Allan shrugged. “If the police determine it’s the scene of a crime because of the shooting, the demolition will be postponed, I would think. They may even want to search the tunnel.”
“Dr. Partner, I believe you’ve been listening to local gossip.” Gorse’s tone was censorious.
“So who took a shot at us just now?” Allan ventured. “Who knew about our little exploratory tour this afternoon, Gorse? Did you tell anyone other than your supervisor that we would be coming out here today?” He wondered if there could be a connection between the shooting and the discovery of the baby bottle, no matter how unlikely that might be.
Gorse frowned again, momentarily distracted by the arrival of a squad car and an ambulance turning into the large circular driveway that curved around to the back of the sprawling building. Ignoring Allan’s question, Gorse gave Wren a sidelong glance, saying, “I’m not sure you should have brought that out with you, Mrs. Bergschneider.” He tipped his chin, indicating the glass bottle.
Wren glanced at Allan, the uncertainty all too apparent on her face.
Before he could say anything, he noticed two police officers—one of them a woman with blazing red hair—and a couple of paramedics coming toward them across the leaf-strewn lawn.
Gorse stepped forward to greet them and to explain what had happened.
One of the officers came toward Allan. “You’re Professor Allan Partner,” he said with a shy smile. “I’ve read your biography of Lincoln. Couldn’t put it down.”
Allan merely smiled his thanks. He didn’t feel like small talk. He was tired and preoccupied, and he suspected there would be a great deal of paperwork to complete before the day was over.
Wren walked over and picked up the pink princess flashlight he’d dropped when the bullet had whistled past his ear. She still appeared pale and her shoulders slumped with something heavier than fatigue. No doubt, the shooting incident had resurrected unpleasant memories of her husband’s sudden and tragic death. But even now, she was attractive in a vulnerable, wistful way—like the romantic heroines depicted in a John William Waterhouse painting.
Cursing himself for being a fool, Allan wished he hadn’t asked Wren to come today. What had he been thinking? She was a minister’s grieving widow, the mother of an elementary-aged daughter. If anything had happened to her, if she’d been shot, he’d never have forgiven himself. Wren was special, gentle, old-fashioned. As his father would have said, “A woman who knew her place.”
And she’d been right all along about the photographs. There were plenty of both the interior and exterior of the asylum available from historical archives. It certainly wasn’t necessary to come here, dragging her along, to get the book written. But of course, he’d come for other reasons.
During the tour, he’d watched Wren surreptitiously. The emotions which flickered across her face were easily read. Finding the bottle had aroused her imagination in a regrettable way. She was concerned about the possibility of a child or children being confined with their mothers in the asylum. That possibility, followed by the shooting incident, would probably rank as one of the most disturbing experiences of her life.
Allan felt a surge of self-loathing for having thrust Wren into the middle of it all.
“You working on another book?” the officer asked, tugging a small notepad from his back pocket.
Allan nodded, pulling his gaze away from Wren Bergschneider’s wilting figure. “Yes, I am. That’s why I’m here this afternoon. I’m writing a biography of Dorothea Dix. She’s responsible for the building of this place.” He made a gesture toward the sprawling, desolate building behind them.
“I understand the shots were fired when you came out of the dungeons,” the officer said. A nametag read Worland. His stance appeared relaxed, but his blue eyes were bright and alert.
“One shot,” Allan corrected him. “And we were exploring the food transportation tunnel.”
Gorse, speaking now with a paramedic, would appreciate his effort.
The officer nodded. “We’ve got detectives on the way. They’ll want to speak with you and your secretary.”
“Wren Bergschneider is my research assistant,” Allan corrected him, again shifting his gaze in her direction. She was being questioned by the female cop. “By the way, I’d suggest you do some official exploring of your own down there.”
Worland frowned. “What makes you think so?”
“An educated guess, that’s all,” Allan told him.
~*~
“Ma’am, why don’t you sit down before you fall down?” The female police officer gently pushed Wren to the grass and took possession of the filthy baby bottle.
