Bert knew her friend was right but didn’t like to jump to hasty conclusions. “There are other people who may have been interested in stealing those items,” she pointed out, still trying to keep a positive outlook on the situation.
“No. They think it’s her. They just need the right bit of evidence to hold her on it.”
“Which means they don’t have evidence on her yet. Otherwise, they would have arrested her here and now,” Bert noted.
“That’s true, Carla. They didn’t arrest her right away,” Shiv added, acting as a support to Bert in the way she always did. She was like a rock of stability both as an employee and friend.
Carla wasn’t having it. She walked over and leaned on the counter. “If they don’t have evidence against her, we have to find evidence to show that it isn’t her,” she pressed.
“We do?” Bert asked, knowing where this was going. She’d gotten in trouble on more than one occasion for poking around in a police investigation. Harry was never a happy camper when he found out what she’d been doing—even though she’d been responsible for the arrest of a few different criminals.
“I need your help. We need to make sure they can’t pin this on Karol.”
Bert was tempted to ask if Carla was sure her friend didn’t steal the items but refrained. One thing she’d learned from Harry was that you had to keep an open mind to every possibility, no matter how bizarre.
“I know Karol couldn’t have done this. She isn’t a thief and most certainly isn’t a murderer.” A glisten of pleading appeared in her best friend’s eyes.
Bert tightened her jaw, drawing her lips tightly together as she considered the situation. Finally, she let out a long sigh. “Shiv?”
“I can watch the shop today. Not a problem.”
“Thanks. You’re a life saver,” Bert said, grabbing her purse from its hook on the brick wall and walking out from behind the counter. “I’m going upstairs to change out of this frumpy dress. After I’m done with that, we can leave.”
“Thank you, Bert. It means a lot to me,” Carla said with a sheepish smile.
* * *
The rain hadn’t let up since it started. If anything, it was coming down harder than before. The gutters were like rivers with water gushing down them in waves that looked like they could support a surfboard.
“This looks bad,” Carla commented, leaning to look out the driver’s side window.
“As long as we don’t drive through any deep puddles, we should be fine,” Bert said as she pulled the car up as close as humanly possible to the museum. Luckily, since most people had opted to stay home due to the storm, there were a vast number of open parking spaces to choose from along the street. Shutting the car off, Bert grabbed her umbrella from the back seat. “Come on. Let’s hope Sybil is in. If anyone knows somebody that might want to steal those pieces, it’s her.”
“She is probably the one who thought it was Karol and turned the police onto her.”
“Perhaps,” Bert agreed, opening her door. When Sybil had mentioned earlier that she knew who might be behind it, Bert had an inkling that she was talking about Karol.
Unfurling the umbrella, Bert ran around to the other side of the car, so Carla could get under it with her. Quickly, the two women ran up the steps to the museum where they found the door locked.
“I knew it would be locked. Why would they be open? Not only is the fair this weekend but now the director is dead.”
“Let’s try knocking,” Bert suggested, making a tight fist and rapping on the glass. She hoped it was loud enough to be heard.
When no one responded, she knocked again.
Soon, she could see the dark outline of a figure moving around inside. A moment later, the door opened. “We’re closed.”
“Sybil, it’s Bertha Hannah from Pies and Pages,” she called out. Digging into her purse, she pulled out the book that Sybil had given her the day before and had gone untouched. “I wanted to talk to you about your book.”
Despite the raw redness around her eyes, a hint of interest—and maybe even excitement—seemed to twinkle there in her gaze. “Oh, of course. Please, come in out of the rain.”
“Thanks,” Bert said, stepping in and folding the umbrella down to shake it off. “It is very wet out there.”
“Yes, in some ways I suppose not having the fair today isn’t so bad,” she said, trying to stay on the lighter side of things. She motioned toward a door off to the side of the lobby. “Let’s go to my office.”
“We will. This is my friend, Carla, by the way. She just happened to be with me.”
“That’s quite all right. The more the merrier. I just put on a fresh pot of coffee.”
“I could definitely use another cup,” Carla said as they followed her into the office space. The room had two desks. One was situated near the front window, looking out on the slanted rainy street. The other sat near a door across the room. This was the desk Sybil sat at.
It was strewn with all types of papers. A quick glance at the logo in the top right corner told Bert that they were insurance claims.
“You’ll have to excuse the mess. After this morning’s tragedy, I’ve been all too busy with paperwork and preliminary steps for the museum and historical society.” Gathering up the papers, she shuffled them away into a folder. “Please, have a seat.”
The two women sat in the chairs opposite her.
“I wanted to say again how sorry I am about Nan Greatwater. I realize you two must have been close.”
Licking her lips and straining to hold back more tears from her red eyes, she nodded. After a painful swallow, she seemed to have the wave of emotion under control. “Yes, we’ve been working together for some years. It will be difficult taking the museum and historical society forward without her.”
“I understand,” Bert noted.
“Let’s not dwell on it. You wanted to talk about my book. Are you interested in carrying it in your store?”
