by Liz Mugavero
The boxer had been murdered. Adrian Fox’s research had confirmed that. He’d also confirmed that no one had ever been arrested for the crime. Whether or not that meant a local person had been involved was anyone’s guess—if they hadn’t solved it in fifty or sixty years, what were the chances of solving it now? One of Stan’s other favorite pastimes, in addition to Ghosts in Your Neighborhood, was watching Cold Case reruns. The team of detectives very rarely tackled cases that old, because the likelihood of solving them was low. And if the murder was that old, wouldn’t that make any suspects really old? Would they even still be alive?
It occurred to her that Helga had been that old. And she wasn’t alive. As of two days ago. She thought of Betty’s words: “A lot of secrets live here.... Helga knew most of those secrets.” A sinking feeling started in the pit of her stomach. It sounded crazy, even tumbling around in her own brain, but what if Betty’s assessment of Helga’s death was true? What if it wasn’t an accident—and what if it had something to do with this cold case?
Oh, Stan, you’re such a conspiracy theorist, her annoying inner critic chided her. This is not the X-Files. Why in the world would someone kill an old lady, even if she did know something about an old murder?
Because she knew who the killer was, maybe.
Stan cranked the heat on high and pulled away from the curb. She looped around the eastern tip of the green, cutting through the library parking lot and heading down the other side toward her house, past the historical society and the Frog Ledge Historical Museum.
The historical society. Stan slowed and impulsively swerved into the parking lot. She could stop in there and get some info on Felix Constantine’s unfortunate demise. Maybe it would give her a clue about Helga’s death. If nothing else, it would make the ghost hunt more exciting. Plus, she’d lived here seven months now and never yet visited. That was just wrong.
Before getting out of the car, Stan glanced at the clock on her dashboard. She had a little time before Brenna came over to bake. She’d just have to be quick. There were two cars in the parking lot behind the society. Probably the staff or volunteers on duty. There was also a car in the parking lot behind the museum, adjacent to the historical society. Odd. The museum was supposed to be closed in honor of Helga. Maybe someone had come to gather her things.
Stan hurried inside. The wind blew the door shut behind her. She took a moment to look around. It looked as though the historical society building had been upgraded, too, probably when the museum was done. The floors were all hardwood, with historical-themed throw rugs in front of the exhibit cases. An oversized easel stood right inside the front door with flyers announcing upcoming events: an antique show, a Civil War photography exhibit, a demo on raising show chickens. Show chickens—now that was something to put on the “not to miss” list. And something she could honestly say she’d never seen advertised before.
As she pulled her hat off, she noticed the woman sitting behind the large front desk. As she got closer, she recognized the tight, silver curls framing a face lined with wrinkles. It was the woman who’d been with Carla Miller outside the church the morning of the Groundhog Day celebration. The not-so-friendly one. Maeve. A large pin attached to her shirt read, VOLUNTEER. Stan sighed inwardly and braced herself.
Maeve didn’t recognize her, or if she did, she didn’t acknowledge it. “Welcome to the Frog Ledge Historical Society,” she said in a raspy voice that suggested years of cigarette use. “How can I help you?
“Hi. I’m Stan Connor. I live right down the green from here.” She pointed in the general direction of her house.
Maeve didn’t introduce herself. Or crack a smile.
Hello, Ms. Personality. “This looks like a great place,” Stan said. “It’s my first time in here, I’m embarrassed to say.”
That perked her host up slightly. “Then you have some catching up to do. These are a sampling of our latest exhibits.” Maeve motioned at the cases lining the room. “We have a lot of the town’s genealogy records, family histories, that sort of thing. The museum has a larger sampling, but unfortunately it’s closed this week.” She dropped her head, but not before Stan saw a shadow cross her face.
Stan nodded. “I heard. Such a tragic thing.”
“Did you know Helga?” Now the woman stood, letting her clasped hands fall in front of her. Her voice warmed just a notch.
