Fire Drill

By Gay Toltl Kinman

Beep. Beep. Beep.

In response to the alarm, Merry Joy bustled back into the Reading Room of The Huntington Library, jammed a pudgy arm into an orange emergency padded vest and slapped an orange hard hat onto her short blonde hair. The hat tipped precariously sideways.

Why was there a fire drill anyway? It wasn't scheduled. 'Surprise' drills were done, but the Fire Wardens, as she was, were always notified beforehand.

"Everybody out," she said. Readers, those permitted in to do research, were getting ready to leave.

"Come on, Dr. Oxford, fire drill."

"What, what?"

"FIRE DRILL," she shouted.

Did he think she wore this outlandish costume for fun? Did he think it was Halloween? Actually, in a few days it would be.

She considered it demeaning to run around, herding everyone out as though she was a sheepdog. Some of the Readers were such old fogies and half-dead anyway. Why were they here? Writing books. They'd been writing the same book for years. She expected some day to find one who didn't move when they closed for the day. Couldn't move. Just like in Dorothy Sayers' The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club.

But why should she worry about that anymore, about whether they moved or not? She was going to be out of here soon.

She padded down the carpeted stairs to the Central Basement to see if anyone was still there. If they were, they had to be deaf.

Some of them were.

The alarm made such an infernal clamor, she'd have a migraine for sure.

Up the stairs again.

This was definitely going to be her last fire drill. For sure--if they gave her a fair share. She considered half to be fair. After all, she was the one taking all the risks. Without her, they wouldn't be able to do anything, except talk about what they were going to do.

She trudged back into the Reading Room. Old Doc Oxford was still at his desk, bewildered. Not much different than usual.

However--he had noticed the book this morning. And the one last week on Wednesday. Wasn't that just like him? Ditzy one minute, sharp as a tack the next. She'd have to find a new "hiding" place.

"Come on, Dr. Oxford, we have to leave."

"I'm not going anywhere without my pencil."

"Then bring your goddamn pencil," she muttered to herself. To him she said louder,

"Take your pencil and some paper and let's go."

"What do I need paper for? I'm using the book."

Oh, God, was he writing in one of the library's books? Just like him not to follow the rules. Kept cookies and biscuits under his desk, a flagrant violation of not allowing food anywhere in the library. Not going to be her problem anymore. But no, he meant his book, a notebook; he had his hand on it.

"Tiffany."

Merry Joy stopped and looked around. "Tiffany who?"

"My pencil."

Merry Joy wasn't sure if she was having an obscene conversation with a senile man, or whether he was in another conversation in Space City.

She hesitated, but that only inspired Dr. Oxford to talk more. "My pencil. My pencil from Tiffany's. Silver. I can't find it. Someone stole it."

Gads, weren't they always accusing each other of taking things? Not to mention ideas and quotes, each trying to scoop the other in the academic world that moved at the pace of an advancing glacier. She was sick to death of it. Soon she'd be away from these batty people. And--richrichrich.

"We'll look for it later. We have to go now."

He muttered something, then stumbled toward the door.

"Merry Joy....Merry Joy."

She turned around. Who was calling her? It wasn't Dr. Oxford, unless he was a ventriloquist. She thought she had everyone out. But no, someone was in the alcove. She went there.

"You're upping the ante," the voice said.

"It's only fair. I'm the one who'll get fired, and I could even be put in jail," she said. Then she looked at his hand. "What are you doing with Dr. Oxford's pencil?"

Dr. Oxford was the first to return from the fire drill. Much to his astonishment, Merry Joy was taking a nap on his desk. His desk.

He confronted her. "Get out of my chair and off my desk." The audacity of the woman, and only a clerk at that.

She didn't move.

His astonishment ratcheted up several notches. "What are you doing with my Tiffany?" He grabbed his pencil which was entwined in the red scarf around her neck.

"You stole it!"

"Get up!" His anger knew no bounds. He shook her violently. She slid heavily onto the floor, the red marks around her neck revealed as the silk scarf slipped off.

Investigator Jane Jillson of The Huntington Library's Security Department was the first on the scene.

Dr. Oxford told her what happened.

Jane thought about the actions and that the lolled-out tongue, eyes open in an unseeing stare, and an unnatural pallor were not the mien of a napper, even a Huntington one. Secondly, his pencil entwined in the red silk scarf tourniquet around Merry Joy's neck was not a place where she needed that type of First Aid.

