Next Time We Steal The Carillon - Free Preview of first 27 chapters



   

   

   

   

   

  Next Time

  We Steal

  The Carillon

  By Louie Flann

  Copyright 2011 Louie Flann

  ISBN: 978-1-4659-4424-5

  A Cozy College Caper Mystery

  Rev. E

   

   

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

   

   

  First and foremost, I thank my wife Rita for her work as editor-in-chief, proofreader and story doctor. Without her I would have rambled on for another two hundred pages. Many scenes that I didn’t think of would never have been written. Thank you, Sweetie.

   Another valuable player deserving thanks is Valerie Woods. Not only did she throw away thousands of comas that would have made reading this story many hours longer, she helped in tightening several scenes that were just too long.

   Julia Buckley, a published author and a dear friend has been my kindle consultant. From word to word in print, I was coached by this pro. Thank you, Julia.

   Our cover design is from the brain of Phil Darovic. Thank you, Phil, for your creative design/marketing/web input.

   Introduction

  Don't expect a horse race here. First we leisurely trot along, set the scene and introduce our players. And then, we canter through the campus, ending at a gallop into the solution. I hope this will be as much fun for you as it was for me.

  See you in the winner's circle.

   

  Prologue

   

  Priests, who joined their gods millennia ago, celebrated a ritual around the crucible. Shiny, black, shaped like a small serving bowl, it was protected from the twenty-first century by a glass display case.

  Jennifer stared at the broken enclosure that had held one of the school’s most prized possessions. It hadn’t been touched since the school was founded.

  “My bowl, Todd! My bowl’s gone. Look! Someone stole my bowl!”

  She remembered how it gleamed behind its protective glass, sparkling black with those little white figures painted all round the outside. Who were they and what were they doing?

  *  *  *

  Jennifer arrived at the Braxton University library a few minutes before Todd. She was looking at the new fiction on the shelves next to the check out desk when Todd came in with an armful of books.

  “You waiting long?” he asked as he put his free arm around her waist.

  “No, Hot Toddie,” she said with a big smile, “just got here.”

  On the stairs up to the 900’s, Jennifer said, “I don’t understand why there isn’t anything on the Internet?”

  “Fifth century BC Athenian economic info is not the stuff of action movies. I mean, who cares? If we didn’t have this paper to do, nobody would ever read that stuff,” he said. She nodded in agreement.

  On the second floor, they walked passed light oak display cases housing the pride of the history department. Arrowheads, beaded chest protectors and a tomahawk were near the books on American history. The next set of cases held a massive bronze hinge from an English castle’s drawbridge. It shared the bottom shelf with a dagger and gloves of a long dead nobleman. His dark velvet cape, although threadbare, hung regally above it. Against the back wall, at a right angle to these cases, was the school’s small collection of pottery and shards from the Ionian peninsula.

  Three comfy chairs complemented a low round table in front of the case, an open skylight was in the high ceiling above. No one used this area and, on warm days like this, birds could be heard through the skylight.

  Last Tuesday, a bird flitted in and quickly felt his confinement. He darted out but not before startling them and losing a few feathers, one of which floated down onto Jennifer’s open book—the source of prolonged laughter. Then Jennifer’s smile drooped. “If a feather lands on your hand, it means that bad news is coming.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Oh, I read it somewhere, something to do with magic or some old New England superstition,” she said.

  Their books were on the table. Todd was sitting on the edge of his chair­ looking through his notes on his lap for the exact name of the subject they were here to look up. Jennifer, far back in her soft chair, glanced at the display case against the back wall. Her eyes widened, her mouth fell open. “My bowl! My bowl’s gone. Look, Todd, someone stole my bowl!”

  Todd jumped up and rushed to the empty display case. Slowly, he touched the edge of the broken glass front. “What do we do?”

  Jennifer had her hand on her chest, eyes wide, not breathing, then: “Listen, we’ve got to report this—now! This is serious!” She was standing now, arms akimbo, shaking her head and finally seeing all the little broken glass shards on the carpet.

        “OK, OK, you’re right. Let’s go tell someone at the desk downstairs.”

   

  Chapter 1       

  Going To Class

   

  I’m working on a floppy disk drive, trying to get the Post It out of it. Real funny, I’d sure like to find the idiot who put it in the library computer. My job’s fixing the school computers after boneheads screw them up. You’ve got a problem with floppy discs? Our new computers have CD drives but the older ones sill have the floppys. In most cases, kids are copying an article, no pictures, just words so it’s better, and cheaper than burning a disc for one dumb article, right?

  I finished my Nescafe and put the cup on my spiral notebooks next to the computer. That means that I’m in class. If I put the cup on my keyboard, it means that I am doing some computer work somewhere. It’s my way of telling people where I am. If it’s in the sink it means that I just washed it. It’s not a perfect system, it won’t replace words but, you have to admit that it’s good. Nescafe as a tool of communication, another use for the drink of the gods—and me.

  I checked my Molex. Time to leave for Criminology, my favorite class. Speaking of the Molex: 27 bucks and it’s identical to a Rolex, gold, stainless, bulky, except for the M and the price.         

