“Let’s hope it’s not a thousand years before we have a woman as president. You might also like to see this one.” She pointed toward another comic. “It’s Supergirl number one, published in 1972.” As I examined the cover, she provided more background. “If you don’t know, Supergirl is Superman’s cousin.”
I smiled. “I did not know that. I feel like I could learn something new every day here.” I moved to the end of the table, where there was a familiar face on a cover, or at least a masked face. “Spider Man,” I said, pointing. “I know him.”
“That’s an important issue. It’s the first one introducing the character Dr. Octopus. I believe the publication date is 1963. We also have the comic featuring the debut of Spider Man, but it’s not on display today.” She lowered her voice, “Too valuable. A lot of people remain shaken about the theft earlier in the week.”
I leaned closer, careful not to touch the comics on the table. “What do you think happened?”
Her posture stiffened. “I have no idea. But we need to get those items back, and the police need to figure out who did this. If we have a thief in our midst, everything in our collection is vulnerable.”
“Absolutely right,” I said. “There’s a lot of variety here. Quite frankly, I had no idea the Library of Congress even had comic books in its collection. I thought this place was for researchers only.”
The well-dressed curator laughed. “We’re for everyone who is curious and wants to learn, but we actually get a fair number of researchers who ask to read or examine our comic books. We also have collectors who want to examine verified copies before making a purchase.”
“How many comics do you have?”
“We have the largest collection in the world,” she said. “Well over a hundred thousand items.”
A similarly aged man wearing a cardigan sweater and a skinny tie chimed in. “And that collection grew larger recently with a big acquisition in this area. A private collector donated his comics to us.” He motioned toward his table display. “I have a few items from his gift over here. The donation included an original storyboard of a Mickey Mouse cartoon. We believe it was drawn in 1928.”
I bent down to examine the pencil drawing of the world’s most famous rodent. “I know nothing about comics or cartoons, and even I know this is really impressive.”
The curator laughed. “Comics are a wholly American art form. We invented them. It makes sense we should trace the history of their publication here at the Library of Congress.”
I shook both curators’ hands and walked to the back of the room where Janice Jackson was standing. She was furiously typing on her iPhone but stopped when I approached.
“Did you enjoy seeing the display?” she asked.
“Loved it,” I said. “Meg usually accompanies our boss when she visits legislative branch agencies under the committee’s jurisdiction. But I might need to insist on joining her on these trips.”
“You’ll never be disappointed if you do,” said Jackson. “Excuse me, but the member of Congress and his expected guests have arrived, and I need to meet them near the entrance to guide them here. The Members Room was already booked today so we put the display inside this room.”
“The Members Room?” I asked. “What’s that?”
Janice hurried out of the room and motioned for me to follow. “It’s inside the Jefferson Building, not far from where we were on Tuesday night for the Lincoln display. It used to be the reading room for House members, but now it’s a multi-purpose room we reserve for congressional events. I can show it to you sometime if you’ve never been inside it.”
I had no more time with Janice right now, but suddenly I had an idea. “Do you have any time later in the day? I feel as though we haven’t really had a chance to get to know one another. Would you be free for a drink after work?”
She pressed her lips together and answered slowly. “Sure, I think so. Let me check my schedule.” She consulted her phone. “I’m free around five o’clock this evening. If you meet me inside the Great Hall, I can show you the Members Room and then we can walk down the street for a cocktail.”
It wasn’t the most enthusiastic response, but I’d take it. “Thanks, Janice. I’m looking forward to it.”
I waved goodbye and retraced my steps back to the cafeteria, my original destination. The comic books were a real treat, but more importantly, the diversion had enabled me to schedule a time to chat privately with Janice. Her connection to the murder wasn’t clear, but she had known about the safe. Meg had also mentioned that Gaffney had pressured Jackson to drum up more congressional support for the Library of Congress. That was easier said than done. Elected officials often found themselves pulled in a thousand directions and it was hard to get their attention for very long.
Inside the cafeteria, I triaged my email and sent important messages to our Dixon staff members. They knew the drill when I was working on a mystery with the congresswoman’s blessing. Everyone else had to pitch in to make sure we kept all our balls in the air.
I’d had to cut my conversation with Meg short today, which was unfortunate. A bright idea popped into my head. I fired off a text to her.
Do you have a few hours free this afternoon?
Three dots appeared, indicating that she was writing back.
2 hour window at noon.
Oh, good. Maybe my plan would work.
Do you want to have lunch at the Portrait Gallery?
I could almost hear Meg squeal with delight. Trying out new lunch spots was a bonafide hobby for her.
Meet u there in 20.
Precisely twenty-three minutes later, I opened the door to the National Portrait Gallery, cleared security, and looked around. I must have arrived before Meg. Then I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“What took you so long?” asked Meg. She had on a stylish red pea coat with a matching knit tossed hat and gloves.
“I came as fast as I could,” I said. “You have to switch Metro lines.”
Meg waved her hand at me. “I caught a ride share here. It was four dollars and took seventeen minutes.”