And, alas, the actions of the Readers who had gathered around trampled on whatever evidence, if any, remained.

She evacuated everyone from the Reading Room and locked the doors. The Los Angeles County Coroner, the Sheriff's Department, and the San Marino Police Department were called. The Huntington Library was in the city of San Marino, but for murder cases the Sheriff's Department had jurisdiction.

They would all have to finish their investigation before she could begin hers.

One fact was established, the alarm going off had not been planned as a drill. Nor had a fire been found. Someone had set it off--deliberately. That made it premeditated murder, thought Jane.

Jane saw Dr. Oxford hovered in the hallway outside the Reading Room as though expecting to be allowed back in at any moment.

"This place is going to hell in a handbasket," he said to her. "Why just this morning I told Merry Joy about the Rare Book in the alcove. That's the second one."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean exactly what I say. That's not true for a lot of other people around here. A Rare Book was shelved in that alcove behind my desk. Who took it out of the Ahmanson Room? That's what I asked that woman."

"What did she say?"

"That deafening alarm sounded and off she went to get into that ridiculous paraphernelia that looks like a Halloween costume. Can't stand the woman, she treats me like I'm senile. I'm not surprised she tried to steal my pencil."

"Is the book still there?"

"Well, I didn't get a chance to check, now did I? There was a Rare Book there the other day, too, and I told her about it. She took care of it right away. Place is going--"

"So you're saying that this morning she didn't have a chance to put it back where it belonged because of the fire drill?"

"Of course, that's what I'm saying, young lady. Didn't I just say that?"

After the Coroner had taken the body away and the techs finished, Jane went to the alcove behind Dr. Oxford's desk. Her eyes systematically scanned the shelves of reference books, looking for the Rare Book Dr. Oxford had said he saw there, but could not longer recall its exact location.

One book caught her attention. No white spine label like the others.

Rothermere's Discourses had faint gold lettering on the spine. The book was very old, and about the size of an encyclopedia volume. She pulled out an evidence bag and put it over the book, gently sliding it off the shelf.

She showed the book through the plastic to Librarian Dr. Simone Bouvier, Head of the Readers Services Department.

"The book is kept in the Closed Stacks and can only be used in the Ahmanson Room. I have no idea how it got out of there and shelved where you found it. None of the Readers can take books out of that room. The staff has access to the Closed Stacks. But they're not allowed to take anything out of that area either. It's against the rules," she said.

Jane didn't point out that murder was also against the rules. "Tell me what you know about this book."

"Rothermere," Dr. Bouvier said, "was a sixteenth century scholar, known for his translations of European texts into English. There are many scholars who believe that his translations of French texts were used by both Shakespeare and Bacon in their works."

"What about this particular book?" Jane asked.

"There is one thing..." Dr. Bouvier hesitated, her voice dropping, as she looked around. Her office was glass on three sides with no ceiling. Other employees, including Merry Joy, had their desks just outside her office. "Part of a Shakespearean folio page, a large section actually, was found in the binding of a Rothermere book in the Folger."

All Jane could think of was coffee. "The Folger?"

"The Folger Shakespeare Library."

Jane's pulse went up several notches. The Rothermere book she bagged had to be pertinent, she felt it in her bones. She planned to call Deputy Deanna Fargrove, her liaison at the Sheriff's Department, and tell her about the find. Also, the book had to be checked for fingerprints. She wondered what the other book was that Dr. Oxford had seen a few days before. Did he know and would he remember?

"I'd like to know more about Rothermere," Jane said.

"You can ask two of our Readers--Dr. Klinghoeffer and Dr. Moriarity. They are the experts in the field of that time period. In fact, Moriarity was researching at the Folger when the folio piece was found."

Jane arranged to interview them separately in her office that afternoon.

While scheduling the time, she recognized them from an incident she had witnessed the previous week, and one that had stayed with her, solely because of the intensity of one of the speakers.

As she had walked through the flagstone patio to the cafeteria, she had seen Moriarity laughing as he had playfully speared a black olive in Klinghoefer's Nicoise salad. Klinghoefer shoved the other man's plastic fork away, then pulled the salad closer. "You know I don't share," he said. "I know," said Moriarity as he had smiled broadly, "that's why I did it."