  I left my dorm and headed down the main walk to Johnson Hall where they have the sociology and language courses. It’s also where the snack bar is, in the basement. The main walkway connects everything, the classrooms to the dorms and the north parking lot. We call it the “Kennedy” after that expressway in Chicago that runs through everything and connects the downtown to the airport. It even has a commuter train running down the middle of it.

  Braxton U is in the middle of Illinois, in the middle of the Midwest, which is in the middle of the U S in the middle of the world. We are probably the center of the universe, too. Not much excitement here, but we get good corn—cheap.

   Walking across campus is really nice. The leaves are changing. The temperature is not too hot, not too cold. The girls are still wearing their summer clothes so there are many great sights on the way to class if you get my drift. I live in Foster Hall, the coolest of the four dorms.

  I just passed the bell tower. It’s three stories high and red brick like everything else around here, with a big clock face on all four sides. On special days, they have concerts with the bell tower. You know, the bells play certain songs, usually old stuff that I never heard of. Last year, I was in a class with the girl who played the bells. She called it Caroline for some reason or another and said it was a big privilege to play it and we were fortunate to have one.  

  I walked into Johnson Hall and down the stairs to the snack shop. Johnson is one of t
he four classroom buildings and the farthest from the dorms, a two minute walk for me. I saw the LaMonica sisters sitting on the other side of the room. I just met them this year and they seemed nice. I joined them.

  Monica was wearing her mandatory navy pledge blazer and Veronica had on a bright red sorority sweatshirt. Monica was pledging Beta Omicron Delta and Veronica was one of their queen bees. Their members were known as the “bod girls,” Interesting that most of them were lookers. There aren’t that many frat and sorority events; people join them for the cool sweatshirts and something to put after their names in the yearbook.

  “Good morning Monica, good morning Veronica. How are you today?”

  “We’re fine, Jason, but the important thing is, how are you after last night’s date?” Monica replied with a facial expression that revealed that she wanted to know more—all.

  “Ya know, I don’t think I’ve got this dating thing down yet.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, take this last night thing for example. See, they were twins. So I thought that I didn’t want to hurt one girl’s feelings so I thought it was a normal thing, like you know, I thought everybody did it.”

  “Did what?”

   “I thought everyone asked them out.”

  “Whatever are you talking about?” Veronica asked.

  “I asked them out. I thought since they were twins, they came as a pair, you know, inseparable? So I thought I was doing what everyone did with twins and asked them out.

  “I wasn’t looking forward to paying for dinner or the movie, but I was really relishing the thought of the making out. I kind of was thinking along the lines of one of those sultan guys with the harem, you know? Being smothered in kisses by these two girls who shared their looks with each other.”

  Veronica gave me a look like she thought I was about to say something stupid.

  “What happened?” She asked.

  “It started off nice enough, they did let me buy them dinner and we did go to the movie, me with a twin on each arm. I thought I had it down. But they blew me off at the dorm. I got simultaneous hand shakes, one from each.

  “So now I know. You’ve got to split them, just as if they were individuals.”

  “But they are individuals, meathead!”

  “Ya think?” I said, believing that Veronica probably knew more about this than I.  

  “Hey, have you started the paper yet?” I asked Monica.

  “No, have you?”

  “Yeah, I finished it and I think it came out OK.” From the back of my notebook I pulled out the three typed sheets that were almost neatly folded and delicately placed them on the table.

  “What did you write about?”

  “Well, it’s supposed to be a description of something so I wrote about the Cornfest.”

  “Really? Could I read it?” Monica asked.

  “Only if you don’t make fun of me. I’m not a hot-shot journalist like you.”

  She picked it up and read the paper out loud:

   

  Jason Malloy

  ENGL 201

  Professor Clement

  Assignment 2

  THE CORNFEST

  I could smell it from my dorm—sort of cooked leaves and I don’t know what else but it sure smells good. That’s the corn on the grill I’m talking about. It’s good—mom’s cooking good. A half dozen tent covered booths sprouted on Main Street for the Cornfest, just like this one in front of the bank.

  If I could bottle Cornfest atmosphere, it could be sent worldwide as an example of American Life—camaraderie, neighbor helping neighbor, food fresh from the field, and hope in ourselves and the future.

  Enough about me. Now the town.

  Up and down Main Street, people crowded the booths, mostly men and students, all bending over trying not to get butter on their shirts. Moms carrying kids’ jackets flowed toward the park and the beanbag toss. I could hear the Hastings high school band behind Mercle’s Drugs. Some of Hastings’ finest were attempting to clear a path down Main Street accompanied by joking and greeting friends and storekeepers. Lawn chairs were laying on the sidewalk staking out individual watching spots for the parade. The chairs were there since yesterday—no one would dream of taking the chair or the space. That wouldn’t be right.

  A lot of students and kids wore costumes. I don’t want to say that they’re corny but… Some moms had pilgrim hats picked up at Mercle’s—a dollar fifty. They’re paper and looked just like the hat a pilgrim woman would wear except for the Mercle’s, Your source for Good Stuff Cheap printed on the brim.