“I did,” Stan said. “Not well, but I know she was a lovely person.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone knew Helga.” She heaved out a big sigh. “I’m Maeve. Maeve Johnson.”
“Nice to meet you, Maeve. I hear there’s going to be a celebration of Helga’s life, since she was such a large part of the town. Are you involved?”
Maeve nodded. “Of course. The War Office volunteers are doing most of the organizing. We’re doing some reenactments, showing some videos of her favorite events. People will read about some of the town’s most notable events from some of our history books. Including her own book. Did you know Helga wrote a book?” At Stan’s nod, she went on. “We’ll have refreshments and games for the children. We want her memory to be happy.” She pulled a tissue out of a box on her desk and dabbed her eyes.
“It sounds lovely,” Stan said. “Do you have Helga’s book here?”
Maeve nodded and blinked the rest of the tears away. “Yes, although I’ll have to think of where.” She looked puzzled.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take a look for it.”
“Are you looking for something in particular?” Maeve asked.
“I am. I’m wondering if you could point me in the direction of records from 1949?”
“1949. Hmm.” Maeve blew her nose. “What kind of records? Are you looking for a particular person, or an event? Or just general town information?”
“An event. The unsolved murder at the old library building.”
Maeve’s smile froze in place. “Murder? Why would you want to know about that? Who likes to read about murder?”
Taken aback by her response, Stan frowned. “I’m curious. I’m new to town and I’ve heard people talking about it.”
Maeve frowned. “Carla!”
Carla Miller’s head popped out from a door in the back. “Yes? Oh, hello. Stan, right?” She approached the desk. She wore the same large volunteer pin as Maeve.
Stan nodded. “Hi, Carla. I’m so sorry about your mother-in-law.”
Carla smiled sadly. “Thank you. She was . . . a unique woman. So, what can we help you with?”
“She wants to read about that murder,” Maeve said. Her tone dipped on the word murder, indicating how distasteful she found the whole conversation.
“Murder?” Carla repeated, just like Maeve. “Which murder?”
“The boxer. 1949,” Stan said, feeling like a broken record. “Allegedly in the old library building?”
“Hmmm.” Carla tapped a finger against her chin. “Our town has so many lovely things going for it, and you want to read about murder?” Her tone was light and teasing, but Stan caught the smallest hint of a hard edge.
What was up with these people? Murder happened all the time, unfortunately. It had even happened in Frog Ledge. Recently, not just sixty years ago—Hal Hoffman and Carole Morganwick both within the last year. And murder was in the paper or on the news on every channel, pretty much daily. Stan tried her brightest smile. “I’ve always been fascinated by crime,” she confessed. “It’s just a hobby of mine.”
Both Carla and Maeve looked like they thought anyone with that kind of hobby wasn’t fit for society, but Carla shrugged. “You can try the archives room. If we have anything, it would be in there. The filing cabinets have all the clippings that didn’t have another place to be.” She pointed to the left of the front door. A posse of bracelets winding its way up her arm jangled with the movement. Stan recognized the brand. Pricey.
But her info was not so helpful. Stan tried to conceal her disappointment. Abbie might have been a better source of information, after all
. “Thanks,” she said brightly, and followed Carla’s direction.
Chapter 15
Stan opened the door marked Archives and slipped inside, breathing in the scent of musty paperwork and old, old books.
The room wasn’t large to begin with, but it was crammed so full of stuff that it appeared even smaller. Wooden display cases encircled half the room, boasting books, pictures, and laminated documents propped on tabletop easels. A large, wooden table took up the center of the room, a place where people could remove books or papers and read or take notes. Glass cases were filled with photos and other artifacts. Shelves of binders lined one wall. The rest were adorned with historical weapons, soldier hats, quill pens, and other memorabilia.
She had no idea where to start. There was a filing cabinet and two bookshelves against the wall closest to her filled with books, their jackets crumpled and yellowing with age. She perused the titles: Revolutionary War: A History of Connecticut. Bartleby’s General Store. Around the Frog Ledge Green. And a lot more of the like, plus a whole book devoted to the role of frogs in the revolution. Interesting stuff, certainly, but not what she was looking for. Unfortunately, nothing titled Unsolved Murders in Frog Ledge. That would’ve made her life much easier. She didn’t even see Helga’s book.
