by Jane Tesh
“That would be very helpful, thanks.”
“May I ask how this is pertinent to the robbery, Mr. Randall?”
“I’m still working on that,” I said.
***
I went back to 302 Grace. Camden was awake and asked if I wanted some lunch.
“Be there in a minute. I’m waiting on an email.”
While I waited, I went to the Herald’s website and searched through the archives until I found the August 14 article about the museum’s successful fund raiser. The final tally for the fund raiser had been four hundred and fifty-five thousand dollars, a nice chunk of change. The bicentennial funds were designated for three areas: building and grounds, administration and staff, and acquisitions. Most of the money was going to purchase items for the museum, including art work, sculptures, and some letters written by Charles Park.
“Parkland’s Museum of History celebrated its bicentennial by raising over four hundred thousand dollars,” the article read. “The museum wishes to thank all its faithful supporters as well as new contributors who made this fund raiser successful. The museum plans to use some of the funds to buy a set of letters written by Parkland’s founder and first mayor, Charles Park, from a private collector. The letters will complete Parkland’s collection of historic memorabilia.”
My phone rang. It was the museum curator. “Mr. Randall, my apologies, but I can’t seem to locate that particular newsletter. It seems to have been deleted from our files.”
Deleted? That sounded interesting. “I have the Herald’s account,” I said. “Four hundred and fifty five thousand dollars.”
“That is correct.”
“Two hundred thousand for building and grounds, one hundred and twenty-five thousand for administration and staff, and the rest for acquisitions, including some letters written by Charles Park.”
“Oh, we were thrilled to get them. We’d been looking for the last set for years. In fact, Ralph Galvin handled that. He knew the collector and was able to get us the best possible deal.”
“How much did you pay for them?”
“One hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
“That seems a little pricey. Who was the collector?”
More clicking of computer keys. “Well, this is odd,” the curator said. “I was sure we had a record of all our purchases, but this one seems to be missing. I do remember his name, though. Thomas Hampton. Odd sort of fellow, though. Insisted on being paid in cash. I told Galvin we’d have to do that in three installments. Unfortunately, Hampton passed away not long after the sale. Galvin took the rest of the money to his family.”
I wrote this down. “Thanks. You wouldn’t happen to have a hard copy of your newsletter, would you?”
“I’m sorry, but we’ve gone paperless in an effort to help the environment. A few may have been printed for some of our older members, but I don’t have any here. It sounds as if you have all your information, though.”
Oh, I had all my information, all right. I thanked him and hung up. I searched for Thomas Hampton and found him in Fairlawn, Virginia. I also found out he was indeed dead, and he’d died on August 16, the victim of a hit and run accident. He was survived by a daughter, so I found her number and gave her a call. I explained I who I was and that I was curious about the value of the letters written by Charles Park.
“Oh, those old things,” she said. “I’m so glad he got rid of them. I wish he’d gotten rid of everything in his house. It’s taken me almost a whole year to go through it all.”
“He sold them to the Parkland Museum of History in North Carolina, right?”
“Yes, he said some fellow came by asking about them, so he sold them. Dad was happy they went to the museum.”
“Do you remember what he got for them?”
“Oh, my, yes, I remember, because he couldn’t believe those old things were worth so much money. He got fifty thousand dollars.”
“Fifty thousand?”
“I know. It’s crazy. But that’s what the fellow from the museum said they were worth. And he paid him in cash, so we were really happy about that.”
“Is that how your father wanted to be paid?”
“Not especially. It was a surprise. He was delighted, though. He said a check could bounce. Dad didn’t get much chance to enjoy the money, though.”
She didn’t say, “Later on, that nice fellow returned with the rest of the money we were actually entitled to.”
“Did he sign any sort of receipt?” I asked.
“I’m sure he did.”
“Would you happen to have a copy of it?”
“No, as I said, I’ve finally cleaned out his house.”
“I was very sorry to hear about your father’s death. My sympathies.”
“Thanks,” she said. “They never did catch the person that hit him.”
I was beginning to think I knew who that was. I thanked the woman and sat back in my chair. I turned these new facts over in my mind. Ralph was in charge of fund raising and handled an important and expensive transaction, paying the collector in cash. Then the collector had a convenient accident before he found out what those letters were really worth. The museum was broken into, but nothing was stolen. What if Ralph sent Bert in to delete any record of the purchase of the Park letters? There should have been two more receipts for the rest of the money. What if Ralph forged Hampton’s signature on these? No, wait. Hampton was killed on the sixteenth, two days after the fund raiser. Another family member would’ve signed, an even easier signature to create.
I went into the kitchen to get a Coke out of the fridge. Camden was slicing ham, and I got him caught up.
“Learned something interesting from Brooke. She caught a glimpse of a letter on Galvin’s desk, a letter from his son begging to come home and promising not to tell about the museum funds. Brooke says Galvin saw her leave his office, and if this letter implicates him in some sort of crime, he may have wanted to silence her.”