Bert glanced over at Carla. They’d planned to ease their way into asking questions about the murder through putting the advisor at ease with a discussion of her book. “Potentially, yes. I wasn’t able to read all of it.” That was a half-truth. She’d not read any of it. She’d glanced at the table of contents the day before and that was all. The interior design had been as bad as the cover. “Are the facts in here accurate?” she asked.
“One hundred percent. Everything is thoroughly researched. Being here among the antiques and historical items themselves was a great help and inspiration.”
“I bet it was,” Bert agreed.
“I have a question,” Carla jumped in, taking the book from Bert’s hands and flipping it open. “You talk about two of the most coveted family heirlooms in here, Tate’s saddle and his pocket watch.”
“Yes, it wouldn’t be much of a history book about Tate Riderman if I didn’t include some interesting facts about those coveted pieces of history. The saddle is the one he rode on during the Civil War and used afterward when he was a sheriff of Culver’s Hood. The pocket watch was given to him by an oil baron who enjoyed playing cards together with Tate.”
Carla leaned forward. “Are they really worth so much?” she asked.
“Oh, of course. The saddle alone is worth somewhere around six to seven thousand. The watch is worth much more than that.”
Bert shook her head. “That must have been quite the blow to lose those items, then.”
Sybil briefly chewed her lower lip before answering. “That’s true. While we did take out insurance policies on both, the money can’t replace the historical value that those two items hold.”
“It must have been hard to handle when you realized they were gone.”
“For the watch especially. It was so odd. There was no sign that our alarm system had been tripped and none of the locks had been broken or fiddled with. It was almost as if someone had just waltzed in, taken it, and walked out right under our noses.”
“Who would possibly do that?” Ca
rla gasped in a fake-sounding way.
Sybil didn’t seem to notice, thankfully.
“Many people had an interest, I’m sure. There were many collectors who may have wanted to steal the items.”
“Like Drake Panderson?” Bert asked, directing suspicion toward him. She was interested to see if Sybil had any suspicion that it may be that man.
She shook her head. “Drake may be a shrewd collector, but he isn’t a thief. He’s offered increasingly high prices over the years for the items. We, of course, have always turned him down.”
“If not him, then who,” Carla asked a little too forcefully. She was letting her personal feelings cloud the charade and Bert worried they’d be given away.
Sybil clasped her hands on the desk and bent forward, lowering her voice as if to hide what she was saying from listening ears—even though the museum was empty besides the three of them. “There has been one woman, very persistent, who has become rather rude and threatening over the past few months.”
“Who?” Carla snapped.
Bert reached out and gave her friend a subtle squeeze on the arm to calm her down.
“Karol Riderman, a direct descendent of Tate. She’s been at us for years, trying to take back the donations that were made to our society decades ago.”
“Doesn’t she have at least some sort of right to the items?” Carla pressed.
Sybil shrugged. “I fear if we gave in to her demands to return the items to her ownership that she would remove them from our museum and eventually the public eye. The focal point of our business would fall through. We have many other bits of Nebraska history here in the museum, but the place is named after Tate Riderman. How can we exhibit history without including him?”
“I see, so it was a threat to the museum,” Bert noted.
“Quite right. I wouldn’t put it past her to do it out of spite.”
Carla made a defiant huff, but Sybil didn’t seem to catch on. Bert gave her friend a knowing look, telling her to calm down. “You believe she is behind the theft and the murders?” Bert asked.
Leaning back in her chair, the museum advisor folded her arms. “That’s what I told the police, yes.”
Bert and Carla made a quick glance at one another.
“Now, how many books are you interested in carrying in your shop?” Sybil asked, putting on a smile while she changed the subject.
Bert stood up from her chair, wanting to get out of there before Carla gave them away. “I’m interested, for sure. I’ll just need to check my current stock to make sure I have room for them.”
“Sounds good to me,” Sybil agreed. “Just give me a call or stop by when you know how many you’ll need.”
“Will do. Thank you for your time.”
Chapter Eight
“It has to be that Drake Panderson fellow who is behind this all,” Carla snapped as soon as they were back in the car.
“We can’t know that for sure. Not yet,” Bert replied, turning on the engine and easing out onto the wet street.
“It’s him. I can feel it in my bones.”
“Can you tell the weather that way too?” Bert teased.
Carla glared at her friend, not amused.
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry.”
“What other possible explanation is there?” she insisted.
“I’m not sure, but we’ll find out.”
“Where are we going now?” she asked, watching the buildings go by in a wet blur.
“Get on your phone and look up to see if Drake Panderson’s address is listed. I think it’s time we asked him for a private showing of his collection.”
“What makes you think he’ll just let us in to look at all that stuff?” Carla asked, dutifully getting her phone out.
“I don’t know that he will, but I have a hunch. These rich collector types fall into two categories in my experience. Either they love to horde what they’ve bought and never let anyone even close to the items.”
“Or?”
