Ghost Wanted Read online

  A telephone survey of local florists revealed no promotional efforts. Jane Nottingham of Roses Are Red Florists said, “Our going rate for a dozen premium red roses is $87.95. I understand they found about two dozen roses, so someone must have a big crush on library staff.”

  A more ethereal explanation was offered by Security Officer Douglas. Douglas pointed to a portrait of Lorraine Marlow that hangs on the landing of the main staircase at Goddard Library. “Mrs. Marlow was the wife of a wealthy Adelaide banker, Charles Marlow. Her rose garden was famous, and she loved to share her flowers. Their estate included a greenhouse, and roses were available year round, which was very unusual in the 1930s and ’40s. In the early days of World War II, she was a volunteer at the Adelaide USO, which welcomed soldiers stationed at a nearby Army post. She soon became known to soldiers as the Rose Lady, and she encouraged young men to send pressed petals to a girl back home. Although she and Mr. Marlow had no children, Mrs. Marlow loved young people and, as a regent of Goddard College, every year hosted a Valentine dance for Goddard students at their home. During the war years, she often shared single roses with young men at the college, urging them to look in their hearts and leave a rose where the girl of their dreams would find it.”

  Douglas said Mrs. Marlow died a few years after the war in a car accident. According to Douglas, single long-stem roses began to appear on campus not long after her death, often leading to unexpected romances.

  When asked how a rose without a salutation or message could connect a couple, Douglas said, “Sometimes the appearance of a rose led a man—or young woman—to seek out someone they’d noticed but felt shy about approaching. Often both a young man and woman received a rose. Mrs. Marlow’s been gone more than a half century, but roses still find their way at Goddard.”

  Morgan smiled pleasantly when asked about the legend of the Rose Lady. “It’s a pretty tale and well-known to all of our students. Enterprising young men don’t hesitate to take advantage of a romantic illusion. I feel quite sure we have no supernatural visitors at Goddard.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I might have to make Director Morgan’s acquaintance. I waited a moment to see whether Wiggins might be about to chastise me. “I know. Precept Five. But he sounds like a pompous ass.”

  There was no rumble, avuncular or otherwise.

  I picked up the Bugle dated Wednesday, October 16.

  Latest Library Prank Worries Authorities

  Bugle editor Joe Cooper

  A maintenance worker this morning discovered shattered remnants of a gargoyle near the front steps of Goddard Library. Library Director Kathleen Garza said the gargoyle had been chipped loose from its pedestal on the third floor and pushed from its perch. A single red long-stem rose was found on the ledge.

  Garza expressed concern at the vandalism. The director said, “The incident apparently occurred sometime after eleven p.m. Security Officer Douglas said there was no debris when he passed the site at shortly after eleven. In light of the roses found strewn about the library Tuesday morning, it appears the incidents may be connected.”

  Garza declined to speculate about the motivation behind the appearance of roses, now coupled with vandalism. She was emphatic that the college considers student safety its first priority and the destruction of the gargoyle was a serious offense because there could have been an injury had anyone been passing by when the gargoyle plummeted to earth.

  Students buzzed about the second unexplained occurrence on campus within the space of two days. John Helton, a junior from Sulphur, quipped that the Rose Lady might be warning guys to “do the right thing.” Then he grinned. “Afraid she doesn’t realize it’s all on Facebook now. Who bothers with roses?”

  Campus Security Chief Robert Silas said patrols will be increased.

  Wiggins’s concern about nefarious events at the library seemed a little overblown. How likely was the falling gargoyle to bean anyone at a late hour of the night? However, I understood the library director’s uneasiness. Who had unhindered access to the library, and why was this occurring?

  I picked up the last newspaper—Thursday, October 17.

  Roses Are Red, Who Stole the Book and Fled?

  Bugle editor Joe Cooper

  A grim-faced Kathleen Garza, director of Goddard Library, this morning confirmed the theft overnight of a rare edition of a Lewis and Clark journal. This particular journal, an early reprint of Codex O, was on loan from the American Philosophical Society. Garza said the edition was of interest to students because the original journal was handwritten by Meriwether Lewis.