He put the slices on a plate. “So now we need to find Bert.”
“And if Bert’s in an institution, he may not remember anything.”
“What kind of museum funds?”
I told him what I’d found out from the curator and my theory about Ralph’s involvement.
“But how could he get away with that?” He reached for the plastic wrap and covered the dish. “Didn’t someone at the museum check?”
“Apparently not.”
“How are you going to find out? If he faked a signature on the receipts, those have been probably been destroyed.”
“Maybe there’s something in the August newsletter. The curator said they printed a few. I guess I’ll have to track them down.”
“From a year ago? You’ll have to find a hoarder.”
I snapped my fingers. “The library.”
“I wouldn’t ask Kary if I were you.”
“I wouldn’t dream of bothering Wonder Star with something so trivial. I’ll ask Mandy.” I called the library and asked if Mandy could find the History museum newsletter for August. She said she’d be glad to look.
Camden put the ham on the counter and took out the cheese. I sat down on one of the stools at the counter. “What’s Mom up to?”
“She’s talking to the neighbors.”
“Which ones?”
“All of them. She’s getting the Grace Street scoop.”
“Seeing who’s next for a makeover.”
Camden put the cheese on the cutting board. “I’ve been thinking about Ellie.”
“You’re going to drop her like a rock and run for cover?”
He pointed the knife at me. “No. I’m going to figure out a way to make this work.”
“You’ve decided to become the star of the PSN.”
“Maybe if
I agree to come by the studio every now and then, that will appease her.”
“‘Appease.’ Nice. So you stop off, give a little free psychic advice, and then you disappear into the night, like, I don’t know, a Mad Shadow?”
“It’s a work in progress.”
“Toss me a piece of cheese.” He cut off a chunk and lobbed it over to me. “You know Ellin will take every opportunity to exploit your talent.”
“Maybe not. Maybe we can come to some sort of agreement.”
“Like a peace plan. That’s working so well for the Middle East.”
He finished slicing the cheese and reached for the bread. “You realize you’re going to have to make sacrifices for Kary.”
“I already have. No more smoking, drinking, drugs, single swinging, lap dances, fast cars—the list is endless.”
“Something a bit closer to home.”
Adoption: Is It Right For You? was still on the counter. I gave the book a wary glance. “Not any time soon, I hope.”
“No,” Camden said, “but eventually.”
I shrugged, trying to be casual when everything inside me was backing up at the idea of another child. “Maybe I’ll be ready then,” I said. But I didn’t think I’d ever be ready.
Chapter Twenty-one
“Thou Art Gone Up On High”
By the time I gave Camden a ride to chorale rehearsal, I still hadn’t heard from Mandy. He yawned all the way to the church.
“Are you perhaps becoming bored with Handel?”
He rubbed his eyes. “My nap didn’t help.”
“More nightmares?”
“I don’t remember, thank goodness.”
When I dropped Camden off at the church, Jordan met me in the parking lot in his patrol car and gestured for me to roll down my window.
“Thanks for catching the Avenger, Randall. Now I can sleep at night.”
“Go easy on the sarcasm. There’s a limited supply.”
“Oh, there’s plenty of sarcasm. Plenty of irony, too. While the fellas and I are having a celebration at the Crow Bar, our resident superhero rescues a little old lady.”
“Well, what are you doing chugging beer when you should be out patrolling the streets?”
“Occasionally, we’re off-duty. Anyway, I wanted to tell you, great job, keep up the good work, and when were you going to tell me about exploring the tunnel?”
He was only mildly annoyed, so I felt safe enough to explain. “Camden and I checked it out.”
“You’re not the only one who talks to Mandy, you know, or Carlene.” He paused to light a cigarette. “I left Peterson on guard. Got a few more officers on the street, just in case the Avenger returns.” His eyes are naturally narrow, but he managed to slit them further down. “Is he planning to return?”
“I don’t know, honest.”
“Yeah, but I think there’s a lot more you do know that you’re not telling.”
“Look, so what if this nut goes around doing good deeds? Isn’t that one less criminal for you to deal with?”
“We don’t look at it that way.”
Tor had said something about Bert being in a sanitarium, and so had Alycia. “Any idea where Bert Galvin is?”
“Last I heard he was in some fancy hospital up north, drying out. Why? You think he had something to do with Hunter’s death?”
“I’m just curious.”
“The museum determined nothing had been stolen, so Hunter served his time, and we never could pin anything on Bert Galvin. End of story. Except Ralph Galvin still likes to ride our asses, and now he’s got Brooke Verner in the driver’s seat.”
“Not anymore.”
“Apparently the girl’s made an enemy. Oh, and by the way, Randall. What’s with the Halloween party? This is Christmas.”
“Halloween party?”
“Yeah, that group of nitwits walking around at night all dressed up in tin foil and spangles. They say they’re some sort of special neighborhood watch. My men and I have stopped them three times now.”
“For being drunk and disorderly?”
“For being out and goofy.”