Wren leaned her head back to rest against the trunk of a towering oak tree and closed her eyes. The entire afternoon’s events had been unbelievable. She wished she hadn’t come. But if she was completely honest with herself, she had to admit she’d been rather pleased by Allan’s insistence. He had even promised to pay for her time, and she did need the money.
Besides, she’d read somewhere that Mary Todd Lincoln had once been a patient here following the assassination of her husband. Wren had been intrigued by the prospect of seeing the inside of the condemned institution.
Heaving a ragged sigh, Wren feared this ordeal wasn’t over—not by a long shot. It would be bad. Call it maternal instinct or female intuition, whatever. She just had a feeling that her anonymous letter and this afternoon’s shooting were related somehow.
Allan would expect her to take careful notes and clip any articles that appeared in the local and state papers about the incident, as well as anything that appeared online once the police investigation got underway. He’d probably use the day’s events somehow in his book. He’d told her the outing would be an adventure—a date with history. How right he’d been!
But Wren didn’t like misadventures of this sort. She’d always loathed those bold heroines in romance novels too—the women who proved to be intrepid and insatiably curious about all sorts of things that led to certain danger. Vulnerable in bare feet and flimsy nightgowns, armed only with a candle or flashlight, they’d foolishly march into dark basements and creepy attics.
Wren had no desire to stick her nose in where it didn’t belong. She wasn’t stubborn, brave or eager to right all the wrongs in the world. She wanted to play it safe. She didn’t want to have thrilling or dangerous adventures of any sort. She was a peace-loving homebody. She’d rather spend time curled up with Pippi on the sofa, reading a book or playing a game, followed by snickerdoodle cookies and mugs of comforting hot chocolate.
She glanced over at her boss. Allan was talking with the other police officer and frowning.
Earlier, when they’d been touring the women’s ward, he’d had a strange expression on his face that she’d found slightly unsettling. He’d looked a little lost, which was totally out of character for Dr. Allan Partner, the glib, intelligent, popular history professor. Her discovery of the castoff baby bottle in the food tunnel had brought that odd expression back to his face again.
A quick look at her watch revealed it was nearly three o’clock. Wren frowned. She needed to call her sister-in-law. She had a feeling she wouldn’t be able to leave in time to pick up Pippi from school. The police would want to question her along with Allan and Mr. Gorse. Who knew how long that would take?
Reaching into her shoulder bag for her cell phone, she tapped out Deb’s number and watched the policewoman drop the glass bottle into some sort of baggy. Was it evidence? Perhaps she shouldn’t have picked up the object in the first place. She hoped she wouldn’t have to go back into the dark gloomy tunnels to show them where she had found it. Maybe Gorse or Allan would be willing to do so.
Should she tell the police about the anonymous letter? No, she wanted to speak to Allan about it first.
At the sound of her sister-in-law’s cheerful, “Hey, whatcha doing, girlfriend?” Wren choked back a sob. Her sister-in-law was a gem. Married to Peter’s younger brother Charlie, Deb
was warm and gracious and always had a baby on her hip—either one of her own or someone else’s.
Taking a deep breath, Wren swallowed hard. “Deb, could you do me a favor?”
“Sure thing, hon. What’s the matter? I can tell by your voice something is wrong. Are you all right? It’s not Pippi, is it?” She fired off the list of questions in a strained, concerned voice.
“Oh, Deb, you’ll never believe what happened this afternoon.” In a breathless rush, she told her sister-in-law briefly about the tour of the old asylum and the subsequent shooting. She didn’t mention the unsigned note she’d received earlier. She wouldn’t unless it became absolutely necessary—because of what it said about Peter.
Deb gasped and then asked a barrage of questions. Finally, she stopped.
“Could you please pick up Pippi from school when you go to get Megan and Erin? I’m pretty sure the police will want to question us more thoroughly. I don’t know when I’ll be able to leave here.”