  The leather-bound book was displayed in a glass case in the third-floor reading room adjacent to the rare-books collection. Garza said Archivist Ezra Benson discovered the theft shortly after seven this morning.

  Benson said, “I passed the case and saw a rose lying next to a round hole in the top of the case. I looked and realized the journal was gone.”

  Campus Security Chief Robert Silas contacted Adelaide police. Detective Don Smith said a glass cutter was apparently used. There was no evidence of a break-in at the library.

  The library director declined to suggest a value for the missing book, saying only that it was irreplaceable. A search of online sites suggested the book might be worth approximately $120,000.

  Once again students and staff found single long-stem roses in various areas of the library.

  Director Garza dismissed the roses as inconsequential. “A serious theft has occurred, as well as vandalism. These are not supernatural deeds. If roses were left by the vandal, it was obviously an attempt to disguise what is happening. The library board has authorized a ten thousand dollar reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the thief and vandal.”

  The appearance of the roses initially revived a quaint tale of Goddard’s most famous ghost, Lorraine Marlow. After her death in 1948, her widower, Charles Hiram Marlow, contributed generously to the library in her memory. Their estate, known as Rose Bower, was left by Marlow to Goddard College. The main house, a Tudor revival built in 1927, is used by the college to house distinguished guests, and every year the third-floor ballroom is the site of the annual Goddard Valentine dance.

  According to the History of Goddard College by the late professor Everett Castle, lovers since the late 1940s have brought tales of hope or woe to Lorraine Marlow’s attention. Her portrait hangs on the main landing of the library. Castle wrote that it was common to see young men and women standing beneath the portrait, earnestly sharing their dreams. Castle wrote that young lovers believed Mrs. Marlow led them together by the strategic placement of single long-stem roses on the pillows of particular coeds and male students or in their study areas. The story was well enough known that the arrival of a rose always occasioned enough comment that the identity of the coeds and male students were soon known. Over the years, more often than not, the rose-linked couples soon wed.

  So far as the Bugle has been able to determine, this past week was the first time in the history of the legend that roses appeared linked to incidents which have resulted in damage or loss to the library.

  The Thursday issue was the last in my filched stack. I assumed that meant I had arrived in the Goddard Library Thursday evening. To be sure, I checked the walnut desk in one corner of the guest room. Indeed, the university provided guests with all amenities. The top sheet on the desk calendar read Thursday, October 17. The puzzling events at the library were discovered Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday mornings and reported in the afternoon editions of the Bugle.

  I arrived on the library landing the night of Thursday, October 17, a night when nothing untoward had occurred at the library. Because of my excitement in finding Lorraine, Douglas thought a woman had entered and spoken, but he had decided after a search that all was well.

  As I settled into a very comfortable bed, I wondered if the theft of the Lewis and Clark journal was the final bit of chicanery
intended. That seemed likely, since nothing untoward had occurred tonight.

  I felt sanguine, slipping into sleep, until a vagrant thought occurred: If theft of the valuable journal was the objective, why the roses and smashed gargoyle?

  Friday morning, I hovered for a moment in the grand foyer of the library, enjoying the grandeur of the double staircase, vaulted ceiling, and the vivid crimson and gold colors of sunlit stained-glass lancet windows. This grand old building seemed an unlikely setting for drama, though I well knew that good and evil occur equally in a kitchen, a high-rise, or a gothic library.

  I had no difficulty finding the director’s ground-floor office, a wide, deep room with more lancet windows, framed prints of faraway places on two walls, and a filled bookcase behind a mahogany desk. Kathleen Garza was already at her desk although it was only a quarter past eight. She clicked on her intercom. “Ella, I’m meeting with staff and Campus Security at nine. Hold all calls, no visitors.” Kathleen was attractive in an understated Katharine Hepburn way—thick dark hair in a 1940s style, a well-cut pale gray suit enlivened by a garnet necklace.

