All Hallows Evil

by Valerie Wolzien

  “No. We can’t track down calls after they’re made,” Brett answered. “We could get a court order for a tap on the line now, but I can’t imagine that would do much good. We’ll have to talk with Kathleen first thing tomorrow.”

  “What I don’t understand is why someone wanted me locked in the bell tower. What’s going on tonight that I’m not supposed to be around for?” Susan asked.

  “Excellent question,” Brett said. “A really excellent question.”

  ELEVEN

  “This is where he lives?” Susan peered out the window into the darkness.

  “Yup. I haven’t been inside, but this is the address. I double-checked last night. It’s something, isn’t it?” Brett opened his car door and got out. Susan followed suit.

  They were standing in front of a gigantic stone home. Almost more a castle than a home, Susan thought. There was definitely a turret or two poking into the sky from the roof of the dark, dreary structure.

  “Hancock must pay its librarians better than its policemen.”

  “I doubt it. Maybe …” She searched for an answer. “Maybe he inherited it.”

  “It does look a little like something one’s elderly aunt might leave. Do you think it’s full of cats?”

  “Cats?” They walked up the crazy paved walk.

  “You know—elderly ladies, cats. Don’t mind me; it’s late and I’m babbling. Well, maybe we’ll get some answers now.” He lifted the polished brass owl that served as a door knocker and dropped it with a bang. “I hope he hears this.”

  “I think the dead in the cemetery on the other side of town heard that.” Susan wrapped her coat more closely around her neck and looked up as a light went on in one of the rooms on the second floor. “He must be—”

  “What?”

  A grumpy voice, apparently coming from the owl’s beak, asked them what they wanted.

  “I’m Police Chief Fortesque, Mr. Grace. I’m sorry to bother you.…”

  “Press the button. Press the button,” the owl barked.

  “Wha … ?”

  “I think it’s some sort of intercom system. You have to press that button right under the owl to be heard. Maybe.” She ended uncertainly.

  Brett did as Susan suggested, and after Brett had identified himself a few times and apologized many more, Charles Grace agreed to see them. A loud buzzer sounded, the door unlocked, and they entered a huge, dark hallway.

  “This place is a little strange, isn’t it?” Susan had no idea why she was whispering.

  “More than a little,” Brett answered, staring. They were standing in a circular hallway at least two stories high. They could not see the walls, as some sort of screen had been installed from the floor to the ceiling, and tropical trees formed a lush hedge around them. As they waited, something moved near Susan’s feet.

  “It’s alive. There’s something alive in there!” She grabbed Brett’s arm.

  “Don’t be silly. Of course there’s something alive in there. What do you think a cage is supposed to hold?” The voice came from the middle of what appeared to be a banana tree.

  “I …” Susan didn’t know what to say.

  “Mr. Grace? I’m afraid we can’t see you,” Brett called out to the sound.

  At the sound of his shout, two things happened simultaneously. A racket of bird calls, squawks, and fluttering wings filled the air, and a light went on, illuminating the place where they stood.

  “Why … We’re in the middle of an aviary.…”

  “Amazing!” was Brett’s only comment.

  “I’ve heard of this place,” Susan said slowly. “This is Mrs. Grayson’s house, isn’t it?” She peered up into the jungle, where the voice had come from. “But she’s on a trip or something, isn’t she? I think someone was talking about it at the club in the beginning of the summer.…”

  “Yes, this is Mrs. Grayson’s home, and she has gone on a tour of the Amazon and other parts of South America for nineteen months. She asked me to house-sit for her, and I agreed.” Charles Grace stood in front of them. Apparently there was a winding stairway that he had used to get from where he slept to the door between the walls and the aviary. The birds, dozens of them, chattered out the greeting that he apparently thought unnecessary. Charles looked around, annoyed. “Damn birds! They’re going to drive me mad. Come in here, and we can talk.”

  A tunnel through the cage led to a heavy wood door, and they followed him into it. Susan looked up and noticed that the roof of the tunnel was solid metal instead of wire; they were in no danger of being baptized by the birds above. Charles opened the door and proceeded before them into a traditional wood-paneled library.

  “This is the only room in the damn house that is cage-free. Here we can hear ourselves talk.” He sat down in a large leather wing chair and motioned for them to do likewise.

  “This is a fabulous house,” Brett said, taking the seat closest to the other man. “Susan said something about it belonging to a Mrs. Grayson.…”

  “Yes. The famous Mrs. Amelia Grayson. The last of the Victorian crazy ladies. This is her home, her family home, in fact; she grew up here, as she would tell you herself if she were present. Mr. Grayson moved in the night they were married. She couldn’t, you see, be expected to leave her birds.”

  “But she is not here now?”

  “No, all her life she has collected and bred tropical birds. Now she has gotten her long-awaited chance to see some of the animals she loves in the wild. Mr. Grayson died a few years ago, and once his affairs were in order, she hired a guide through a contact at the Audubon Society and left. After, that is, she found me to house-sit for her.” He grimaced. “I had been looking for a place to live. The two-year lease on the apartment I had been renting had expired, and I was desperate. The building was tacky, noisy, and totally without class. I found it very difficult to be comfortable there. But everything suitable was so … so expensive.”