Two other men, presumably the detectives, arrived. Neither wore a uniform, but both appeared armed and one of them sported an official-looking badge on his belt buckle.
“Not a problem,” Deb hastened to assure her. “You just take it easy. Don’t worry about a thing. Stay as long as you need to and make sure that good-looking boss of yours counts this as time on the job,” she added with a chuckle. “And don’t go back down in those old tunnels, either. There might be dead bodies down there and germs and nasty fumes and stuff. Who knows? The ceilings could cave in or something.”
“We didn’t find any bodies,” Wren corrected her.
The detectives approached Allan and Gorse and said something to them, which she couldn’t hear.
“You stay out of there, all the same,” Deb insisted. “And plan to eat a bite of supper when you get here to pick up Pippi.”
“Don’t go to any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble,” Deb replied. “I’ve got lasagna ready to go in the oven, and I think I’ll throw together one of those hot fudge pudding cakes too. I know Pippi loves it, and you’ll need comfort food after your ordeal. If you don’t eat, you’ll waste away to nothing.”
“And Deb, don’t mention the shooting in front of the girls, OK? I don’t want Pippi to know. She’ll worry.”
“Is she still having nightmares?” Deb asked.
Wren noted the touch of anxiety in Deb’s tone. “Not as often,” she quickly replied. But “once in a while” was still too often.
“I won’t say a word, except to Charlie when he gets in from the shop, and I’ll mention it privately so the girls won’t overhear. He won’t believe it! A shooting—in broad daylight.”
“Sure, you can tell Charlie,” Wren agreed. There wasn’t much she could say to convince Deb not to.
Charlie had been a rock since Peter’s death. Besides working full time in the machine shop and trying to keep up with his three active youngsters, her brother-in-law still found time to make sure Wren had oil in her car and windshield wiper fluid. He took care of little odd jobs around the house, too. Just last week he’d brought his girls to help rake the leaves in her yard. It had warmed Wren’s heart to hear Pippi squealing with her cousins as they scooped up the leaves and then flung themselves into the piles.
Wren sighed. Good old Charlie. She was grateful for his help and consideration, and Pippi adored her uncle. The little girl had slept like a log that night—no nightmares. Wren had been so thankful.
She, on the other hand, had no trouble sleeping. In the beginning, that’s all she wanted to do—sleep. If it hadn’t been for Pippi, she wouldn’t have cared if she ever woke up again. It was all part of the general malaise following the shock and grief over Peter’s unexpected death. But her pastor and her friends pointed out how she needed to be strong for her daughter’s sake. Her mother had told her it was time to “buck up.” At first, Wren had been too sad and too tired to care. But the job with Allan Partner had turned things around for the better.
“You know, Wrennie, there’s no need to put yourself in danger just to keep that job,” Deb said then, as if reading her thoughts.
“I need this job,” Wren reminded her sister-in-law. She swallowed back a bitter retort about Peter not having provided adequate life insurance. As a pastor, he’d always been busy looking out for others. The church hadn’t had a policy on him either, and after sixty days, Wren had been asked to move out of the parsonage so the new pastor and his family could move in. It had been hard—especially on Pippi. The sunny, three-bedroom parsonage had been the only home her daughter had ever known. Leaving it was like closing the door on a chapter of her young life.
Although money was tight, the income she earned doing research for Allan was adequate, if she lived frugally. Besides, he quite understood about her need for flexible hours. She could even work from home when Pippi had a day off from school or if she came down with the flu. Wren appreciated his understanding. Sure, she could make more money at the local cereal factory, but she’d have to work the night shift and wouldn’t have the time she wanted to spend with Pippi. Her daughter needed her now more than ever.
“Gotta go,” Wren said, noting that Allan was coming toward her. “I’ll see you soon. Take care of Pip for me.”
“Of course,” Deb replied, sounding slightly miffed.
Wren tucked her cellphone back into the outer pocket of her purse. She heaved a sigh as she scrambled to her feet.
