"I'm so sorry."
"The only person who should be sorry is Lance and there isn't anything we can do about him now. Have you informed the police of your theory?"
"Yes. Detective Logan was with me when we audited the library."
"I wish I said something earlier but with only the one incident, it didn't seem enough. I figured the board wouldn't listen without any evidence and I sure as heck didn't have any. I thought by catching him I scared him and his light fingers away from swiping things that weren't his. Then with Lance's promotion at the party, the opportunity was gone. And now his murder!"
"Artie, I think this could all be tied together. The thefts, his murder..."
"You could be right. I wouldn't be surprised if that is what Detective Logan thinks too. I'll give him a call after I speak with the board."
"I hate to put you in this position."
"I wouldn't be if I'd spoken up sooner. I have to accept responsibility for that. I'm still the Manager and the buck stops with me." Artie shuffled upright and rearranged a few items on his desk. "Thanks for bringing this to my attention. I'll let you know what happens."
"Perhaps I should speak to the board too? Tell them what I know? Karen should as well. They can't argue with three witnesses."
"I'll deal with them for now but I'm sure they'll want to talk to you both too."
I knew when I was being dismissed so I rose. With one last apologetic glance, I left Artie to think over the huge problem Lance created for us. I was sure the board would be furious that we allowed the thefts to occur, possibly for the first time in the museum's history; and with only our side of the story, it would be hard to drop all the blame on Lance. They might even think one of us was covering up the thefts by impugning a man who could no longer defend himself. I laughed silently and shook my head, sending my curls flying. The very idea of Artie, Karen or me stealing was ludicrous.
What would really help prove the case was if the stolen books, or any other items we had yet to discover, were found in Lance's possession. Detective Logan and I had already taken a cursory look around Lance's office but we didn't know what we were looking for at the time beyond a book of some description. Now I had a list.
I hesitated outside my office, then turned and walked into Lance's, closing the door behind me. Detective Logan never said it was off limits and even if it were, I still went in.
This time, I paid closer attention. None of the books were in plain view and it would have been easy for Lance to explain their presence if they were. He could have easily claimed idle curiosity or an interest in loaning them to another museum to entice publicity. Somehow that didn't fit though. If Lance stole the books to sell, he wouldn't want to be associated with them in case the thefts were discovered. That meant he would have hidden them.
Starting with the bookcases, I pulled out binders and the odd book, checking behind them and even inside them in case Lance stashed one of the old books out of sight. I even dragged over his desk chair and checked the tops of the bookcases but there was nothing but dust bunnies.
Tugging the chair back to the desk, I walked around it to the side where Lance once sat. I felt under the desk top for any concealed packages like a spy in a thriller, and pulled the drawers from their casements, checking for false bottoms or envelopes taped to the underside. Finding nothing, I fitted them back into the desk. Then something clinked as it slid around the top drawer. I pulled it open again and reached inside, finding a set of keys. Lance's spare keys! Of course! He kept a spare set in the office ever since he misplaced his regular set at lunch just a month after his hire. The regular set was returned to him the next day but he must have preferred to keep the spares somewhere accessible just in case.
Closing my fingers around them, I wondered if the thought fluttering in my head was the right course of action. Legally speaking, it probably wasn't. If I entered Lance's house, wasn't that trespassing? Yet who could stop me when the tenant was dead? Who’s to say I didn't have an open invitation? I shuddered. The last thing I would ever want was an open invitation to Lance's home.
Standing still at the desk, I thought some more. Since Lance was killed here at the museum, his house wasn't considered a crime scene. That meant I wouldn't be compromising any evidence and Detective Logan never said Lance's home was off limits. I knew Lance lived alone, but I wondered if that were out of choice or because no one could tolerate him. If I got in and out very quickly, no one would ever know I was there.
Pushing the drawer closed, I hurried out of the office before I changed my mind. Artie's door was shut so I didn't call to him to say I was going out. I jogged downstairs but instead of exiting through the lobby, where Karen might ask where I was going, I left via the parking lot exit.
Lance had an apartment in a converted Victorian house. He bragged about its size a few times and loudly wondered how anyone could live anywhere else in town, which I took as a thinly disguised insult to my neighborhood. I once shared a taxi home with him after a late-night event -- a taxi that was thoroughly inconvenient since it was completely out of my way and he stiffed me with the bill -- so I knew the street where the building was. I couldn't remember the number of the house, but I was sure I would recognize it.
After walking four blocks, I turned onto the street and kept a careful eye out for Lance's building. Halfway along, I spotted the house with the stunning magnolia tree across the road. I jogged over, keeping an eye out for any nosy neighbors, and stepped onto the porch, the keys in my hand. There were three to choose from. The door looked original and the fixings remained the same. I picked the big brass key and slid it into the old lock, pleased when it opened without any problem.
The lobby had lovely parquet flooring and a chandelier that must have weighed a staggering amount hanging over an antique table that was buffed to a high sheen. Two doors labeled A and B led off the lobby and a staircase curved up. I had one key and I didn't know which lock it fitted. Spying a small stack of mail on the table, I rifled through it until I found an envelope with Lance's name. Apartment C.