  No visitors? I could circumvent that order.

  In an instant I landed in a darkened cloakroom on the east side of the lobby. I made sure the room was empty, remembered the Adelaide police uniform, and appeared. French blue is flattering to redheads, and the royal blue stripe for the trousers is truly stylish. I walked out into the lobby. On some prior efforts in Adelaide, I had assumed the identity of Officer Loy, a tribute to Myrna Loy, who was such a superb Nora to William Powell’s Nick Charles in The Thin Man. I ran my finger over the engraved letters of my name tag: Officer M. Loy. I stopped at the central desk. “Officer Loy. I’m here to see Director Garza about the theft of the rare book.”

  I was inside her office three minutes later.

  She came around the desk to greet me. “I spoke with Detective Smith yesterday. Do you have any news?”

  I looked sage. “The investigation is continuing on all fronts, including contacts with rare-book dealers. So far”—I looked regretful—“we’ve had no success there. Detective Smith said he thinks you have excellent insight and, after considering all the circumstances, may have more useful background information.” I gestured toward the chair in front of her desk. “If I might ask a few questions?”

  She settled behind her desk, still looking anxious.

  I didn’t, of course, know what Detective Smith had covered, so I began cautiously. “In regard to the records from the keypads used to enter the library . . .” I trailed off, looking interested.

  She was polite, but dismissive. “Staff use the last four digits of their social security numbers for their entry code. It would certainly take a stupid thief to leave such a clear trail. However, I asked the tech staff for a report yesterday.” She swung to her computer, clicked several times. Her thin shoulders stiffened. She turned toward me, eyes wide with surprise. “There was one entry Wednesday night. Actually early Thursday morning. At 1:04 a.m., the code belonging to a student registered. Normally students aren’t permitted to enter without a librarian but Michelle Hoyt—”

  I managed to keep my face blank.

  “—was added to the system Monday at the request of the History Department. I am shocked. The History chair vouched for her.” Her face folded in tight angry lines. “We’ll see about this. She had no authority to enter the library except during working hours. And certainly it would be an odd coincidence if she used her code the very same night a valuable book was stolen.”

  I held up my hand. “Before I investigate further with this student, did you ask about entries after hours for Monday and Tuesday nights?”

  The director was crisp. “Of course. There are no recorded entries on the keypads for either of those nights.” Her thin black brows drew down. “Michelle’s entry code was activated Monday. Since it wasn’t used Monday or Tuesday nights, does that mean she had nothing to do with the roses or the gargoyle? As for the entry before the theft, possibly someone used her private information, but I will need to see proof of that.”

  I was puzzled. Why would Michelle Hoyt point an arrow at herself on the night of the theft?

  Garza frowned. “It doesn’t seem likely the incidents aren’t linked.”

  I was judicious. “Possibly the thief took advantage of the arrival of the roses and the smashed gargoyle to confuse investigators. How do you think an intruder could enter without using the keypad?”

  Garza shrugged. “The library is big: three floors with many rooms and closets and restrooms and odd nooks. Just before the library closes at ten, Officer Douglas checks every floor, but anyone determined not to be seen could be in a toilet stall or supply closet or simply evade him in the stacks. It would also be possible for a ground-floor window to be unlocked at some point during the day, and an intruder could enter and leave by that means. However, the record is definite. Michelle Hoyt’s code was used the night of the theft. Either she used her code or someone else did.” Her pale blue eyes glinted with anger. She looked formidable. “I should never have agreed to permit a student to have access to the library, but Dr. Gordon was insistent. He wanted her to be able to come and go, even though her full workday here was scheduled on Fridays. Actually, she starts this morning. Room 211. She should be there.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “We’ll see what she has to say for herself.”

  “Michelle will reassure you.” Lorraine’s high voice was quite pleasant, but gently chiding. “She’s a dear girl who is pinning the dreams of her future on her work here at the library. She would never be involved in a dishonest venture.”

