“I mean your husband doesn't write literature. He's turning out a product for the masses, so he's a businessman, just like Mr. Johnson there, except Mr. Johnson doesn't claim to be a creative artist.”
The wealthy alum smiled. “Some people think my annual reports are a bit too creative.”
“Please, Ezra,” said Warren. “Don't insult our guests.”
“It's not an insult to be told I write for popular taste,” said Shanks. “Puts me in the same category as Dickens or Twain. Who was the most popular author in Shakespeare's day?”
“Shakespeare,” said Upton, grinning right through his beard.
Rosetti's face, on the other hand, was stony. “So that's who you compare yourself to?”
“Of course not. I'm nowhere near as popular as those gentlemen were. But I aspire to be. And speaking of aspiration, here is the first phase of my contribution to your collection.” He handed over the hefty pile of first editions of his novels. Rosetti placed them on a corner of his desk without a glance, and rubbed his hand on his corduroy jacket.
He actually wiped his hand, Shanks thought, amazed. In case he caught any cooties from my books.
But worse was on the way. “I read one of your little books in preparation for this meeting.” Shanks guessed what was coming next. Rosetti named a novel that had received a stunningly negative review in a national magazine the year before. “I'm afraid I didn't think it was as good as the critics claimed.”
Since punching the old coot was not an option Shanks smiled more broadly. “Well, now you have some more to try.”
“And Shanks has promised us his papers,” said Dina Lundin. “We will be the center for Longshanks studies!”
“I'm sure that will keep us hopping, my dear,” said Rosetti. “Fortunately, there's plenty of room in the College History section of the vault.”
Dina frowned. “You make it sound like you're going to lock his papers up in maximum security so that no one can get hurt by them.”
Rosetti gave her a lemony smile. “I'm afraid I don't know as much about prisons as you. I don't read that kind of book.”
“Why is everyone so cranky?" asked Mrs. Preese.
“Just artistic differences,” said Professor Upton, pleasantly. “Let's take a look at these books your husband so generously donated.”
Grey G. Johnson shook his head in amusement. “I take it the professor here thinks you're a short-term investment, Shanks.”
At least he wasn't being compared to a junk bond. “Come again?”
“Your books are popular now, but the doctor is interested in writers whose value will increase in time.”
Rosetti looked even more irritated. “Not everything is about money.”
“No? Hey, Janice.” President Warren looked up instantly. “The doc says my money isn't important.”
“It's important to us," she said firmly. “Cal, is it time for dinner?”
“Where are we going for dinner?” Cora asked. “That wasn't clear on the invitation.”
“Just down the hall,” said Calvin Floyd. “In fact, it is time to go.”
“Eating in the library?” asked Shanks. “I seem to recall getting demerits for that.”
“You rogue,” said Cora.
* * * *
“So he led you all to the big room,” said Steinbock.
“The Great Hall, yes.”
“Did you all leave Special Collections together?”
Shanks closed his eyes, picturing it. “Yes.”
“And who was the last one out?”
“Rosetti. But we arrived more or less as a group.”
* * * *
“Now, this is something,” said Cora, with satisfaction.
The Great Hall looked just like a college library should, with twenty-foot ceilings and picture windows above the wooden bookcases that lined the walls.
“Recently restored through a generous gift by alumni,” said Calvin Floyd. Rosetti wasn't the only one who could brag about bringing in the bucks.
The long tilted desks Shanks remembered had been removed for the dinner and most of the room was filled with long tables covered with white cloths. College students in dark jackets stood by, ready to wait on the tables.
* * * *
“So you went to your table,” the lieutenant prompted.
“No. We were a little early. President Warren had to huddle with the board of trustees over some budget emergency and suggested we look at the art for a while."'
At one end of the hall someone had placed a dozen freestanding walls, the kind that make up office cubicles, and they were covered with paintings, drawings and photos by this year's graduating art majors.
“And how long was it before you were called to dinner?”
“About twenty minutes, I think.”
“Did you see any of the group from Special Collections during that time?”
“Two of them.”
* * * *
“What do you think you're doing, Shanks?” Cora had asked.
“Just admiring the art, dear.” Shanks sipped wine.
“I can see that. You've been stuck in front of the nudes for about ten minutes.”
“Is that what they are? A bit abstract for my taste.”
“Not that abstract. Come over here. There's a very—”
“Has anyone seen my keys?” It was Dr. Rosetti rushing up, eyes wide. “The keys to Special Collections. I put them in my pants pocket after I locked the door.”
“No, you didn't,” said Shanks. “You put them in your coat pocket.”
Rosetti frowned. “I never do that.”
“You did today. Go check your coat.”
The old man hurried off without a word.
“What a charmer,” said Cora.
“Always was. Now, where were we?”
“About to look at some landscapes.”
“Oh. Right.”
“So Dr. Rosetti went out to the hall where the coat racks had been placed,” said Steinbock.
“Presumably. I never saw him again. A few minutes later one of the servers called everyone to sit down. The whole gang we'd met in Special Collections ate together—except the president, who dined on the platform with the trustees. Rosetti never arrived.” Shanks eyebrows dropped in a frown. “Why all this interest in our group, by the way?”