When he appeared for his interview, Dr. Moriarity's vest had only the top two buttons done up. Jane thought that one more dessert and he wouldn't be able to do it up at all. Although she was chunky, Jane knew her own weight was within normal bounds. He was about her height, 5'7" with thinning, greying hair, and glasses slipping a little on his nose. She hoped her blonde ear-length hair wouldn't have any grey in it for a few more years.

His hand was soft and he barely touched hers when she offered to shake. His eyes never made contact. Several times he dabbed a folded once-white handkerchief on the top of his head which continued to glisten in the light.

He explained that he was a text and print specialist of the plays written in the Elizabethan era. "They weren't published, you see, because there was no copyright protection in those days. If, indeed, a playwright had his play printed, another theater could use it and perform it--no law broken. Therefore, playwrights only gave the lines to the actor of the part that person was to perform, either on strips of paper if the actor could read, or just had him memorize it. None of the actors were allowed to hear what the other's lines were unless they were in that scene."

Jane shifted in her office chair. At this point, she didn't know enough to ask specific questions, so she encouraged him to go on.

"The reason for this was that other theater owners wanted to put on the play if it was successful. They even paid the actors for those strips of paper. Or paid them for all the lines they could memorize. The playwright associated with that theater would meld the dialogue with his own thus making it a different play if he couldn't get all the lines. Theater owners were desperate for popular plays. It was truly a cutthroat business."

Jane shivered, thinking about the red strangulation marks on Merry Joy's neck.

"In my opinion, that's the reason for the Green Room, I'm sure--to keep the actors from waiting in the wings memorizing the text of the play. I'm working on an extensive article for the--"

His eyes were getting that faraway look that Jane recognized in scholars. "Tell me about this Rothermere book," she said, cutting him off. She held up the book in the evidence bag.

There could have been a bloody dagger in the bag by his reaction.

"Why are you asking about that book?" He paled. More dabbing of his scalp. More need to.

Jane wondered why. To up the stakes even more she said, "Merry Joy had her hand around it when she died."

"Excuse me, I'm feeling a little unwell." He dashed from her office in the basement. He'd have to run up the stairs to reach the men's room or... She looked out of her window. He was vomiting his last meal into the bushes.

Interesting.

But then, he'd seen Merry Joy's body in extremis. Not a common sight for an academician.

When she turned around, Dr. Klinghoeffer stood in her doorway, early for his appointment. He couldn't see the scene out of her window.

He was tall, Jack Spratt lean, hair going to gray but plenty of it. His handshake was firm, damp. His shirt, slightly wrinkled, had short sleeves revealing long pearl-pale arms.

In answer to her question about Rothermere, he expounded on the importance of that author in Shakespeare's plays, and how the plays came to be printed in folios. Then he went into a lengthy explanation about what a folio was. Large.

"Folio refers to the size of the paper as it was produced in those days. You must remember paper was not as plentiful as it is now, so it was perfectly reasonable to use odds and ends of paper as stiffener in the binding of a book published at the time. The printer may have already done some of Shakespeare's plays, made a mistake on the page and used that as material in the binding. My article--"

She held up the evidence bag. She told him the same as she had Moriarty, that it had been in Merry Joy's hand when she died. His reaction was one of complete puzzlement. A little redness to his face also.

After he left, she went to the Footnote, the library's staff lounge, bought a cardboard cup of machine coffee and sat out in the patio garden, hoping for an insight.

One fact she knew for sure. The murderer set the fire alarm off, knowing Merry Joy would be the last person to leave because she was the Fire Warden for that wing. It was a perfect opportunity to kill her without being detected. And then, that person either hurried out to catch up with everyone else or hid until everyone came back.

The Huntington, with a coterie of possible suspects all of whom had the means and opportunity, was the perfect place for a murder. The opportunity because they were all present at the time of the murder. And the means was readily available--her silk scarf and Dr. Oxford's pencil. Jane reasoned the only thing that separated the murderer from the others was the motive. She knew Merry Joy was not well-liked, but just how angry was the murderer?

The coffee didn't give her any insights. She threw the rest of it on some unfortunate begonias.

She talked again with Dr. Oxford. He was the perfect suspect as he admitted to being the last one out, his pencil had been part of the murder weapon, he had destroyed evidence by removing the pencil, and had been responsible for the body being moved. Although he admitted everything, he had pointed out the Rare Book to Jane. Had he murdered her in one of his mentally wandering moments? Now unable to remember he had no guile in admitting to the other incriminating facts?

