until I found the loosely cut coat I’d been wearing this winter, and then through the baskets until I found a hat, scarf, and gloves that at least looked like mine. I caught sight of myself in the hall mirror. Did I look more like an arctic explorer or an overcoat-clad walrus?

I deferred the question and headed for the back door.

But I couldn’t help thinking about Grandfather’s diatribe. Was Blanco really trying to keep him from giving the college the money for a building? I doubted it. More likely, Blanco was trying to get Grandfather’s money for the college with as few strings as possible attached.

Unless he was scrambling to cover up something worse. Like the college really not having enough money to pay its bills. Or its payroll. What if the whole problem with Randall Shiffley’s check was not Blanco’s inconsiderateness or inefficiency but his desperate attempts to juggle until he could find enough money to cover the check? If that was the case—

I didn’t want to think about it right now. I shoved the door open and stepped onto the back stoop.





Chapter 19


Outside it was getting dark already. The sun hadn’t quite set, but it was hidden behind thick clouds. The air was cold, but with no wind at least it was a bearable cold.

I picked my way carefully down the back steps and paused to look around. To my left, I could see the lighted windows of the library. Inside, Horace was methodically picking his way through a section of the students’ belongings. Poor Horace was in for a long night.

The table where Dr. Wright had been killed wasn’t visible from this angle, but much of the library was. Should I point this out to Chief Burke? Ask if he’d interrogated the students, particularly any smokers who’d used the backyard, to see if they’d seen anyone other than Dr. Wright in the library?

Probably not a good idea. He resented people interfering in his investigations. So far I’d managed not to set him off today. I decided to keep it that way.

I’d tell Horace and let him ask the chief.

For its first ten or fifteen feet, the path to the barn was lined on both sides with several dozen black plastic garbage bags, all tied at the top and neatly arranged. Someone had posted a “trash” sign to the left and a “recycling” sign to the right. Every week the students were here we had more bags of both kinds. Maybe we could just get our trash company to leave a Dumpster for the next few weeks.

And maybe anyone who had been on trash-removal duty would also be a good candidate for interrogation about whether they’d seen anything suspicious in the library.

Ahead, light spilled out of the barn windows. A slight breeze rustled the trash bags and picked up a few stray leaves in the yard. I pulled my coat tighter and hiked to the barn.

I slid open the door a little way and the light and noise hit me.

“Come in and shut the door!” half a dozen voices sang out in unison.

“It’s Mrs. Waterston!” another voice called. “Open the door for her!”

The door flew aside so abruptly that it almost dragged me sideways with it.

“Meg!” Rose Noire was at my elbow, steering me inside. “What are you doing out here? I thought you were napping!”

“I was hungry,” I said.

“You could have called me,” she said. “I’d have brought you a plate.”

“And miss the party?” I said. “I’m fine. Point me toward the food.”