Moving upstairs, I was more than aware of how quiet the building was and how loud my footsteps sounded as I stepped onto the second floor. A large landing with a loveseat under the window overlooking the street, had three doors leading off it. Apartment C was on the right. I slipped the key into the lock, opened it and paused, waiting for an alarm to blare or someone to ask what I was doing. When nothing happened, I stepped inside, my heart thumping audibly.
Lance's apartment was exactly what I expected. Living room with French windows overlooking the rear garden and sparsely furnished with a black leather couch, a cabinet, a glass coffee table and an enormous television. There were a few magazines tossed around, but nothing about antiques or rare books. Mostly his interests seemed to be shoot 'em up games and action films. Not exactly the cerebral fare of a museum geek. I smiled at that. My collection of mystery films and interior decor magazines probably didn't scream "Museum Deputy Manager" either.
Before I started my search, I tugged my sleeves over my hands, creating makeshift mittens so I wouldn't leave any prints. If I'd thought about it a bit more before I got the hare-brained idea, I would have grabbed a pair of white gloves from my office.
The cabinet doors concealed the debris of life: spare pens, more DVDs, a few paperbacks, a pack of playing cards, and a box for headphones. On top were several travel brochures and when I looked through them, I found a ticket to Hawaii and a reservation for a swanky hotel. Putting them back, I repeated the same checks I made in Lance's office on the underside of the sideboard and ran my hands down the crevice between the back and the wall but there wasn't anything there.
The idea of searching Lance's bedroom creeped me out so I avoided that and made for the kitchen next. His refrigerator had a six-pack of beer, a dozen condiments of varying degrees of spicy, and some meat that was already a week past the expiration date. A search of his cabinets produced nothing more than the knowledge that Lance was a hot sa
uce aficionado. I never saw so many bottles of the stuff or the lack of anything to actually put it on. His coffee machine looked like it belonged in a fancy coffee shop with more knobs and levers than I could fathom using. After checking the oven, I was fairly sure he never used it. The trash revealed several dirty takeout containers, a lovely shade of green mold growing on the leftovers.
"Nothing," I said out loud as I wrinkled my nose to the smell. Turning around, I asked the still apartment, "Where did you hide the books you stole, Lance?"
I checked the bathroom next but besides the bath panel, which was wedged firmly in place, there weren't any hiding places. Every last inch of the bathroom shelves was taken up with expensive aftershaves, moisturizers and other manly-scented products that put my cleanse-and-go routine to shame.
That left the bedroom. I held back my shoulders and strode in, hoping I didn't find anything revolting. Lance's bed was metal-framed with a clear twelve inches of space underneath it. The nightstands were also open metal styles, each topped with a matching lamp. His closet revealed racks of clothing and footwear. I rummaged through everything, noting the high-end labels that he couldn't possibly afford on his salary alone, and the plethora of watches and cufflinks, all neatly arranged in a show case. Not only was his skin routine much more involved than mine, his wardrobe was demonstrably better too. I never saw a man's closet with far more items than a woman's. Now it occurred to me, there wasn't anything to suggest a woman had ever been in the apartment. No earrings on the nightstand. No deodorant in the bathroom. No drawer in the bedroom for a few essentials so she didn't have to haul her things to and fro.
More importantly though, there weren't any books or artifacts that I could attribute to the museum. There weren't even any catalogs, pamphlets, or guidebooks that suggested any interest in antiques and collectibles. If I hadn't seen him putting the book in his jacket, I wouldn't be convinced he was a thief at all. Was it possible Lance's partner was the brains behind the operation? Did Lance steal to order from someone who knew what they were looking for but couldn't access the museum as readily as he could? That was a possibility, I decided as I let myself out of the apartment, careful to lock the door behind me and wipe the handle with my sleeve-covered hands. At the top of the stairs, I listened for footsteps or voices to suggest anyone in the neighboring apartments were home and when I was assured everything was quiet, I jogged downstairs and went out, turning to pull the door shut behind me.
When I straightened, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I wasn't alone.
"What are you doing?" asked the man behind me.
Chapter Thirteen
Before I could scream, a hand clapped over my mouth. "Don't scream," said the voice against my ear. I bit the hand, tasting skin, and whirled around, the scream dying on my lips.
"Ethan?"
"You bit me!" He bent over, cradling his hand, pain etched across his face.
"You told me not to scream!" I hissed furiously. "You put your hand over my mouth!"
"So you wouldn't scream!"
"Why didn't you just say hi?"
"I would have if I hadn’t suspected you were breaking into Lance's apartment!"
"How did you know I was doing that?"
Ethan glanced up at me, his eyebrows raised. "I didn't know for sure but you just confirmed it."
"Damn!" I suppressed the urge to stomp my foot. Then I realized we were standing on the porch of Lance's building where anyone might pass by. I grabbed Ethan's arm and propelled him off the property.
"What were you doing in there anyway?" he asked.
"Looking for the books Lance stole. Wait! How do you know Lance lived there? And why are you following me?"
Ethan flexed his hand, then pointed across the street to a pretty white Victorian, smaller than Lance's building but just as elegant. "I wasn't following you. I live there. My apartment overlooks the street and I saw you walking by before going into the house. I wondered what you were doing. You looked pretty furtive."
