Larceny at the Library

by Colleen Shogan

  “You’re right,” I said. “There’s a lot to see.” I walked over to the glass case containing the life masks, which compared Lincoln’s unwrinkled face in 1860 to his considerably aged face after the Civil War had taken its toll.

  “Every museum or exhibit always has a lot of Lincoln related objects on display,” said Meg. “Since Maeve Dixon became chair of the House Administration committee, I’ve seen more Lincoln artifacts than I can count.”

  Either Meg’s comment or Abraham Lincoln’s downcast stare caused my brain to light up. “You’re exactly right, Meg. There’s always more than one Lincoln artifact. Just like the display two nights ago at the Library of Congress.”

  Meg turned towards me. “What do you mean, Kit?”

  “What did we see on display on Tuesday evening?”

  “The contents of Lincoln’s pockets the night he was assassinated.” She placed her hands on her hips. “That’s no big revelation.”

  “Yes, of course. But what was included in the display?”

  “I remember the handkerchief with his name embroidered on it. And the confederate note, of course.”

  “There were also newspaper clippings, an ivory pocketknife, a watch fob, a button, a wallet, a case for his spectacles, a lens cleaner, and two pairs of glasses,” I said.

  “Do you have a photographic memory or something?” asked Meg.

  “Not really. Doug was so excited about the big event scheduled for the next day recreating the discovery of the collection, he talked about it incessantly. That’s how I remember what we saw.”

  “Why are we cataloguing everything in the collection, Kit?”

  “Because it’s curious that only two items were stolen out of all the objects. If you were a thief who went to the trouble of killing the Assistant Librarian of Congress to steal one of the greatest treasures in American history, why would you take the Confederate note and the handkerchief and leave the rest?”

  Meg threw up her hands. “No idea. Maybe the thief was in a rush. After all, he or she had just committed murder.”

  “That’s what I said initially,” I said. “But that explanation doesn’t make any sense. The person responsible had planned an incredibly risky crime. We know that no one was near the ceremonial office when Gustav was killed. Remember, Doug didn’t discover his body until the next day. If there was an imminent threat, wouldn’t a report for the crime been registered that night?”

  “That’s true,” said Meg slowly. “If the thief was willing to bash someone over the head to open the safe, then why not take the extra five seconds to empty it entirely?”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Something has been bothering me from the beginning. Now, I think I know what it is.”

  A tourist wearing a bright red “Make America Great Again” baseball hat stood next to us. I guided Meg away from the glass cases containing the Lincoln life masks. “Let’s move somewhere less crowded.”

  We moved into the next room of the exhibit, which contained the portraits of Ulysses S. Grant, Rutherford B. Hayes, Chester Arthur, and James Garfield. Although I’m sure they did much more than what they got credit for, these presidents weren’t exactly the most popular with visitors.

  Meg crossed her arms across her chest. “Now tell me,” she said in a low voice. “What’s the great revelation?”

  We huddled next to Benjamin Harrison, whose portrait depicted a peaceful president reading a book. “We’ve been thinking about this murder from the wrong perspective.”

  An older woman with a headset audio guide made her way towards us. We moved onto William McKinley, who was currently standing all by his lonesome. Meg smoothed her blonde bob. “What do you mean, Kit?”

  “I don’t think the killer’s motive was stealing the Lincoln items. Instead, the murderer wanted Gustav Gaffney dead and used the theft as a cover up for the murder.”

  Meg narrowed her eyes. “You’re saying that stealing the Lincoln treasures wasn’t the motive?”

  I nodded. “That’s precisely what I’m saying. We’ve been thinking about this crime as a theft that resulted in a murder. Instead, we should consider it might have been a murder that included a theft.”

  Meg took a few steps back and inhaled deeply. “So, what does that mean for the investigation?”

  “I’m not sure O’Halloran or the federal investigators are going to buy it,” I said. “They’re focused on recovering the stolen items from the Library of Congress collection. Nothing is going to deter them from that.”