However, she was sure that the Rothermere book played a part somehow. Why had it been taken out of the Ahmanson Room or the Closed Stacks in the first place?

The Huntington's security was her bailiwick and someone had been killed on her watch. That made her even more determined to find out who had violated her territory.

The Huntington Library, Botanical Gardens and Art Galleries were a landmark in Southern California. It had been the estate of Henry E. Huntington and wife Arabella, and both still remained on the property--in the Jefferson Memorial-style mausoleum. In 1919 a private, non-profit institution on three hundred acres was founded. Not a place where murder happened.

She went to Readers Services to look through Merry Joy's desk as the Sheriff's Investigators had finished.

Her desk was a study in neatness. The only stray piece of paper had a list of seven call numbers. Two of the numbers ended with R58. Jane knew that was the symbol for Rothermere's name. The others each had a string of numbers with no letters. Those were Rare Books or manuscripts.

She used the computer catalog and looked up Rothermere. Each of the numbers on the list was a book by Rothermere.

In the Ahmanson Room, where Readers could use the Rare Books and manuscripts, she followed the library's protocol by completing call slips for each and gave them to the Attendant. In turn, he would give them to a Page who would retrieve the items. The Attendant told her it might take about an hour to retrieve everything.

While she was walking back to her office, questions came to her mind. Was someone looking at the bindings of the Rothermere books hoping to find parts of a folio sheet as had been the case at the Folger? That person certainly couldn't start pulling apart the binding in front of the Attendant in the Ahmanson. They'd have to do it in private. That meant they had to get the book out of the library. How?

Jane knew her guards checked purses and backpacks. The Rothermere book she had found was quite large. If one was going to sneak the book out, how would they do it?

In her office, she experimented by slipping it through the back of the waistband of her slacks and pulling her belt tight to hold the book in place. Even with her jacket on, the bulge was noticeable. Then she put on her backpack. That covered it. The guard could look in the backpack without her taking it off. Dangerous, but possible.

Jane headed upstairs to see Dr. Bouvier again, then she stopped so abruptly halfway up the steps that a custodian bumped into her.

What if...

What if someone wasn't trying to find folio sheets in the Rothermere books?

What if-- Jane pondered that on the way to Dr. Bouvier's.

"If they found another piece or even a full folio sheet," said Bouvier in answer to Jane's question, "that person would be famous in the book world. It would help their academic career--and certainly help when their own book came out. But," she paused, "the paper would have to be shown in the binding to be valuable. Taking the piece out would raise a lot of questions as to its provenance, where it came from."

"How much was the part of the folio sheet that was found worth?"

"A collector paid $500,000, but, of course, the money went to the Folger, not to the man who found it."

Enough to kill for.

"It is possible to replicate the paper and printing, age it, and fool an antiquarian book dealer or a collector, if well done."

"Quite possible," said Bouvier.

"Who would pay that amount of money?"

"A collector. Someone rich, no questions asked. They might not even have an expert examine it for fear the news would leak out. It's a small world when it comes to finds like that."

"So a forger could get away with it?

"Oh, yes. Check with Dr. Moriarty and Dr. Klinghoeffer. They can tell you if it is technically possible."

Dr. Bouvier called her about an hour and a half later. In a quavery voice, she said "The Pages can't find the Rothermere books you requested anywhere. I've checked with the bindery, cataloging, and the curators. The books are missing."

"Missing?"

"Gone. Misshelved. Stolen."

Jane invited Dr. Moriarity back to her office. "Please don't say anything to anyone about what I am going to tell you."

"Oh, no. No, I wouldn't. My gracious, whatever is it?"

"Dr. Klinghoeffer is a suspect in Merry Joy's murder."

Moriarity gasped. "How...how can that be?"

"His prints were found nearby. I won't go into details, but suffice it to say that if you have any information, then tell me. I'm relating all of this to you because he might kill again, and that person could very well be someone he thinks knows something."

Moriarity's complexion went from grey to white. She didn't tell him that she planned to give a similar scenario to Klinghoeffer about Moriarity. Stir the pot a little was her plan. And keep her gun loaded.

Moriarty caved in. There was no question the murder of Merry Joy had affected him. "That hadn't been in our plan," he sobbed.

After the part of the Shakespeare folio had been found in the binding of a Rothermere, Moriarity told her, the two of them planned to check all the libraries throughout the country with Rothermere holdings. They started with The Huntington.