The cop ignored his question. “Who was the last person to get to the table?”
“Mr. Johnson and Professor Lundin came up together. They were discussing the art.”
“Did anyone leave the table during dinner?”
“I don't believe so. Not until President Warren got up to speak. Then Cal Floyd said he was going to look for Rosetti. He'd been fretting about the old man's absence.”
* * * *
At the time, Shanks had wondered whether the library director was simply looking for an excuse to avoid the president's speech. Actually, she wasn't bad at all, although she had thanked the crowd for their “generous and fulsome applause.” Did she know what fulsome meant?
When the president had finished to polite applause a tall man in a gray suit had stepped to the lectern, introduced himself as Lieutenant Steinbock, and announced that he had some bad news.
The evening careened downhill from there.
* * * *
“Lieutenant?” A young cop was standing in the doorway of the Special Collections Room. Steinbock walked over for a brief consultation. He came back with a satisfied smile.
“We've solved the mystery of your missing books, Mr. Longshanks.” He said the word mystery as someone else might have said fairy tale.
“Terrific. Where are they?”
“Apparently Dr. Rosetti put them on a cart to send to be cataloged.”
Shanks peered through the glass and saw two book trucks not far from the desk. “Interesting. He must have done that after he came back, because they were definitely on the desk when we left. So he had a little time in there before he died.”
“Thanks for p
ointing that out,” said Steinbock, not sounding grateful.
Shanks didn't waste time wondering what the cop was so sour about. He was thinking about the two carts. “I see there are labels on the carts. May I ask what they say?”
Steinbock had better eyes. “Your books are on the cart that says catalog for the literature collection. The other one says catalog for the college history collction.”
Shanks frowned. “That's wrong.”
“Read them for yourself.”
“No, I mean Rosetti would never put my books on the literature cart.”
The lieutenant heaved a deep sigh. “I'm only a humble police officer, Mr. Longshanks, but aren't novels considered literature?”
“Yes and no. I mean, they are, but Rosetti thought mysteries shouldn't be. He called them genre fiction, or subliterature.”
“But he accepted the books for the collection.”
“Because I'm an alumnus of the college. You see? If Rosetti put the books anywhere it would have been on the College History cart.”
Steinbock was stonefaced. “Are you saying someone killed Dr. Rosetti in order to sneak your books into the literature collection?”
“Of course not. I have a few eccentric fans, but none that are totally insane.” He hoped he sounded confident about that.
“Then why would the murderer take the books off the desk and put them on that cart?”
Good question. Shanks gazed through the glass wall, trying to picture the scene: You steal the keys from Rosetti's coat. You come to the locked room to do—what? Whatever you have in mind, Rosetti catches you and you kill him. Then—or perhaps before?—you grab the books off the edge of the desk, and you stick them on the literature cart.
Why? To clear a spot on the desk? No.
To conceal them? No.
Ah.
“To fill a hole.”
“Excuse me?”
“The killer removed something from the literature cart. That left a hole and he used the first books he saw to fill it.”
Steinbock frowned “What books did he remove?”
“I have no idea. But come to think of it, Mrs. Preese brought those valuable books her husband had donated.”
The cop nodded and stood up. “Zeman! Go get the library director, Floyd. See if he has a list of the books that were donated today.”
“I was wondering,” said Shanks. “Could I have a look at my books?”
“What for?”
“I saw them not long before the killer handled them. Maybe he left something I might notice.”
Steinbock shook his head. “No thanks, Mr. Longshanks. We don't need any amateurs messing up our crime scene tonight.”
“I wasn't trying to—”
“You just mind your own business, and let us—”
"Excuse me," said a very cold voice.
Calvin Floyd had arrived, accompanied by President Warren, who did not look happy.
“Detective,” she said, in a tone that made even Shanks sit a little straighter, “may I ask why you are screaming at our guest of honor?”
Steinbock stood up. “I just want to make sure he knows why he's here. And why he's not."
“I'm sure Mr. Longshanks understands his duties perfectly,” said the president. “Unlike some people.”
“Excuse me,” said Shanks. “There's really no need for—”
“It's late,” said the president. “I'm sending our guests home. Unless you plan to jail us all for the night?”
The cop's face said he was seriously considering it. Then he shrugged. “Zeman, do we have prints from every person of interest?”
“All except Dr. Lundin,” said the young cop. “She says it's a violation of her civil rights.”
Shanks made a face. Why did it have to be his fan causing trouble?
“Dina is the head of the Human Rights Task Force on campus,” said Floyd, somewhat apologetically.
Cora had arrived. “I've never been fingerprinted before. It's not as messy as I thought.”
“We're all leaving,” said President Warren. “Now.” She glared at the cop, daring him to disagree.
Steinbock nodded. “Thanks for your cooperation.”
Shanks dawdled on the way out and landed himself beside the cop. “Lieutenant, Dina Lundin was the only person at our table who drank soda. If they haven't cleared the table yet you can get finger—”
“Thank you very much," said Steinbock, loud enough for everyone to hear. “We don't need any more of your help.”