She checked the time on her phone again. Shoot, she’d forgotten to call Char back. She’d have to do that when she got home, too. Brenna was due around two o’clock. It was one-forty. She had time for a quick riffling through the file cabinet, maybe, and then she had to get going.
The top drawer in the file cabinet had files ranging from documentation on Revolutionary War soldiers to old land plans to the history of farms in Frog Ledge. The next drawer was all about agriculture. The third one down had old town council records. Then, in the bottom drawer, something interesting. The folder was titled, “Notorious Frog Ledge News,” and contained a collection of old Holler articles about a scandal involving a local businessman and an alleged member of the Mafia, all carefully clipped together from earliest to latest; a collection of photos of women in a newfangled getup called a bikini, apparently considered risqué; and finally, the headline, “Still No Leads in Dead Boxer Case.” Bingo. She unclipped the stack and flipped through it. Another headline read, “Boxer Found Dead, Foul Play Suspected.” And there were a number of clippings in between, so hopefully she would find a coherent story.
She scanned the top clipping. Her eyes caught a familiar name in the byline. Arthur Pierce. Cyril’s father. The guy with the nasty-smelling cigar who had showed up Sunday. Arthur Pierce had reported on this murder? She wondered if Cyril knew the facts passed down by his dad. Maybe he even had old research in his office. She should ask him. Maybe she could stop by the Holler under the guise of wanting to see the office. She skimmed the article, which detailed Constantine’s scheduled fight, the party, the last time anyone saw him. It closed by asking for anyone with information on his whereabouts to call the local police. This was before his body was even found.
As much as she wanted to keep reading, she had to get home. Maybe the historical society volunteers would let her borrow the clippings pertaining to the case. She went outside to ask. But Maeve wasn’t at the desk, and Carla was nowhere in sight. Stan glanced around. Perhaps they were in the break room. She flipped through the clips again while she waited, scanning the stories for the highlights. She wanted to sit and read them in order when she had time, so instead she wandered over to peruse the genealogy section, which was really a library of family names and any history associated with the family. She recognized a few names in there: Mackey, Ray’s family; Hoffman, the dairy farm family; Morganwick, the former town veterinarian. She’d just located Oliver when the front door opened. She turned and saw Harry, the mailman.
“Hey, Stan. Anyone around?”
“Hi, Harry. Maeve and Carla were both here. I’m not sure where they went.”
“Huh. Can you do me a huge favor and sign for this certified mail? I’m behind on my route and if I don’t get home for my daughter’s basketball game tonight, my wife is gonna kill me.” He smiled apologetically and handed her an envelope.
“I guess, but—”
“It’s no problem. Maeve won’t care.” His face clouded. “It’s addressed to Helga anyway.”
Stan took the envelope and signed where Harry indicated. With a thanks and a wave, he was gone. She glanced at the return address: Family Tree DNA. Something to do with Helga’s genealogy practice, clearly.
Then her eyes widened. DNA. Hadn’t Amara just told her Helga had done a DNA test for her? Maybe these were the results. She hesitated. She really shouldn’t take the package, but if no one else had been working on this with Helga, it would just sit there for who-knew-how-long. Maybe even get tossed in the trash. If she took it, Amara could have an answer about her long-lost family. It would be a shame if the information got lost or filed away and Amara never got answers.
Sticking the envelope in her bag, Stan wandered to the window in the back of the room and peered out. Both cars were there. Stan frowned. Where on earth had they gone?
“Maeve? Carla?” she called. Waited. No answer. Well, she couldn’t wait all day. She leaned over and grabbed a piece of scrap paper from the desk and scrawled a note that she’d borrowed a couple of newspaper articles, then headed to the door.