I raised my hands in defeat. “You got me there. A much better option.” Transportation and combating the city’s traffic was a perennial conversation amongst Washingtonians. No one had any good solutions, but that didn’t stop the endless exchange of complaints and helpful tips.
We walked in the direction of the indoor courtyard where the cafe was located. “Why did you want to have lunch here?” asked Meg.
If we had the time to leave our office building for a meal, we usually patronized one of the eating establishments on nearby Pennsylvania Avenue. The National Portrait Gallery was north of the National Mall, in the vibrant Penn Quarter neighborhood. We rarely ventured so far away from Capitol Hill on a typical work day.
“If you’re up for it, I arranged a meeting with Lea Rutherford at D.C. Public Library this afternoon,” I explained. “The Portrait Gallery is nearby, and I remembered you liked the courtyard cafe here.”
Meg beamed. “That was thoughtful of you, Kit.” She touched my arm. “How is Doug holding up?”
“Thanks for asking. He’s in good spirits. And hopeful that we find the person who did this soon so he can get back to his regular business. It’s a major disruption at work.”
Meg shook her head. “This isn’t going away anytime soon. I heard there’s going to be hearings. Several members of Congress want to make sure the Library has the best security systems in place to prevent another theft.” Then she added, “Murder, too, of course.”
Poor Gustav. He hadn’t been forgotten, but his death was definitely playing second fiddle to the Lincoln theft.
As we walked inside the Portrait gallery’s interior courtyard, my mood instantly brightened. Although inviting Meg to lunch had been a good reason to come here, my ulterior motive had been personal. With the sun stre
aming through the glass ceiling, there was no better place for a break, particularly when winter weather prohibited dining al fresco.
“This place is amazing.” I tilted my head upward. The undulating glass canopy was reminiscent of natural cloud cover, enabling a pseudo outdoor experience during the dead of winter. Because today was sunny, the roof’s steel lattice had cast a spiderweb of shadows on the exterior walls of the museum surrounding the spacious courtyard.
“They had a competition to redesign the courtyard and a British architecture firm won,” said Meg. “Before that, it was open air, which meant it was empty for about half of the year.”
“I like it this way,” I said. “It’s modern but somehow totally matches the older architecture of the museum building.”
Meg headed towards the café, and I followed her. Architecture was considerably less important than food.
We both studied the options. The artisan cheese box sampler called my name, but I remembered last night’s Puppatella feast. Who knew what the rest of the day would bring? Instead, I went for the roast turkey sandwich. Meg, however, never had any reservations about eating exactly what she wanted. She ordered a prosciutto sandwich with chips.
We carried our food to an open table next to a planter filled with flowers. After a few minutes of munching, Meg put her sandwich down. “Kit, I want to apologize.”
I flinched. This didn’t sound good.
“What for?”
“I know I’ve been distracted lately,” she said. “It has a lot to do with my personal situation.”
“You mean Trevor and Clay?”
“Of course, Kit. What else would it be?” Meg nibbled on a chip, staring vacantly at the half-full sunlit courtyard.
“People do have other problems than having two boyfriends,” I said in a teasing voice.
Meg ignored my comment. “I know I need to make a decision soon. Or it will be made for me.”
“Trevor doesn’t think that three’s company?” I tried to lighten the mood.
“He does not,” said Meg. I noticed she’d only eaten half of her prosciutto sandwich. She had to be really upset if her appetite was affected.
“What about Clay?”
“He doesn’t seem to mind as much,” she said absently.
“As much or at all?” I asked pointedly.
“He hasn’t complained about it. Clay is more laid back than Trevor. He’s not in a rush. But he does get annoyed when I spend time with Trevor instead of him.”
“Trevor’s in a much different situation in his life,” I said. “Sebastian had some wise advice when we went to Bullfeathers. You need to figure out which stage you’re in.”
Meg picked up her sandwich and took a big bite. Maybe she wasn’t as upset as I thought. Just as likely, she wanted to avoid my difficult question.
While she was munching, I kept talking. “Don’t think that I have all the answers. Relationships aren’t easy.” I told her about Doug’s desire to find a house, which likely meant moving out of Arlington and further away from the city.
“I’d stand your ground on that one,” she said, shaking her finger. “You don’t want to become a suburbanite. It’s bad enough you live in Arlington.” Meg lived in a hip part of town and often gave me a hard time for living outside the urban walls of the District.
“We won’t be moving anywhere if the authorities arrest Doug for murder and grand larceny,” I said. “I might be wrong, but I’d think it would be a bad career move for a historian to get charged with stealing precious items of American antiquity.”
Meg laughed. “That doesn’t sound like something you’d put on your LinkedIn profile.”
“Definitely not. Even if Doug wasn’t a suspect, I’d feel like I need to figure who did this. It’s bad enough when Maeve Dixon is counting on me. But now I have the Librarian of Congress, too.”
Meg picked at her manicured nail. “Yeah, I wouldn’t want her angry at me. Don’t you think she has the power to ban you from all the libraries in the country?”
I narrowed my eyes. “I seriously doubt that, Meg. She’s not a book czar.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Miriam Dunlap is pretty powerful. I wouldn’t mess with it.”