  Garza stared at me. She could scarcely look more shocked if I’d suddenly jumped to my feet and brandished a sword.

  I lifted my husky voice a notch, but it was still an octave below Lorraine’s dulcet tones. I spoke loudly: “Always two sides to every story.” I made a shushing motion with my left hand.

  Garza’s gaze followed my hand.

  I let my hand drop, managed a strained smile.

  “As for the keypad”—Lorraine’s cultivated tone held a hint of disdain—“likely it registered the wrong number. I’ve heard students talk about electronic mishaps. They happen every day.”

  Lorraine’s voice was utterly distinct from mine. Hers was high, mine was low. Her voice had a bell-like quality with the precise diction of someone who did not grow up in the Oklahoma hills. Mine was deeper, with a hint of laughter and a drawl that was a mixture of Southern forebears and Western pioneers.

  Lorraine was kind, but firm. “We must never jump to conclusions, must we?” An unseen hand gripped my elbow. “You’ll see about this, won’t you?”

  Garza’s eyes darted around the room.

  I wriggled free of Lorraine’s grasp, quite possibly resembling a disco dancer with a decided leftward list, and yanked the cell phone from my uniform pocket. I held it up, said loudly, “Sorry, Ms. Garza, sometimes the thing gets stuck on speaker phone and other calls get mixed in, quite a mess actually.”

  Garza had the wary expression of a woman watching a hooded cobra rising from a basket.

  “Certainly I hope your telephone problem is solved”—Lorraine was exasperated—“but technical difficulties are not of great importance at the moment. Please see about Michelle.”

  Lorraine clearly had no idea she was causing a problem. I yelped into the cell. “Cut it out, Sergeant.” I was backpedaling toward the door. “I’m on my way to deal with everything right now. Don’t embarrass the police department.” I was at the door, and a hand gently fastened on my elbow. I twisted my arm, grabbed a fine-boned wrist. “Straighten out the phone lines, Sergeant.” I spoke through gritted teeth, managed a strained smile for the director. “Ms. Garza, my apology for the extraneous chatter.”

  “Extraneous?” Lorraine sounded puzzled.

  “I’ll run right upstairs and talk to Ms. Hoyt.”

 
“Oh, good. You’ll take care of everything, I know you will.” Lorraine was clearly reassured.

  Garza retrieved a key ring from her desk drawer, rose. “I will accompany you.” She edged from behind her desk, keeping a good distance from me, clearly convinced she was dealing with an unhinged personality.

  “Michelle will no doubt explain everything.” Lorraine’s voice was fading away.

  On the plus side, I sensed that she spoke and left. No doubt she was already in room 211.

  I turned toward Garza. I pitched my voice higher than usual. “Hopefully Ms. Hoyt can clear up the matter. Certainly, the use of her code after hours must be explained.”

  Pale blue eyes stared at me intently. Finally, she gave a short nod, but we didn’t exchange a word as we walked down the hall, out into the main rotunda, and up the stairs. On the second floor, she turned to her right.

  We passed two closed doors.

  At room 211, the director checked her keys, inserted one, and opened the door.

  I was right behind Garza. There was a long oak table near the windows. Three boxes sat atop the table. A legal pad and pen lay in front of the oak chair drawn up to the table.

  As we started across the room, the lid of one box rose in the air, apparently of its own accord.

  Garza stumbled to a stop, stood as rigid as a lamppost, stared at the moving lid.

  I was behind the librarian. I shook my head, waved my hands overhead signaling Stop.

  A red leather-bound book went up in the air, hovered above the box.

  Garza backed away from the table, bumping into me. I steadied her with one hand, pointed thumb down with the other.

  The book was lowered to the box.

  “Odd thing, gravity,” I said brightly. “I suppose it was just a tremor. You know, a scarcely felt earthquake, and the book was balanced in some way.” I was turning the librarian toward the door. “Obviously, there’s nothing here for us to see. Don’t worry, Ms. Garza. I’ll find Ms. Hoyt.”