  “How did you find this?” Brett asked.

  “Good fortune. I was at the library helping some of our patrons, and Mrs. Grayson came up to me and introduced herself. She asked me to recommend something for her to read—to get ready for the trip she is now on.” (Susan wondered if there were any juicy parts in guidebooks to the Amazon.) “I, naturally, assisted her to the very best of my ability. It took a fair amount of research, and we spent a few hours together in interesting conversation. She happened to mention that she was looking for someone to stay in her house while she was away, and I happened to mention that I was looking for a new domicile. And …” He paused to smile at his good fortune. “Here I am.”

  “You’re taking care of the birds?”

  “Heavens, no! Never! These things are dirty creatures. Always molting and dropping … uh, stuff.” He glanced at Susan and seemed to be considering her delicate ears as he chose his last word. “Taking care of these cages is a fulltime job. They are built into the walls of most rooms in the house. There are over six hundred birds here and miles of aviaries. Two men come in each day and … uh, clean things and feed them. I am here in the evening and at night. It’s quite enough, believe me.”

  “Are you paid to be the house sitter, is it just a convenient place to stay, or is there another reason?” Susan asked, looking around the room.

  “You’re looking at the reason.” All three stared at the book-lined walls. “This is one of the most extensive collections of original editions of natural-history books in the country. The librarian who has this behind him can have his choice of jobs.”

  “She’s giving you the books as some sort of payment for living here?” Brett asked for clarification.

  “She feels deeply obligated to me for making it possible for her to go on this trip. It has fulfilled a lifelong dream.”

  “To you or to the Hancock Public Library?” Susan needed a little clarification of her own.

  “I will be acting as trustee of the collection.”

  “Then it will go wherever you go,” Brett said.

&n
bsp; “Exactly.” Charles looked sober at the prospect. “It will be a huge responsibility, of course. We will have to look very carefully at the many places that will want to possess such a collection.”

  “We?”

  “When Mrs. Grayson returns, we are going to tour many libraries looking for just the right place.” He paused and scowled at a tiny green feather in the middle of the Aubusson carpet. “I dream of that day. It is the only way I can make it through this.

  “This collection isn’t just of interest to American libraries,” he added, getting into his subject. “There are libraries in Mexico, Central and South America, and even in Europe that would just love to possess these books—although, of course, they are all in English.”

  “So you’re going to have some trip,” Susan suggested.

  “Yes.” He sat back and crossed his legs. “I’m quite looking forward to it.

  “But why,” he added, apparently realizing that few people planned social visits for this time of the night, “are you here?”

  “Why didn’t you meet me in your office tonight?” Susan asked before Brett could say anything. “Marion said that you were going to meet me there after the crowd from the speech had gone home.”

  “Why … Marion did mention it to me, but I forgot. I certainly didn’t think it was terribly important. I can’t imagine that you think you should barge in on me in the middle of the night because I forgot our meeting. After all, I’m a working man, not a suburban housewife with nothing to do but lie in bed in the morning.”

  “That is not exactly why we’re here,” Brett assured him. Susan wondered if he had noticed her clutching the arms of her chair. “You see,” Brett continued, “while Mrs. Henshaw was waiting for you, she was locked in your office.”

  “She didn’t hear someone lock the door?” the librarian asked.

  “I fell asleep,” Susan admitted, refusing to be intimidated.

  “And what hardship did this cause? I assume someone didn’t know you were there and locked you in during the general evening security check. When you had finished your little nap, you called your good friend the chief of police, and he came and got you out—”

  “It isn’t quite that simple,” Brett interrupted. “You see, whoever locked Mrs. Henshaw in did not want her to get free. The phone lines were cut.”

  That got his attention.

  “The phone lines? All of them? Do you have any idea how that is going to inconvenience us? Not only do we need to be in contact with publishers, book jobbers, other libraries, but our modems will be useless. The lifeblood of our library is going to be inactive. This is dreadful, absolutely dreadful!”

  Susan, who, if she had been asked to describe the lifeblood of libraries would have answered, simply, books, was amused by his distress—until she realized how little he had cared about hers.

  “Who was supposed to be the last person out of the library tonight?” Brett asked.

  “Marion Marshall.” The answer came promptly.

  “Does she always lock up?”

  “No, the job alternates between the librarians—the same as the chore of opening up in the morning. There is a regular schedule. It is posted in the office—the office of the other members of the staff, not my office,” Charles Grace answered.

  “So you never lock up—or open up,” Brett surmised.

  “I do. In fact, I often work much longer hours than those I employ, but I am not on the regular schedule. I have my own keys and can come and go as necessary.”

  “And you’re the only person who can do that?”

  “The only one of the librarians, yes …”

  “Then how does the person whose job it is to open and close get the keys?” Susan asked.

  “Oh, well, both jobs are assigned by week. The keys are given out weekly.” He shrugged as though it were obvious.

  “Whoever has the keys could, of course, make copies of them while they were in their possession.”