"I could have been visiting someone," I snipped, annoyed that my first criminal act had been monitored so closely. It could have been worse: Detective Logan could have seen me and arrested me on the spot. I suppose I was lucky it was Ethan!
"I knew Lance lived there. I've seen him come and go."
"I'm sorry I bit you," I said, watching him check his hand. "Are you okay?"
"My hand will recover and it was barely a nip. I don't think you have a career ahead of you in biting," he chuckled. "I'm sorry I frightened you, Tess. Let's get out of here."
He took my hand and pulled me after him across the road and towards his home. Before I could protest, he unlocked the door and we stepped into a hallway. It was just like Lance's, except there were no doors leading off it. Instead the hallway opened into a large living room and another hallway that ended in a kitchen.
"Go into the living room. I'll get you a drink and then you can explain why you thought burglary was a good idea," said Ethan. He pointed to the living room and took off down the hallway. While I waited for him to return, I looked around. The walls were white, the light-fitting brass and glass very modern, and it seemed to work well with the original crown moldings and the big fireplace. In the large window was a broad desk covered in paper and pencils. I peered at it, recognizing the basic outline of the museum's new wing.
Ethan handed me a glass of iced tea and moved over to the couch. "So?" he said, waiting.
"I like it," I replied.
He frowned. "What? Oh, that," he said when I pointed to the drawing board. "I meant, did you find anything at Lance's?"
"No. Just large collections of hot sauce and aftershave." I dropped onto the couch next to Ethan and relaxed. I didn't realize how tight and tense my muscles had become during my brief career as a burglar. The strain ebbed out of me as I relaxed, then I stiffened again when I wondered if Ethan would feel duty bound to report me.
"Wouldn't want to mix them up," quipped Ethan.
I laughed. "I don't know why I thought it was a good idea to break into Lance's apartment," I confessed. "I should have known he was too smart to keep anything he stole there. He probably sold everything already."
"Obvious criminality aside, I think it was a good idea to check. I'm just glad it was me who saw you and not Detective Logan." Ethan paused to sip his iced tea. "How did you get in anyway?"
"Lance kept a spare set of keys in his office." I raised my hand, dangling the keys. "I'll put them back but I don't think anyone will notice they were gone."
"Did you find anything interesting?"
"Besides the hot sauce? No. Lance was really committed to the bachelor life. Leather sofa, big TV, and a kitchen he never cooked in." As I said it, I glanced around, noticing how different Ethan's apartment was with his collection of books and beautifully framed drawings on the wall. "There wasn't anything personal. It was like he barely lived there. I have to say his clothes were all pretty expensive. Either he spent his whole salary on what he wore or he had other funds to supplement his lifestyle."
Ethan frowned. "Do you think he stole from the museum to fund his clothes horse habit?"
"That would seem strange though I can't rule out an addiction to luxuries as a motivation. Lance obviously had expensive taste." I sipped the iced tea, glad for the cool refreshment. Also, I thought guiltily, if anyone asked how I spent my lunch hour, I could legitimately say I visited Ethan. "Lance booked a hotel and plane ticket to Hawaii. He was due to leave in two weeks. I didn't know he was planning a vacation."
"A vacation? Or skipping town?" asked Ethan.
"Would a skanky thief skip town to Hawaii?" I wondered.
"I would," laughed Ethan.
I thought about it. "Me too," I admitted. "The girls would love it."
"Do you have any more ideas about Lance's nefarious schemes?"
I shook my head. "No. I just wanted to confirm the thefts but I can't. Not for certain anyway. There's the two books he stole, but I already turned the informati
on over to Detective Logan. I hope he can find out if Lance was involved with all the missing books. Ethan, this is really frustrating."
"I'm sure."
When my cell phone rang, I fished it from my pocket and frowned at the screen. "It's the library," I told him as I answered. "Maybe Sara learned something."
"Tess? I have some news," said Sara, sounding excited, which meant that my daughters hadn't incurred a late fee on their library books, again. For that alone, I was grateful.
"About the books?"
"Yes! I've been doing some research while the library is quiet and I found one of your books for sale. At least, I think it's yours. Everything matches up and my research suggests there are very few copies of that title. So the laws of probability indicate it is highly unlikely that your book went missing at the same time the same title is available for sale."
"It would be a huge coincidence," I agreed, holding the phone so Ethan could listen too.
"It took a lot of digging to find it as it wasn't advertised on the web so I had to go through pages of information on the specialist auction houses website," explained Sara, "and I found it listed just last week. There's a reserve price so it hasn't sold yet and the auction is scheduled for tomorrow. Maybe you could get the police involved and claim it back?"
"It's not officially reported stolen yet. Can you email me the information?"
"Sending it now. There's one more thing. I found two of your other titles listed on that site too, dating back last month and the month before that. I couldn't find the sales prices because they didn't go to auction, although they were sold. I'll send you everything I found."
"We could stop the action," said Ethan after Sara hung up. "If they know the book is potentially stolen, they won't want to be associated with selling it."
Mayhem in May Page 11