“That’s the SHS.”
“Stupid Human Shitheads?”
“Superhero Society. I’m surprised you haven’t availed yourself of their services before.”
“Do they know anything about the Avenger?”
“No, and they’re just as pissed as you are.”
“I doubt that. I think I said amateurs always get in the way.” This statement was accompanied by a significant look.
“I’m a highly skilled professional.”
“See what I mean about sarcasm? Plenty to go around.” His radio crackled with a voice instructing all available units to the convenience store on Emerald and Fourth. “I’d better check this out. The Avenger must require a Slurpee to keep up his super strength.” He started the car. “Tell your band of merry men to stay out of police business. I especially don’t want any of them down near Royalle’s tonight.”
“What’s happening tonight?”
“We’re going to stake out the area and with luck catch the burglar. I’d better not see you down there, either.” He drove off with an unnecessary squeal of tires.
I went inside the church and chose a pew near the back. I didn’t feel like talking to anyone. The chorale sang about the people that walked in darkness seeing a great light. I could use a great light right about now to show me what was going on.
I didn’t get a great light, but I got the next best thing. Mandy called.
“I found copies of the museum newsletter, and there’s one for August. But the library closes at eight.”
I looked at my watch. Seven fifteen. “I’ll be right there.”
***
Mandy was in the very back of the reference room at a row of ancient filing cabinets. She handed me the August issue of the museum newsletter. “I was lucky to find this. We’re in the process of changing all this material to other formats. I’m not sure why we kept the museum newsletters when we have them on line. I guess it still worries me not to have something I can hold in my hand.”
“I’m glad you feel that way,” I said, “because this may help solve my case.”
I looked through the newsletter and found the list of future acquisitions and what each one was going to cost the museum. Charles Park’s letters were listed at one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. This wasn’t something Ralph wanted the Hampton family to know. The museum would assume he paid Hampton the full amount, hell, the curator considered it a bargain. But Ralph needed to make sure no one would question him.
The night of the break-in, this was what Bert was supposed to do. Delete any record of the transaction. Delete the August newspaper, the receipts, and possibly destroy any paper copies of the newsletter that might be lying around. Maybe stealing the map was just a way to involve Jared and Alycia, so if they got caught, the police and the museum would be diverted from the real crime.
“Mandy, can I keep this?”
“Yes. Let me know if it cracks the case.”
I could tell she enjoyed saying “cracks the case.”
***
By the time I got back to the church, the chorale was singing something else, something about unto us a child is born. I thought of 302 Grace with its lights and candy canes and stars sparkling from the windows, and then I couldn’t keep from thinking about Lindsey and the happy Christmases I had with her and Barbara. Barbara had an elaborate wooden candleholder from Germany called a pyramid that turned by itself, so the lighting of the candle always thrilled Lindsey. Barbara always made a special Christmas breakfast of pancakes shaped like Christmas trees. Lindsey loved those. And I couldn’t help remember Lindsey shaking me awake at five in the morning, almost incoherent
with excitement, or the way she flew down the stairs and stopped, overwhelmed, by the sight of the Barbie dolls and all their little clothes, or the pink bicycle, or the little stove that cooked real pies. She would stand, hands clasped, as if afraid if she moved, the spectacle would disappear. Barbara always scolded me for buying too much, but I couldn’t help it. I wanted Lindsey to have everything. I had to believe that in her brief little life, she’d been happy.
I sure as hell didn’t want to think about that any more.
Now the chorale swung into a cheery refrain about the shadow of death. Camden glanced my way. I made a face to express my opinion.
***
After stopping off in the park to hear a few rounds of the “Alternative Messiah,” we went home. Camden went upstairs to bed. I went to my office to ponder. I spread my copy of the map on my desk, and I gave it another look. I’d been concentrating on the underground passageways. What if there was something a little higher? When the thief robbed the antique store, he came in through a trap door in the ceiling. Using my finger, I traced the route from the trap door to another passage in the roof. Here was the way in. Next to Trilby’s Antiques was a building marked “Haymore Building, 1925.” This was one of the abandoned buildings further down the block. Jordan and his men would search all the empty buildings.
Uh-ho. According to this map, there was a secret attic room in the Haymore Building, accessible by a wall panel and pull-down stairs. Jordan said Mandy had shown him the map. Did he have his own copy? Would he see this, or would the robber have an easy shot at the policemen from this sniper’s perch?
Someone had murdered Jared and shot Brooke, and I knew that person hadn’t been Tor. I rolled up the map and hurried out to the Fury. I didn’t know where Jordan was hiding, but I remembered he assigned an officer to guard the entrance to the tunnel. Officer Peterson, one of the younger members of the force, was standing behind the trash cans in the alley. He turned quickly. I held up both hands as I approached him.
“Take it easy, Peterson. It’s David Randall, a friend of Jordan’s. I need to know where he is.”
Peterson relaxed. “You’re not supposed to be here, sir. It could be dangerous.”