  “I suppose so,” Charles Grace answered. “Do you think there are duplicate sets of keys around?”

  “Well, there could be.”

  “I really don’t think any of my staff would do such a thing,” he protested.

  “When does the cleaning get done? Vacuuming and scrubbing out the bathrooms and things like that?” Susan asked.

  “An excellent point!” Charles Grace looked as if he finally understood the reason for Susan’s existence. “There is a cleaning crew that comes in two nights a week.”

  “And who … ?”

  “I don’t have any contact with them, but I understand they are the same people who clean the rest of the municipal offices. They might have had copies of the keys made. You should check into that.”

  “I will. What sort of routine is followed when the library is locked up for the night? Your office is locked, as well as the rest of the building?”

  “Yes … Well actually, I usually lock my office myself.”

  “Does anyone else have the key? Is it locked with a key?”

  “Not usually. I have given it to one or two other people on occasion. But there are a lot of personnel things kept in there that are confidential—such as salary information, things like that.”

  “And are the other offices usually locked at night?”

  “No. There’s no reason. All someone has to do is break into the main part of the library to have access to a very expensive computer system, as well as millions of dollars’ worth of books, tapes, records … you know.”

  “I understand you are having a problem with the theft of expensive books,” Susan said.

  “Yes, but there is absolutely no evidence that anyone has broken into the building. These are books that someone is just walking off with, I’m afraid. It’s very distressing.”

  “But don’t librarians usually have these problems?” Brett asked.

  “Yes, of course, but I’m afraid that one of the staff must be involved here. The books have been selected with a professional eye to what they are worth. If it had been something else, I would have contacted your department. As it is, I’m afraid this is going to be a personnel matter.” Charles Grace grimaced. “Just one of those things that executives have to deal with no matter how distasteful, I’m afraid.” He looked at Brett. “I’m sure you understand.”

  Susan, the woman who was still lying on that chaise lounge eating those pastel bonbons, couldn’t possibly have any knowledge of this. “Who do you think is doing it?” she asked bluntly.

  “I really don’t think I could comment on that.” He looked down at her.

  “I still don’t understand how you forgot me tonight,” Susan began.

  “I … I’m sorry. It’s been a long week, I just forgot.”

  “Then why did you ask to meet me this afternoon and then cancel that appointment?” she asked, pursuing her subject.

  He paused a moment before answering. “I … I thought that perhaps you could help us with solving the murder of the man in the library. But, of course, that dreadful man confessed, and there was no need for you to get involved, was there?”

  “And why didn’t you wear your coat home tonight? It is very cold,” Susan continued.

  “I … my coat? Whatever do you mean?”

  “Your coat. The coat that was lying across your desk chair.” Susan felt as if she had scored a point—just for a moment.

  “I did wear my coat home. What sort of fool do you think I am? I wear a very expensive overcoat from Acquascutum, and I hang it up carefully in the closet in the workroom each and every day. I would certainly never fling it over a chair back. The coat you’re referring to was found in the library after we closed yesterday. It is in my office awaiting its owner.” He glared at her. “Do you have any more questions? I’m sorry I forgot our meeting. I am very sorry that you got locked in the library. I am sorry the last few days ever happened. But I am totally exhausted now, and I need my sleep. Unless there are more pressing questions for you to ask me”—he carefully avoided looking
at Susan—“I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.”

  “I’ll be coming over to the library first thing tomorrow morning. Maybe we could go into this more fully at that time,” Brett suggested before Susan could continue her questioning.

  “I have no problem with that.” Charles Grace stood up, and his guests had no polite option but to do likewise. “I am aware of my responsibilities in this terrible tragedy, but I know you’ll understand that a librarian isn’t trained to deal with this type of thing. I am finding it all very fatiguing.”

  “Of course.”

  “There is one thing I don’t understand,” Susan said as they returned to the main hall.

  “Really?” Charles didn’t sound interested in enlightening her. He opened the front door. “We really have to say goodbye very quickly. The birds, you know.” He glanced over his shoulder malevolently. “The cold drafts are very bad for them.”

  “What I don’t understand,” Susan continued, preceding Brett through the door, “is why you keep recommending that people read books with pornographic passages.”

  The door slammed behind them.

  Brett chuckled. “He certainly was anxious to protect those birds from the cold air. Good of him, considering how little he likes them.”

  “He has a very short fuse,” Susan mused.

  “But it is true that a lot has happened in his life in the last twenty-four hours. Things that, truly, a librarian isn’t trained to deal with.”

  They got into the car together. “So far,” Susan said, fastening her seat belt, “all we know about Charles Grace’s idea of librarianship is giving out dirty books, complaining about management responsibilities, and gathering a collection that will get him a plush job somewhere else—along with free housing for nineteen months. You know, I’ve never liked that man, and the more I know, the less I like.”

  “That doesn’t make him a murderer.”

  “I know. I don’t see him that way, in fact. If he were going to murder someone, why do it in the library? Why connect himself? And why on earth would he kill Jason Armstrong? There doesn’t seem to be any connection between the two of them.”