“Thanks for the warning.” I crumpled up my sandwich wrapper and then proceeded to tell Meg about my meeting with Congressman Henry Chang.
She listened intently. “I’m telling you, that guy is weird. It’s almost like he ran for Congress so he could have access to historical materials.”
“That’s not the usual modus operandi, for sure. Did he enter politics as a means to commit grand larceny?”
Meg polished off her prosciutto sandwich and licked her fingers for good measure. “That might be a little far-fetched. But he might have come up with the plot after he was elected to Congress.”
“That does make better sense,” I said. “Much more plausible.”
“And he spends so much time with Janice Jackson,” said Meg. “She certainly could have mentioned the details about the safe holding the Lincoln memorabilia.”
“By the way, I ran into Janice before I texted you about lunch. She’s going to show me the Members Room inside the Jefferson Building at five o’clock. Then, if she has enough time, we’re going to grab a drink. Want to join?”
Meg grimaced. “Tonight is Trevor time. Would you mind if we invited him for the drink?”
“Of course not,” I said. “He’s perceptive, after all.”
Meg sighed. “He’s super smart and has it all together. Sometimes I wonder why he wants to date me.”
I was almost at a loss for words, but not quite. “Meg, what do you mean? Trevor is the one who is lucky to be dating you!”
Meg shrugged. “I guess so. But he’s so accomplished. He worked as a big-time lobbyist, wrote a book, and now has an office inside the Capitol Building.”
I grabbed Meg’s hand and squeezed it. “It’s an impressive resume. But you shouldn’t compare yourself to him. It’s not a contest. That being said, you’re successful, too.”
Meg sighed. “Thanks, Kit. Sometimes it helps to have a cheerleader.”
“Well, I was never a cheerleader. But I am your best friend.”
A smile appeared on Meg’s lips. “Even better.”
Chapter Ten
W
After Meg updated me on office gossip and Maeve Dixon’s latest legislative endeavor, I checked the time. It was half past one. An email from Joe Malden explained that Lea Rutherford would expect us at the D.C. Public Library in about an hour.
“Should we get a cup of coffee from the cafe and check our emails?” I asked. “We have some time to kill. No pun intended.”
“Kit, we’re at the National Portrait Gallery. Why would we check our email if we have free time? Let’s go see the presidential exhibit.”
“Is that like the Hall of Presidents?”
Meg rolled her eyes. “This isn’t Disney World. It’s a permanent exhibit here. Every President and First Lady’s portrait is on display.” She raised her eyebrows. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen it.”
I’d been to my share of Washington museums with Doug, but we tended to go to history museums rather than art galleries. “I really can’t remember.”
Meg tugged at my sleeve. “It’s funny that you know the place to eat lunch but not the most famous exhibit. Come on.”
I stood and followed Meg out of the bright courtyard. We trudged up a curved flight of stairs and followed the signs to the “America’s Presidents” exhibit. The directions were unnecessary because it seemed as though every person in the museum was headed in the same direction.
Before we turned the corner, I caught sight of four familiar faces. Right outside the presidential gallery was a massive painting of the female Supreme Court justices: Sandra Day O’Connor, Ruth Bader Ginsberg, Sonia Sot
omayor, and Elena Kagan.
“This is amazing. I need a photo to show Doug.” I pulled out my phone and snapped away as a wave of tourists streamed by us. The painter, Nelson Shanks, had depicted the justices in their black robes inside a Supreme Court office near an interior courtyard.
“Popular place, huh?” I asked.
“You’ll soon understand why.” Meg made a right turn.
Directly before us stood George Washington. Well, not the actual George Washington. But one of the most well-known artistic likenesses of our first President.
“Wait a second,” I said. “I know that painting.”
“That’s just the point, Kit,” said Meg, laughing. “The National Portrait Gallery has the most famous portraits of every president on display.”
“Cool,” I muttered. I read the label on the Washington portrait. Gilbert Stuart had painted it in 1796. Washington looked regal, with a red velvet chair behind him and scarlet coverings on the table next to him. Sure enough, Stuart had based the painting on a common pose and background reserved for European kings. Washington wasn’t a king, but Stuart had made him look like one. George III had nothing on our George, for sure.
Every president had at least one portrait in the gallery. We skipped a few of the lesser known chief executives and walked into the next room, which featured Abraham Lincoln. The portrait of Lincoln depicted him leaning forward, seated in a wooden high-back chair. His right hand held his head, and Lincoln’s eyes were downcast, giving the appearance that our sixteenth president was deep in thought.
“I wish you could tell me who stole the contents of your pockets,” I whispered under my breath. “Although maybe you don’t care, given the fact you were assassinated that night.”
“Are you talking to Lincoln?” asked Meg in a teasing voice.
“Sort of.” I could feel my ears turn red with embarrassment. At least Meg and Doug wouldn’t judge me. Anyone else would have taken it as a sign I was cracking up.
“Well, if that portrait isn’t answering you, maybe one of these others will.” Meg pointed to several other Lincoln likenesses in the exhibit. There were two life masks, a molding of his hands, and a cracked-plate photograph.
Larceny at the Library Page 14