Unfortunately, Merry Joy had caught Moriarity ineptly trying to divert her attention after he returned a Rothermere book to the Ahmanson desk when she was on duty, and then trying to retrieve it again when her back was turned.

He pleaded with Merry Joy not to tell anyone and offered her one third of the share of their future profits. If she had reported him for trying to steal a book, he would be banned from every research library in the country; stripped of his professorial office, and would never work again. Not to mention going to jail.

"I just couldn't be locked up in jail like that," he said. "Not with what they do to each other there." He shuddered.

He related that Klinghoefer was not pleased about giving up a share of the profits, but he saw the reality of the situation.

When they had the first book apart they found nothing. But they had looked at each other and said, "Why not?" They were both experts in the field and it would be possible for them to replicate a folio sheet.

The next step was to contact dealers and collectors on an individual basis and present them with their find--intact in the binding.

Since there was no ownership markings on the book no one would know it was from The Huntington on one hand, but on the other, there were so few Rothermere books in existence that those in the rare book business knew who owned what and would be able to verify from which collection it had come.

What they had to do next was "create" a collection.

So they did, using the name of an old Duke in England saying he wanted to sell a few items from his library, but did not want the National Trust to be aware of the transaction. No matter that the whole kit and caboodle of his castle was now owned by the National Trust and that he only had lifetime live-in privileges. In effect, he owned nothing even though everything around him had been in his family for centuries. The curse of the taxation system. Avid collectors could overlook the ownership aspect, that of the British government, and take the provenance, that of the Duke's, at face value. It was a believable story.

And since the collector wouldn't be publicizing his purchase, only savoring it, they could work the scam over and over, stealing Rothermere books from other libraries. Klinghoeffer had seen even greater possibilities. Why stop with just the Rothermere books? The Huntington had other tomes from that time period. So did a lot of other libraries. A veritable gold mine. They could stay at The Huntington using Merry Joy and take out as many books as they wanted.

Moriarty extricated himself from the co-conspiracy and murder charges by telling all, but he betrayed his friend and partner--and lover.

Jane called Lt. Fargrove of the Sheriff's Department to tell her of Moriarty's confession, watching as the tears rolled down his pasty face, now shrunken as his whole body seemed to be. She saw him eye the letter opener on her desk. It was sharp enough to use as a suicide weapon. Or even as a weapon against her. She slid it into the middle drawer. His eyes went to hers in a rare moment of eye contact.

Was he dangerous? She had an ankle gun, not regulation--after all this was The Huntington Library--but that was for defense, not offense. She pulled her right pant leg up and put her hand on the gun.

"Why?" she asked.

"I'll be famous," he said. "Not like everyone else. My articles will be read and quoted by everyone." His eyes shone.

"And then, there's the money," she said.

"The money, yes. That allowed us the freedom to do research full time. We wouldn't have to work at our grubby little colleges, trying to impart knowledge to pimply-faced youths who only care about beers and beds. We'd be able to make a real contribution to scholarship. My article on the Green Room--"

"You went from forger to murderer. What made you cross the line?"

"Not me? Klinghoeffer did it. And we aren't forgers. We're replicators. We were about to make many collectors happy people. And we'd experience what it was like to hand make paper as they did in the 1600s."

"Klinghoeffer crossed the line. Why?"

"He was angry because Merry Joy had agreed to one third, then she broke the contract. Even one-third was too much for just moving the book out of the library. But when she wanted one half, he considered that she was trying to blackmail us. And he couldn't stand that. He took it as an insult to his intelligence. If she wanted half, he said, then she'd want more. She'd always want more. He was very angry. But I never thought he would kill her. We needed her. But now--"

"If you hadn't told me all this, he might have murdered you."

"Oh, no, he'd never do that." But she could see he had his doubts.

She wondered if Klinghoefer was going to say Moriarity did it.

A Sheriff's car pulled into the small parking area behind her office. And then a second one. They'd take Moriarity away. She hoped they'd be able to get Klinghoeffer out without any trouble. She didn't want any more trouble in her bailiwick.

She thought about the olive episode on the cafeteria patio.

Maybe Klinghoeffer felt that splitting it three ways wasn't as good as splitting it two ways. Actually one way was even better. Jane had seen it in his eyes when he angrily pushed Moriarity's fork away from the olive and told him he didn't share.

And that was only an olive.