She pushed it open and stepped outside before her conscience got the better of her. What if Maeve had fallen or become ill and Carla was in a storage room or something, unable to hear? They didn’t need another tragedy around here. She should look for them. With another peek at her watch, she saw she had five minutes to get home. At least Brenna had a key.
She went to the door in the back marked “Staff Only.” Stan knocked. “Maeve? Carla? Hello?”
No answer. She opened the door. It was a break room. An empty one. Another door led to a bathroom, but it was open and also empty. Great. Now what? She went back into the main room and looked around. The only other area was the archive room, and she’d been the only one in there. She doubted they had vanished into thin air. Unless the historical society had its own demonic ghost.
Stan glanced around one last time. Her eyes fell on a white paper tacked to the wall in the back corner. The paper had two words typed in bold—TO MUSEUM—and an arrow pointing to a door.
There was a way to get to the museum from here? Stan tucked her papers into her oversized bag and tried the knob. The door opened into a hallway lined with windows on one side, facing the front of the building. The carpeting looked new. A connector. She’d had no idea. She stepped through, closing the door quietly behind her after testing it to make sure it didn’t lock. It was about fifteen steps to the next door. That, too, was unlocked. She pushed it open, listened. Nothing. “Hello?” she called. “Maeve? Carla?”
She recognized where she was—in the back of the museum, behind Helga’s desk. Not far from the staircase where the historian had fallen. Even though it had only been two days since Helga’s death, the place already smelled musty and unused, as if her very presence had been the only thing keeping the town’s history from fading away.
She proceeded toward the main room of the museum. She knew someone had to be there because of the cars in the back lot. She jumped when a figure appeared in the shadowy hallway in front of her. A man, talking to someone. She heard the tail end of the conversation: “. . . just give me a list of what pieces should be moved out,” before he noticed her.
As he stepped into the light, she realized it was Dale Hatmaker.
“Hello there.” Hatmaker waved, as if she were coming to join a party he’d been planning for weeks. “What can I do for you? We’re technically closed this week. An unfortunate incident.” He stepped forward, then recognized her. “Oh, hello. I believe we met on the green,” he said, offering his hand. “Dale Hatmaker.”
“We did.” She didn’t take his hand, but glanced around him and saw Carla. She was bent over the old library card catalogue, the kind with the narrow w
ooden drawers, that Stan had noticed the day she’d followed Jake inside. “I’m looking for Maeve. She’s not at her desk and she doesn’t seem to be anywhere over there. Have either of you seen her?”
Carla stood up, shoving the drawer shut behind her. “I think she did come over. Dale?”
“Why, yes, she did.” He pointed. “Maeve is right up front. She came over to pick up a piece for an exhibit that we’re done with. The connecting hall is so convenient that way. Quite useful for the colder months.”
“That was so sweet of you to look,” Carla said, hurrying over to her. “Especially given her age and the things that can happen, as we were reminded of this week. I’m sorry we left you alone over there. Were there any other customers? I’d better get back.” Flashing a grateful smile at Stan, she hurried back into the connector hallway.
Hatmaker was still smiling that saccharine smile. “Did you need Maeve for something?”
“Yes, I’ll go find her.” She wanted to make sure Hatmaker was telling the truth and Maeve really was here. And okay. Even though Carla had been here, too, Betty’s paranoia and her own active imagination were getting the better of her. But if Hatmaker had done something to Helga, he could certainly hurt someone else. She edged past him and almost ran right into Maeve, heading back her way carrying a flag in a glass case.
Maeve looked surprised to see Stan. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“I did find a couple of things.” Stan remembered the note she’d left. “I borrowed a couple of articles to make copies. I’ll return them tomorrow if that’s okay? I left you a note but wanted to make sure you were okay. I couldn’t find you anywhere.”
“Oh. Sorry. Yes, you’re welcome to them.” Maeve’s gaze fluttered to Hatmaker, then away. “I should get back to the desk in case we get any more visitors.” She walked past both of them to the connector hallway, closing the door firmly behind her.