  “But we could pursue leads from this angle,” said Meg.

  “That’s what I think we should do.” We started to walk again, past Teddy Roosevelt and into the portion of the exhibit featuring twentieth century presidents.

  We strolled past the iconic paintings of Woodrow Wilson, Franklin Roosevelt, and Dwight Eisenhower and stopped between the two Bush presidents, separated by an unusual depiction of Bill Clinton. Instead of a traditional approach, the Clinton portrait was a modernist piece of art. The painting was divided into small squares, each with an abstract design. A close examination revealed the mosaic composition, but distance made it look like a conventional image.

  “Bill Clinton is trying to tell you something.” Meg didn’t bother to hide a smirk.

  “I’ll play along. What wisdom is he imparting?”

  “Studying something up close gives a much different impression than if you step back and get much-needed perspective,” she said. “Everyone investigating this case is standing too close to the portrait. But if you step back and take a look at the big picture, then the result is much better.”

  I smiled. “Bill Clinton isn’t imparting wisdom here. I’m lucky to have such a smart best friend.”

  Chapter Eleven

  W

  We decided waiting in line for a selfie with Barack Obama’s portrait wasn’t on the agenda for today’s visit to the National Portrait Gallery, although it was entertaining to watch excited tourists snap Twitter-ready photos in front of the striking painting. Ten minutes later, we crossed over Ninth Street and entered the Martin Luther King D.C. Public Library.

  “This building is amazing,” said Meg. The bright February sun shone brightly off the windows of the new construction. The library recently finished a three-year renovation costing over two hundred million dollars. It had been a long time for the main branch to remain closed, but the result had been well worth the wait.

  “I read a detailed article in the Washington Post about the new design,” I said as we opened the door. “They had dozens of community meetings before settling on the plans.”

  Full length glass windows made the entrance inviting, with an exposed brick sidewalk. After passing through the vestibule, we entered an open foyer area. Kids on a school field trip were gathered underneath a mural depicting the life of Dr. Martin Luther King, the namesake of the library. Meg and I strode toward the main visitors’ desk, where I assumed we could ask about the whereabouts of Lea Rutherford.

  An older woman with black hair fastened in a loose bun greeted us. “Hello, my name is Juanita. How can I help you?”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said. “My name is Kit Marshall and this is my colleague Meg Peters. We work in Congress, and we’re supposed to meet Lea Rutherford at two-thirty.”

  Juanita checked the time on her watch. “You’re about five minutes early. I’ll call upstairs to the main office and check on the status.”

  We stepped away from the desk to allow Juanita to work her magic. She pulled a pencil nestled inside her bun and poked the phone keypad. A few moments later, she motioned with her hand for us to approach.

  “Ms. Rutherford is expecting you,” said Juanita. “She suggests that you meet in the cafe. Do you know where that is?”

  We shook our heads, and Juanita gave us directions. Soon we found ourselves inside an airy space with open stacks an
d a full-service cafe.

  “This is way better than Starbucks.” Meg’s eyes scanned the bright, inviting room. “You can have coffee and look at books.”

  “Yes, and the books don’t cost anything as long as you have a library card,” I said.

  We heard the loud clack of heels behind us and turned around. Sure enough, Lea Rutherford had arrived. She didn’t exactly look like the typical public library patron with her long sleeve red sheath dress accented with a matching designer paisley scarf expertly wrapped around her neck. The Jimmy Choo velvet high heels really gave it away.

  I waved my hand, since I doubted she would remember me. “Ms. Rutherford.”

  She plastered a smile on her face and ran her manicured nails through her perfectly coiffed blonde hair as she approached us. No woman in her fifties had hair that color, but I had to admit it looked natural.

  “Kit Marshall, it’s a pleasure to see you again,” she purred. “And who is this?”

  “My colleague Meg Peters,” I said.