“How are you holding up?” Allan asked. His gaze held a guarded expression. He appeared slightly uncomfortable. Was he regretting having asked her to come along on the tour of the asylum?
“I’m fine,” Wren replied, straightening her shoulders and giving him a half smile. It wouldn’t do for the boss to think she was a wimp. “It looks like you’re going to get some good publicity for your upcoming book, even before it’s written,” she threw in.
He gave a sheepish grin. “My editor and my agent will be thrilled.”
They stood looking at each other briefly without saying a word.
Allan cleared his throat. “The detectives want to ask you a few questions before they’ll allow us to leave. Wren, I’m sorry this happened. Sorrier than I can say.”
“It’s hardly your fault.”
Before Wren could say anything else, one of the detectives approached them and introduced himself. Detective Frank Reed, tall and built like a football player, had dark blond hair and piercing gray eyes—eyes that didn’t miss much, Wren guessed.
“The professor here says he didn’t see the shooter and neither did you.” He looked at her almost hopefully, as though willing her to remember some detail she may have overlooked.
“I didn’t even hear the shot, to be honest,” Wren admitted. “I heard shattering window glass and heard Mr. Gorse shout out. Dr. Partner shoved me to the ground. I didn’t see a thing.”
“Any reason someone might want you dead?” Reed asked.
“Me!” Wren exclaimed.
Allan made an impatient gesture.
“I hardly think so.” She shoved the vague but haunting implications of the anonymous note to the back of her mind. This would probably be a good time to bring up the subject, but she wanted to discuss it first with Allan.
“What about you, Professor? Anyone want you dead?”
“I doubt it,” Allan replied with a shrug. “Did you ask Gorse that same question? Perhaps the administration of the institution should be concerned that the shooter might be a disgruntled employee or even a discharged patient.”
Reed nodded and then scribbled something in a small notebook.
“I’m sorry about the baby bottle,” Wren apologized to him. “I thought it was rubbish. I hope you don’t need to know exactly where we found it or anything. I don’t think I could remember, and I’d rather not go back down into the tunnels again.”
“No problem,” Reed told her, giving a shrug. “I doubt the bottle has anything at all to do with the shot fired.” The detective asked a few more routin
e questions and then took down their addresses and phone numbers. He told them he’d be in touch.
“C’mon, let’s get back to campus,” Allan said.
Wren nodded and heaved another sigh.
The trip was short and mostly silent. She didn’t mind. She was too exhausted for an animated conversation. All she could think about was picking up her car and getting over to Deb and Charlie’s. Pippi would be waiting.
When she got home, Wren fully intended to take a long, hot shower to wash the gloomy horror of the tunnels out of her mind.
Glancing sidelong at Allan, she noticed an odd expression on his face. What was he thinking about? He seemed angry, haunted, and confused all at the same time. Curiosity finally got the best of her. “Allan, is everything OK? Back at the asylum when we were upstairs in the women’s quarters, I got the feeling you might be angry or upset about something.”
He glanced at her, emotion flaring in his eyes.
Was it only her imagination or did he appear to grip the steering wheel more firmly?
“I guess you could say I was angry. I still am,” he acquiesced. “Is this more of your female intuition or is it based on some sort of concrete evidence other than my facial expression?”
“Both,” she said, feeling slightly resentful. “I got the impression from the look in your eyes and your general facial expression as well as your body posture. All those combined give me an intuitive feeling that something isn’t right. Female intuition doesn’t just come out of thin air, you know. I’m sure if Detective Reed based something on a hunch, you wouldn’t ask him for any concrete evidence.”
Allan gave her a lopsided smile. “Fair enough. I apologize.” He pulled into the campus entrance and found one of the parking spaces reserved for faculty near the three-story brick building that housed the history department and various classrooms. The maple trees in front glowed like flames.
“So, is there something the matter?” Wren pursued.
Allan turned off the ignition, but didn’t get out of the car.
Wren didn’t move either, waiting for him to say something.
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