  Fortunately, the weather was doing its part to make Cornfest better than last year when the wind blew over all the booths and scattered corn under the parked cars. The gust lasted for only half a minute but the whole festival was knocked down.

  The corn was allegedly washed and put back up for sale. Everyone knew that they all weren’t washed so the “broasted corn” sales fell to zero. I got some damaged corn free. The wind also hurt the arts and crafts people so this year most paintings were flat on tables in the tents and not on easels as they were last year. Next year, back to easels?

  The people with the saved spots on the sidewalk will have a good view of the parade when everyone gets off the street. The fire truck was there in front of the three police cars. I can’t see the ambulance but I’m sure it’s somewhere. Rumor on the street is that the Braxton Library bought four new books on corn for the celebration and has them on display at the check out counter. No, you can’t take them out—yet. Is there no end to this extravagant school spending?

  Now the camera pulls slowly back into the sky showing Hastings’ main street with its shops and booths: the Kiwanis next to the Reelect President Clinton booth next to the PTA, then the other town streets with their one story red brick houses. Continuing to rise, I can see the farm lands that brush up against the back yards of the nicely kept houses, once all green, now brown stalks dominate as far as the eye can see and it can see far. I see Braxton U, on the south edge of town, with its pond and parking lots dominating the scene. The dorms and the bell tower are surrounded by the trees.

  The camera spirals higher in the clear blue exposing miles of harvest, criss-crossed with black topped ribbons. A lone yellow car wanders north toward and a beer truck heads into town. I lied, it’s a bread truck.

  The buzz that you hear is the plane’s engine, the plane that I’m riding in over this Midwestern town, this town with the school attached: or is it the other way around? The town is a part of the university, the university is the heart and the town is the muscle, the lungs? I don’t know.

  When I first arrived last year, all this was new, the stores, the restaurants, the school itself, but now, it’s an old hat, a comfortable place where I don’t only live, but rule. And I got a free plane ride today. Thank you Braxton University Computer Club for letting me take the pictures today.

  “The end,” Monica said. She put down the paper.  “I’m impressed, Jason, I could really see the town.”

  “I agree,” Veronica said. “I felt like I was there.”

   

  I said “thank you” as humbly as I could, but it was hard because I did think it was a good paper.

  “Well, it’s not due till next week,” Monica mumbled, “so I’ll start on it on the weekend. Life’s so boring that working on the paper will probably be the most exciting thing happening.”

   

  Little did she know.

   

  Chapter 2       

  The Theft Problem

   

  “What’s this about a missing something from the library?” I asked Fay as I took off my coat and saw the small pink note on my desk.

  Fay continued putting completed exams into a gray filing cabinet and said without looking up, “Good morning, Professor. One of the security guys asked me if this was Professor Palma’s office. I said yes and he said I should give that note to you as soon as you come in
.”

  Fay is my girl Friday, if I can use that expression. She does everything for me. Sometimes she’s a little—how could I say it—unfocused? But I like her because she tries to do her best and always thinks of my needs first.

  “This looks like it could be something big,” I mumbled under my breath as I pulled out the thin writing board that was on top of my desk drawers. It had the school phone directory taped to its top surface.

  “Myrna, this is Palma. What’s up? I hear you lost something,” I said when the assistant librarian picked up.

  “A bowl? Why not go down to the caf and get another. The breakfast rush is over.

  “Oh, a special bowl. Am I in trouble for making light of it? Are we still pals?

  “All right, we’ll get right on it. Goodbye.”

  She told me that the bowl was one of the most important pieces in the school’s small collection of antiquities. Myrna also said that it was loved not only because of its age but also because of its beauty—small and precious.

  I sat back in my pleather swivel chair and surveyed the wall of books that stood in front of me. I looked to the right through the leaded glass window that faced Mittler Auditorium, and saw the yellow leaves fluttering on the big Linden. A book hit the floor and I turned to my left and saw Fay at her desk in the adjoining room shuffling papers and mumbling.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “I’ve got class now and I can’t find my French notes. I’ve got the 402 notes but where are the 312’s?” She mumbled more to herself than to me as she quickly moved her hand around inside her big carry-all bag. Her knitted brows said it all.

  I spun back and looked at my shelves behind my desk, my classy walnut stained shelves. I keep my stuff there, things that I like to look at, art if you will. An MG TC model car is on the shelf at desk height along with a model of a red 1948 Indian Chief motorcycle. Next to it are a skull, a plastic human, a squid suspended in a bottle of clear liquid and a compressor from an under-the-counter refrigerator. The shelf above it has several computer manuals, a six inch piece of galvanized pipe, threaded on both ends, and a cottage cheese container half-filled with different size screws and nuts and hardware junk. Next to that is a tarnished bugle and a nine volt power supply for a computer printer or CD player or some such gadget, I don’t remember which. An old British SU carburetor and a stack of CDs—Gypsy Kings, Ravel, Muddy Waters, stuff like that—sit on the window sill.