  Meg offered her hand, never taking her eyes off Lea’s diamond necklace. “I love your jewelry.”

  Lea’s hand touched the diamond circle pendant. “Thank you. It was a gift from my deceased husband. I still miss him,” she said wistfully. “In fact, he was a great patron of the D.C. Public Library. That’s why I support it.”

  “We appreciate you taking time out of your busy day to speak with us,” I said.

  “Not a problem,” she replied. “It’s such a shame what happened at the Library of Congress. I hope law enforcement is able to recover the Lincoln treasures that were stolen.”

  Once again, no mention of poor Gustav. Although there was no love lost between Lea Rutherford and Gaffney, as I recalled.

  “Joe Malden might have explained to you that the Librarian of Congress has asked me to keep her informed about the progress of the investigation,” I said. “So that’s why we’re here.”

  “Please, let’s sit down so we can chat comfortably. Would you like a drink from the cafe?” Lea gestured to the coffee bar. “It’s on the house.”

  When I followed her gaze, I understood why. The coffee bar was conveniently named “The Rutherford Cafe.”

  “You were the donor who built this cafe,” I said.

  “Actually, this entire wing. But I thought the cafe was a fitting place for the Rutherford name,” she said. “My husband was on the board here for many years.”

  Meg and I agreed to split a sparkling water, while Lea ordered an organic tea the cafe kept in stock just for her. We took a seat near the windows and enjoyed our refreshments for a moment.

  Lea folded her hands on the table. “Well, what would you like to know?”

  I had the feeling that despite her graciousness, our time was growing short with the heiress. “Do you have any theories about the theft and murder?”

  Lea thought about my question for several moments before answering. “There’s very few people who could benefit from stealing those items from the Lincoln collection.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Meg. “They’re priceless.”

  “Exactly my point. Either someone desperately wanted them for a private collection or had the connections to move them on the black market.”

  “Such as?” I pressed.

  “Gordon Endicott might have those relationships. He knows everyone in the antiquities world.” Lea took a sip of her organic tea. “Or me, of course.”

  Meg’s eyes sparkled as much as the diamonds adoring Lea’s neck. “You? Is this a confession?”

  Lea smiled wryly. “Hardly, dear. But obviously I qualify as a collector who might have an interest. I certainly have the means to cover my tracks and hide the stolen items. That is, if I wanted to do it.”

  “And did you want to do it, Ms. Rutherford?” I asked.

  Lea sat back in her chair. “Of course not, Ms. Marshall. But I can see why you wanted to question me about it.”

  “Where did you go after the event ended on Tuesday night?” asked Meg.

  “As you already know, I spend time outside the office with Joe Malden. He wanted to go back to his office for work. I followed him and persuaded him to join me back at my apartment.” She smiled mischievously.

  This corroborated Joe’s version of events, but I wanted to press her on the timeline. “So, there was a period of time between the end of the event and when you showed up at his office?”

  Lea’s smile disappeared. “I suppose so. But not for more than a few minutes. I went to the bathroom to freshen up my makeup. Then I decided I wasn’t going to take no for an answer and walked over to Joe’s office in the Madison Building. I used the tunnel that connects the two buildings.”

  Enough time to bop Gaffney on the head, open the safe, and grab the items.

  “You didn’t like Gustav Gaffney very much, did you? I couldn’t help but overhear on Tuesday night that you’d had disputes with him recently,” I said.

  “He wasn’t my favorite person,” said Lea. “Everyone knew that.”

  “Gaffney didn’t like your proposal to display recent rare books you purchased. You gave the collection to Yale instead. Even before that, you thought Joe should have been named Assistant Librarian instead of Gustav.”

  “By that logic, I would have been angry with Miriam Dunlap, not Gustav,” she countered.

  “Unless you believed that if you eliminated Gaffney, Joe Malden would ascend to the position,” said Meg. “If that was the case, you’d have a real motive for the murder.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Lea. “Joe was passed over once for the promotion. Why would that change?”