“Or they are obsessed with showing off their wealth and are willing to give people a tour if they ask for it. Based on my brief encounter with Drake, I’m guessing he’s in the second category.”
* * *
The rain still showed no sign of letting up as the two women drove up the long winding driveway toward the large house. It hadn’t been too difficult to locate Drake Panderson’s address, seeing as he lived in a historic home that looked more like a mansion than anything else. The home had once belonged to a famous rodeo show actor. With three floors and two turrets to boot, the place had an elegant air.
They had to give their names at the gate but were easily let through by the guard there. They’d come up with a story that they were working on a blog story that focused on famous antiques. The hint of any sort of exposure was enough for Drake, it seemed.
“How rich is this guy?” Carla wondered out loud, leaning down for a better look at the massive building. In the falling rain, it sort of took on a spooky quality. All it needed was a flash of lightning behind it to complete the picture.
It reminded Bert of the opening credits to a mystery movie from the eighties where six guests get locked into an old mansion after their host was murdered.
Parking in front of the steps in the circle drive, they weren’t even able to get out before a man in a suit came running down to open the doors for them. Climbing out, they quickly headed up onto the porch where the front door was being held open by another man.
Clearly, Drake had money to burn.
Walking in the front entry hall, they were greeted by Drake himself. “Welcome, ladies.” He gave a little bow, sweeping one arm in front of him. He was dressed in a soft pink cowboy shirt with fringe hanging off the front pockets and sleeves. A turquoise bolo tie completed the outfit.
“Mr. Panderson, I don’t know if you remember me, but my name is Bert Hannah. We met briefly at the fair yesterday,” Bert said, walking over with an outstretched hand.
He shook her hand and gave her a large toothy smile that gleamed behind his handlebar mustache. “Of course, I remember. You had taken an interest in Tate Riderman’s saddle.”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Such a shame about such a great piece of history being stolen.”
“It is,” she agreed. Turning, she motioned to Carla. “This is my friend, Carla Reed. We’re writing a blog post about western antiques.”
Drake held up a hand. “Yes, and I’m more than happy to show you around my collection.” He held up one finger. “However, you ladies didn’t need to make up a story to come and see my collection.”
The two women looked at each other, realizing that they’d been caught.
“All you need to do is ask, and I can show you my collection. I’m more than happy to share my life’s passion with those who also have an interest.”
Bert smiled, glad he didn’t know their true intentions, even if he knew that at least part of what they’d said was a lie. “We appreciate it.”
“Now, if you ladies will follow me this way,” he motioned with a hand, leading them past the stairway and into a large room at the back of the house. It appeared that two or three rooms had been combined into one, creating a large space to house the rich man’s prized possessions.
The walls held paintings featuring scenes of rolling hills, grassy plains, and cowboys on horseback. Bert had to admit, looking at the brushwork up close was impressive. There were also a few tapestries and wall hangings with southwestern designs and styles. Pedestals and display cases held the actual antiques themselves. Gun holsters, six shooters, old rodeo advertisements, coffee cups, horseshoes, even a traditional jaw harp were some of the treasures on display.
Drake took his good sweet time pointing out each item, going into detail, and relishing the chance to show off.
She was surprised to find herself getting caught up in all of it, enjoying seeing the history before her—but wishing much of this were in a museum and not someone’s private home. In
any case, it all seemed to be part of a show, a chance for Drake to show off.
Bert even wondered if their host had thrown on the fancy shirt and tie when he heard they were at the main gate. Did he always dress up to show off his wares to guests?
More than that, Bert had to admit that a man with this much passion and flamboyance for such an extravagant hobby was likely willing to go all in to round out his collection. He was probably a crack shot bargainer, talking people down on prices, picking up antiques for a song just by tricking the owner into selling.
Nan and the museum hadn’t fallen for those games.
The bigger question was, how far would a man like this go to get the coveted items he so desired?
One thing was for sure, he wouldn’t be so foolish as to put them on display for people to see when they came and visited. If by some chance he had the stolen saddle or pocket watch in the house, they’d be tucked away somewhere private.
Perhaps he had a secluded showroom he kept only for himself and not for anyone else.
“And that’s about it,” Drake noted, after going over the entire room. The whole tour had taken nearly forty-five minutes, what with a precise history each step of the way. He also never hesitated to brag about how he’d come to obtain a few of the items.
However, there was one thing that was bothering Bert.
In one corner of the room was an empty glass case. It was large. Could it even be large enough to fit a saddle? Did he have plans of adding the stolen merchandise to the room at some point?
“If there aren’t any questions, I’ve had one of my men prepare us a lovely lunch of traditional BBQ chicken, sweet baked beans, cornbread, and a pot of coffee.” He seemed to be the sort of man to pull out all the stops to impress his guests, even ones he didn’t know well—a man of appearances, to say the least.
“Actually, I did have one question,” Bert said, raising her hand and feeling like she was on a class field trip.
A Harvest Of Murder: A Pies and Pages Cozy Mystery Book 14 Page 4