As they waited for the car that would drive them back to the motel Cora asked: “What's the problem with that sourpuss cop? How did you make him so mad at you?”
“I swear, he was mad at me when we met. I never had a chance to annoy him.”
“Huh. Why?”
“Beats me. Maybe a mystery writer bit him when he was a child.”
* * * *
Between being a murder suspect and and having to give a commencement speech Shanks figured he wouldn't get much sleep, but he conked out as soon as he hit the pillow. At dawn he was wide awake.
He showered and dressed without his wife and sat down at the table to review his speech. He had twenty minutes to pass on all the wisdom he had acquired over the years. Cora, his beloved helpmate, had asked how he would fill the last nineteen minutes.
Shanks looked at his opening jokes with a critical eye. Perhaps they were inappropriate the day after a professor got murdered. Even Rosetti.
He copied the speech to a new file on his laptop and began tinkering with the opening. Someone knocked at the door.
It was Lieutenant Steinbock. Probably come to warn me again about playing detective, Shanks thought.
“Good morning, Mr. Longshanks. I saw your light was on.”
“Morning, Lieutenant.”
“Can I buy you a cup of coffee? The place downstairs is open.”
Surprise, surprise. “I'll leave a note for my wife.”
* * * *
The coffee shop was refreshingly small town. No macchiatos or cappuccinos, just regular or decaf, and the waitress left the carafe.
Shanks poured two sugars into his cup and waited for the cop to stop staring into his own black brew.
Steinbock finally spoke, with obvious reluctance. “Mr. Longshanks, I need to apologize for my behavior.”
Shanks frowned. “You do?”
“I was out of line last night. I was rude and—”
“You were just doing your job.”
A ferocious scowl. “Would you let me get through this, please?” Shanks blinked. “Oh. You said you need to apologize, not that you want to. President Warren ordered you to.”
“The college president does not tell me what to do.”
“I didn't mean to imply—”
“She spoke to the mayor, who spoke to the police chief. He tells me what to do.”
“I'm sorry,” said Shanks. “And I'm surprised too. When I was in college we had the impression that a police officer who annoyed the college president was likely to get a hearty handshake and possibly a promotion.”
Steinbock nodded. “The town-gown rivalry. There was still a bit of that around when I started. But it ended nine years ago.”
“Really? What happened?”
“The wire plant closed.”
“And suddenly the college was the biggest employer in town.”
“Yeah, but that wasn't the main thing. Some of the smart guys at the college applied for a huge grant to use the factory complex as a kind of laboratory.” He gazed at the ceiling, looking for a phrase he had obviously memorized. “Studying Nature's Reclamation of a Post-Industrial Landscape. The grant has been renewed every year and students take field trips there to study the decay of the buildings. Ecology students, engineers, artists.”
“My word.”
“Every fall scientists come from around the country for a conference about researching old factories. Every spring professors come from around the country to learn how to do the same t
hing in their own towns.”
Shanks's eyebrows rose. “In other words, the college turned a derelict plant into a money-spinner for the city.”
Steinbock nodded. “And that means that if President Warren told the mayor to come over and paint her house, all he'd say was ‘what color?’ Getting a cop chewed out was easy-peasey.”
“Well, I'm sorry that happened. You have my word that she'll hear you and I are best buddies now.”
Steinbock shuddered. “I'd appreciate that.”
Shanks poured them both more coffee. “I asked you last night: Why are you concentrating on the group that was in Special Collections? Couldn't it have been anyone who came to the library for the dinner?”
The cop's face twitched as he struggled with the instinct to tell the civilian to butt out. Shanks had to hide a smile behind his coffee cup.
Politics won. “You noticed the napkins with the presidential crests that were on your table?”
Shanks nodded.
“The killer used one to wipe the letter opener. Granted someone else could have swiped one off the table, but the most likely explanation—”
“The killer was probably someone who had dropped by our table to put their stuff down before they went to look at the art. Just like my wife and I did. Were any napkins missing?”
“There were extras on the table. Of course there were the same napkins on the high table, too, but the servers swear no one went near it until the board members came in together. The biggest news is that we found the missing books. As you suggested, they were the ones Mrs. Preese brought.”
“That's great. Where were they?”
“Not far from the Special Collections Room, tucked behind the books on the top shelf of one of the bookcases. I understand they call them stacks. They were behind books on the ancient Hittites, if that means anything.”
“Not to me.” Shanks decided to press his luck. “Any fingerprints?”
“Yes, but there weren't any on your books. Someone wiped them clean.”
“Now, that's interesting.” Shanks closed his eyes. “The culprit stole Rosetti's keys. He snuck down the hall to the Special Collections Room and swiped the rare books and hid them in the bookstacks outside. But he realized he had left a hole on the cart. He went back to fill the hole with my books. That's when Rosetti caught him. After disposing of the professor the thief was careful to remove the fingerprints.”
AHMM, May 2012 Page 2