  “Who knows?” said Meg. “Maybe you’d throw around your weight as a donor this time and the outcome would be different.”

  “That’s an insult to me and Miriam Dunlap,” said Lea, her face tightening.

  “You’re probably right,” I agreed. “But you understand we need to explore these motives.”

  “I thought Gustav was killed so that the murderer could steal the contents of Lincoln’s pockets,” said Rutherford.

  “The police are exploring that avenue, but we’re investigating a different scenario,” I said.

  “You think someone killed Gustav and then stole the Lincoln items as an afterthought?” Rutherford narrowed her eyes.

  “Not exactly,” I said. “We think the murder might have been the objective. The killer stole the items to create the illusion that theft was the motive.”

  Lea tapped her red nail against the side of her cheek. “It’s a plausible scenario. Gustav wasn’t exactly Mr. Popularity.”

  “We’ve heard. Can you think of anyone who might want him dead?” I asked.

  “You know about my disagreements with him, plus Joe’s.” She raised her eyebrows. “As I recall, Gustav wanted Gordon Endicott to run the scholarly center at the Library of Congress, not your husband.”

  “That was settled months ago.” I glared at Lea. “Why would Doug kill Gustav after he already had the position?”

  Lea shrugged. “Animosity. Elimination of a rival. People have murdered for less. Don’t you watch Game of Thrones?”

  “No, I don’t,” I said through clenched teeth.

  “House of Cards?” she countered.

  “Never.” Fictional depictions of Capitol Hill usually got it wrong. It was a pet peeve of mine.

  Meg interrupted our repartee. “Anyone else with a motive, Ms. Rutherford?”

  “Janice Jackson was there on Tuesday night, wasn’t she?” asked Lea.

  Meg nodded. “She was there because Congressman Henry Chang attended.”

  “I don’t know all the details, but Janice and Gustav worked together here.” She waved her arm in a circular motion.

  “At the D.C. Public Library?” I asked.

  “Yes, before either of them wo
rked at the Library of Congress,” said Lea. “I remember it from the days when my husband was board chairman. Janice left first, then Gustav followed years later for the Assistant Librarian position.”

  “We’ll ask Janice about it,” I said.

  “That Congressman is a bit odd,” said Lea. “Given my stature, I’ve met my share of politicians over the years. Many of them have been interested in American history. But no one like Henry Chang. He’s over the top.”

  “I had that impression when I spoke to him earlier today,” I said.

  “He’s joined at the hip with Janice Jackson,” said Lea. “She makes sure he has access to the Library of Congress and sees the high-profile collections.”

  “I’ve certainly noticed that,” said Meg. “Every time I’ve attended an event at the Library of Congress, he’s been there. But she does that because he’s on the committee which oversees the Library.”

  Lea shook her head. “If you’re looking for strange behavior, it looks as though you found it with Congressman Chang. He strikes me as just the type who would steal something and then keep it in his desk drawer so only he could look at it.”

  Meg shuddered. “That’s a creepy thought.”

  “But if he did it, then why did he only steal the Confederate note and the handkerchief?” I asked. “If he really wanted the items for his own personal enjoyment, then you’d think he would have stolen everything in the collection.”

  “That’s true,” said Lea. “Maybe you’re back to the idea that Gustav’s murder was the primary crime. If that’s the case, I hope you’re able to recover the missing items. The Librarian of Congress must be very upset.”

  “She is quite vexed, about both Gustav’s death and the theft, as you can imagine. That’s why she asked me to keep an eye on the progress of the case,” I said.

  Lea smiled. “I can see why she’d want you to perform that function. You seem on top of things. But be careful, Ms. Marshall. If someone was willing to kill the Assistant Librarian, no matter what the motive, I don’t think that person will hesitate to hurt someone else if threatened.”